'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, August 28, 2008
Benny and Eileen
Benny resides in a three-storey house
Along with a self-fearing ghost and his spouse.
Her name is Eileen. She's often outside,
Seeking the birds and wild creatures who hide.
Their life has its lies, its lows and its highs,
Its tears and its joys. She's drying her eyes
After her eyeballs got wet in the rain.
The smell from the house fuels her thought's latest train.
When her eyes are dry they confirm what her nose
Has said in alarmist olfactory prose.
The strong smell of burning from their kitchen means
That Benny is trying to cook more than beans.
The food's not on fire. He's burnt his cook book.
He no longer needs it. He learnt how to cook
A sugary cow on a cookery show.
Dessert will consist of a caramel crow.
He's cooking for eight but he doesn't know how
He's going to get the immovable cow
Into the oven. He's used cattle prods
And prayed to at least seventeen different gods.
Despite this the cow still refuses to budge.
The first course is mice who are coated in fudge.
They're inching away as he curses and swears
At his bovine main course who adds to his cares
By wearing a carefree expression and staring
Down at the mice and adoring their daring
As they are preparing to hide behind shelves
And celebrate freedom by licking themselves.
Eileen takes over the job he began.
She takes some time out to create a good plan
While he goes outside in the garden and plays
Croquet with the cats, with some rain delays.
Their dinner party goes better than planned.
Their guests eat so much they all struggle to stand.
None of those present are really sure how
They're able to play some croquet with the cow.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Consonants are kings.
Text has lost its 'E'.
Vowels have been abandoned
Just for more efficiency.
Innocent 'O's and 'E's and 'A's
May face elimination,
A thought that is upsetting
To The Who's g'generation.
'Gnrtn's more efficient,
Even though it sounds more painful,
But you really need to edit
When you've got a throbbing brain full
Of images and people,
And you must remember names,
Of brightly burning fires
And the embers of old flames.
There's a constant flow of consonants,
Though 'I' is ever-present.
Vowels hide in fear
They'll be shot at like a pheasant.
They hide in woods with owls,
Who'd be nothing without 'O',
Which could be said for 'one' as well,
And one could not say 'doh'.
The owls protect the vowel
That can make a she a shoe.
They emphasise their 'O',
Using 'oo' sounds when they woo,
Two eyes that peep from hoots,
Making boots from bits of words,
And with their O-shaped faces
They are vowel-friendly birds.
Some 'O's are there in faces
Of the constantly surprised.
The 'U's are hiding underground,
Some cleverly disguised
In the form of female sheep,
A ewe who's looking full,
A double-U who hides two 'E's
Beneath a coat of wool.
The 'E's are in all sheep.
There are some disguised as bees.
Many more are hiding
Underneath the leaves of trees.
'A's are in the middle of the day.
It's where they hide.
They come out in the afternoon
And then retreat inside.
Many more are underground
As ants who rarely sleep,
Working hard and waiting for
The signal from the sheep.
When you see the ants come out
With the sheep and bees and owls,
You'll know the time has come
For the sweet revenge of vowels.
The revolution will be televised
On afternoon TV,
Which will be 'television'.
Its sounds will be set free.
But the sheep will start to worry.
In this they won't have changed.
They'll fear their vowels are wolves
With the letters re-arranged,
Hiding in sheep's clothing,
In the wool's protective 'O's,
An evil, cunning predator
Who's right beneath their nose.
Every time the wind blows
They will hear a grey wolf howl.
They'll hide where they are spied on
By a well-concealed barn owl.
The owls will fear the daylight.
They will hide in barns or woods.
You'll never find them standing out
Beneath red riding hoods.
And the ants will try their hardest.
They will gladly work forever,
But they'll lack a clear intention
In this difficult endeavour.
They could really use a 'the'
And its definite direction.
There are far too many 'A's,
Each with its own suggestion.
There's no one there to oversee
The ants' hard-working crews.
Without the 'O's and 'E's
And the double-U of ewes
The flrs won't bloom to flowers
And they won't attract the bees,
Who'll keep their 'E's in hives
With their honey and their knees.
