'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, October 30, 2008


Dame Luck

Paul is a stranger to fortune these days,
A victim to fate's unpredictable ways.
His old friend Dame Luck has become a lame duck.
He heard her loud quack when his left foot got stuck.

He stood in a bucket as he made his way
To his brother's wedding. For most of that day
He just had one shoe. His sock had a hole.
His big toe peeped out like a mortified mole.

Black cats keep crossing his path when he goes
Out to the clothes line. Scores of black crows
Perch in the tree near the line on the lawn,
With the bearing of bishops, and he's just a pawn.

They clearly look down on the clothes he hangs out.
His friends hate the hair that's surrounding his mouth.
To be out of favour with fashion, he's fated.
Even God thinks that his clothes are out-dated.

He doesn't know anyone older than God.
His nieces and nephews all think that he's odd.
At least once a week he will lose his car keys.
And super-intelligent mice eat his cheese.

He lost his best shirt and a tie in a bet.
He paid a small fortune to buy a new pet,
A fine talking dog, a black Labrador
Who only says 'woof' and he scratches the floor.

A rare bird has nested on his favourite hat
And he has no choice but to put up with that.
The bird often acts as if she owns the place
When regurgitating earthworms on his face.

He used to be lucky. He used to win bets,
And catch massive salmon with improvised nets.
Women would listen and laugh at his stories.
He'd get jars of honey from just three or four bees.

But he knew his luck was beginning to wane
When path-crossing cats were becoming his bane,
And then came the tree-full of arrogant crows,
And his girlfriend's oboe got stuck up his nose.

Thursday, October 23, 2008


Living Next-Door to Alice Modlouse

I love Alice Modlouse.
  She's the one for me.
I love her more than unicorns
  Or sugar in my tea.

Each word she says is music.
  It's jazz with hints of blues.
It drowns out heavy metal
  And the battles on the news.

With every step she takes
  She elicits adulation.
She's poetry in motion
  And she's read throughout the nation.

And she is proper poetry.
  I'm just comic verse.
She's a red Ferrari.
  I'm a former hearse

That is now in the possession
  Of a clown who is depressed.
He's lost his clowning passion
  And his dog has lost his vest.

Her helicopter umbrella
  Makes her fly like Mary Poppins.
She works with tramps and dropouts
  Till they're happy to be drop-ins.

Her father thinks I'm stupid
  Coz my enemy's a balloon,
And sometimes I get nose bleeds
  When I'm glared at by the moon.

But he thinks Transylvania
  Is somewhere in Westmeath.
I would correct his error
  But I'd fear my nose would bleed.

I've heard he bothers badgers
  With his brothers after dark.
They go to bed when others
  Exit dreamland with the lark.

And this I know for certain:
  He claims he met the pope.
This man he met had trousers
  That were held up with some rope.

I think the world should know this.
  I'm not as thick as him.
He called the pope 'Your Holiness'.
  The pope said, "Call me Tim."

Thursday, October 16, 2008


Billy and the Moths

Billy's plagued by worries
  That revolve around the ghosts of worms.
He also fears the aliens
  And men in black suits from law firms.

His days and nights are full of thoughts
  Of fights and floodlit altercations.
He spends a lot of time discussing
  Traps with former mental patients,

Scheming dreams and plotting plans
  With many twists and turns and knots,
Blackboards full of maths all part
  Of plots to trap the spectral moths

Who fly around the light bulbs
  Late at night, and when they lose a shoe
In flight you'll see their feet
  With toes and toenails sometimes painted blue.

They frighten cats and dogs and bats
  And evil-minded frogs who hide
Behind decaying logs to catch
  Small birds who'll make a frightened bride

For some unwilling groom,
  A captured rat who says he'd rather marry
Someone very hairy who is
  Twice as mean as Dirty Harry.

These evil frogs are scared of moths
  With mouths displaying teeth as sharp
As razors. Their incisors make a sound
  Like strings plucked on a harp.

They'll smile and teeth will glisten
  In the moonlight and their eyes will glow.
Listen and you'll hear them whisper
  Lines by Edgar Allan Poe.

Billy says he caught a moth
  Beneath a pot upon a path.
He re-assured the creature
  That he only sought to have a chat.

The moth at first was vicious
  And his little voice was full of venom.
He became loquacious after
  Billy said he'd bag and bin him.