The vowel revolution
Won't survive the afternoon.
Words like 'ruination'
Will be left behind to ruin.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Some Thoughts I Wasn't Using
While heading for a night of boozing
I had some thoughts I wasn't using.
I gave them to a homeless man
Who held a battered copper can.
He used those thoughts to make a car
That's smooth and quiet and travels far,
Using only jam for fuel.
It's quicker than a frightened mule.
His car has been a massive hit.
It's tender in its dealings with
Its dearly-loved environment.
There's more emissions from a tent.
Celebrities and leading lights,
Some little more than scenic sights,
Have all been quick to join the craze,
Heaping overwhelming praise
On the homeless man who made
This car that runs on marmalade.
You'll see them parked inside the gates
Of houses owned by sporting greats.
He's made a fortune from his cars,
And made friends with some movie stars.
Instead of dark, depressing pubs
You'll find him in exclusive clubs.
I've no regrets about the thoughts
That brought him cheques with many noughts.
If I had kept them for myself
They'd still be on a mental shelf,
Or locked behind a cupboard door.
I tried to use my thoughts before.
This attempt resulted in
A hand grenade without a pin,
Two Swiss tourists in a tree
And many llamas running free.
Amongst the smoke and broken glass
A blood-stained, frightened priest said mass.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Long summer days soaked in rain can be boring.
Autumn is nearing. Some people are snoring.
Sleep is ensnaring these people who feel
That by hibernating they'll get a good deal,
A cheap package holiday, far from this land,
Where oceans of blue meet the soft golden sand,
Where they'll dig for gold and they'll find it with ease.
They'll find rolled-up cheques in the holes of their cheese.
They'll spend all this money and keep finding more,
Cash that is stashed underneath their room's floor,
Coins that fall out of the holes in the ceiling.
They'll never be burdened by thoughts that they're stealing.
They won't get hangovers or painful diseases.
They'll dance until dawn and they'll play pool with Jesus.
The young, rich and famous, and James's giant peach
Fill holiday tales of their days on the beach,
Where beautiful people with Hollywood smiles
Wear all sorts of swimsuits in thousands of styles.
None can be seen, unless you look closely.
Expensive bikinis appear faint and ghostly.
I've tried hibernating through June and July.
I can't seem to dream about being somewhere dry.
I dream of a sad, dreary holiday in
A caravan that looks a lot like a bin.
I spend many hours looking out at the rain,
Or else looking down at a Santa-shaped stain.
I venture outside with a hood on my head
And spend many hours looking inside instead.
When I get bored, I go for a stroll.
Before I get far I encounter a hole
That's full of rain water reflecting the sky
Where only the lonely, forlorn blackbirds fly.
Next to the hole there's a pole in the ground.
It holds an old sign that is bound to astound,
With some information. The hole's history
Is briefly outlined for the tourists like me.
This fine hole was built back in 1908.
Sometimes historians question this date.
The workers who made it from sand, earth and clay
Built an asylum not too far away.
That building's long gone but the hole still remains,
The favourite child of exceptional brains.
I take a few photos, despite the bad light.
The flash makes a sorrowful magpie take flight.
It's now getting late. It's time to go back
Before the dark grey in the sky fades to black.
My dinner is waiting inside a tin can.
I'll have tea and biscuits in my caravan.
These dreams have a basis in some past events,
Memories of sleeping inside leaking tents,
Or caravan trips when the rain fell in torrents,
And I wished I'd chosen a fortnight in Florence.
Instead I was stuck in a dark, rural Venice,
Where all I could do was hum tunes or play tennis.
I'd no one to play with. The ball wasn't round.
And it wouldn't bounce on the watery ground.
I visited holes and historical walls,
But none would return my deformed tennis balls.
I went to see places where buildings once stood,
And spent hours inspecting the back of my hood.
But I keep returning. Next week I'll be sitting
In my caravan, thinking of knitting,
Or seeing how long I can stare at a sock,
Or going to see a potato-shaped rock.