The moth related tales of
  Derring-do and herring who have ears
And super-herring hearing
  And a never-ending stream of tears.

He spoke of eerie places
  That are always under starry skies,
Where flies set fire to flowers
  And where silence is a scary noise.

The moth said he'd take Billy
  To a place where people's faces glowed,
Where roads were made of water
  And where heavy traffic always flowed.

Billy let the moth out
  But it got away and disappeared,
And then he felt defeated
  As the other moths clapped hands and cheered.

Thursday, October 09, 2008


Where Summer Winds Chase Paper Plates

Where summer winds chase paper plates
From up-turned bins to padlocked gates,
Where concrete blooms and buildings rise,
Where traffic fumes and engine noise
Invade the air with boundless joy,
I'll be there to wonder why
The street-wise dogs chase trucks and cars
And clockwork cogs move all the stars.

Where fog arrives and waves retreat,
Where sailors' wives hear wooden feet
On garden paths when dawn is near,
Where coal-black cats will faint in fear
Of fresh sea air where shadows grow,
I'll be there to cut and sew,
Making pointy hats with 'D's
For nearly ninety cats with fleas.

Where cacti prick and horses neigh,
Where cattle kick and cowboys say,
"Scores of Sioux are after me,"
Where cows sing 'moo', bank robbers flee
And law men share a whiskey jar,
I'll be there to play guitar,
Slowly sinking in the sand,
Only thinking life is grand.

Thursday, October 02, 2008



Albert roams the land
Where trees will stand
On guard at night.
He's rarely seen by day
And people say
He hates the light.

His eyes are made of ice
With herbs and spice
And specks of gold.
And there's a bluish tint
To his eyes' glint,
Or so I'm told.

His speech is double-Dutch
When women touch
His famous hair.
His hair is two-foot tall.
He calls it Paul.
It tends to scare

Children when it growls
Or hoots like owls.
It doesn't bite.
Beneath a milky moon
In May or June
It flies a kite.

You'll see him late at night
When stars are bright,
Where foxes roam.
He makes the foxes hide.
He seems to glide.
The land's his home.

He's very tall and thin.
His pointy chin
Is like his nose.
His nose makes sounds like 'om'
That form a poem.
It can't do prose.

His ears will move around
To find a sound.
They need to hear.
His ever-present grin
Is pencilled in
From ear to ear.

The fluter known as Phil
Plays Spancill Hill
Beneath the moon,
Beside a gentle stream
While people dream
Of boom and boon.

They rarely dream of bust
Till bricks of dust
Are blown away.
While Albert roams the land
He'll stop and stand
And softly sway.

He'll hear the sound by chance.
It makes him dance.
He moves with ease.
His shadows run away
And there they stay.
They hide in trees.

When birds emerge from mud
With specks of blood
He's waiting there,
To catch them as they try
Their best to fly
And breathe the air.

When I was in a boat
I prayed would float
One Autumn night.
The river carried me
So I could see
This splendid sight:

Albert in the river.
He didn't shiver,
Despite the cold.
At first I had the thought
That Albert sought
To find some gold,

But he was catching fish
To fill a dish
And spread on scones.
He caught the fish by hand.
I've seen him stand
As still as stones.

As I was floating past
He moved as fast
As any stoat.
He put an old cloth bag,
A tattered rag,
Into my boat.

When I got home that night,
In candle light
I looked inside.
I found a silver trout,
Not fat but stout,
And this I fried.

I also found some jam,
A joint of ham
That tasted fine,
And honey from the bees,
Some cake and cheese
And well-aged wine.

The meal brought such delight
I had to fight
An urge to sing.
Its perfect taste and charm
Concealed the harm
That it would bring.

I've nearly lost my mind.
I've tried to find
The food again.
For months I've spent each night
In faintest light.
I've sought that grin.

I'm yet to see a trace
Of Albert's face.
He must be found.
I'll search behind the bales
On hills and vales
For miles around.

Very Slight Stories

Henry Seaward-Shannon

The East Cork Patents Office

The Tree and the Horse


Words are my favourite noises

Previous Poems

Poems from 2004
Poems from 2005



Gizmo's (Non)sense

Pretty Cunning

The Dossing Times


Cruiskeen Eile
Kevin Myers' blog (sorry, Colonel Kevin Myers).

The Chancer

Sinead Gleeson



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A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland

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