'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, April 29, 2010


The Winning Ticket

If I won the lottery
And I was sure I'm not a tree,
I'd spend some cash to buy this prize:
A thousand chainsaws making noise,

An orchestra of engine screams,
A prison wall of sound in dreams,
Augmented by a donkey choir
Tormented by a fear of fire.

I'd let them bleat their doleful songs
While builders beat enormous gongs.
The sound would rival sonic booms
And noise from ferries' engine rooms.

I'd buy Ferraris by the dozen.
I'd give the car keys to my cousin.
He's always crashing cars and vans
And crushing them like empty cans.

I'd let him drive my Aston Martins.
I'm well aware a super car wins
Brand new friends and much acclaim,
A chance to feel the glow of fame.

I've no desire to mix with stars.
I'd only buy expensive cars
To hear athletic engine roars
And make some noise by slamming doors.

I'd satisfy my need for noise.
I'd drown out lows and nurture highs.
A piece that starts with my lead chainsaw
Might help Uncle Willie's brain thaw.

Just a single mental ember
May well help him to remember
Where the ticket's tucked away.
We've searched his house all night and day.

His ticket's worth ten million euros.
I doubt if there's a person who knows
Where that winning ticket lies.
It wears a betting slip disguise.

I concentrate on my screenplay
Instead of thinking of the day
He lost his favourite hearing aid.
It's mostly made of yellow suede.

We searched in countless strangers' ears,
Ignoring threats from guns and spears.
And all along the aid was stuck
Between a duck egg and a duck.

Thursday, April 22, 2010


Brendan Began to go Barmy

Brendan began to go barmy
Just weeks after joining the army.
The whole world seemed odd
When he found out that God
Was riveted by origami.

We're not cut out for this war caper
Because we are all made of paper.
You can't avoid gaffes
When you're making giraffes.
God uses glue and a stapler.

Brendan resides on a shelf.
He works as the tale of an elf.
While out on manoeuvre
Somewhere near Vancouver
He wrote his first book on himself.

Thursday, April 15, 2010


Pear Noises

Norma enjoys spending time with her pears.
They're affable, kind and less deadly than bears.
She'll give them a shake just to see if they rattle.
The odd rattling pears will be eaten by cattle.

Some grizzled old pears emit gasses in jets.
Some of them wheeze when they smoke cigarettes.
The feeble old folk will be given to sheep.
Goats get the pears that go 'blip' and then 'bleep'.

Cats eat the pears that can make engine noises.
Dogs get the ones wearing apple disguises.
Geese get the pears that use vulgar swear words,
And Norma eats pears that keep tweeting like birds.

Thursday, April 08, 2010


Gillian's Favourite Pastime

Gillian's favourite pastime is this:
Collecting sunlight in glass jars.
When it's released it will radiate bliss,
Dazzling like fireworks or stars.

She gathers the sunlight on warm summer days.
Jam jars contain the bright light.
She'll put on the lid to confine lively rays,
Stopping them from taking flight.

If inklings of summer's full glare bring you joy,
You'll need them when winter takes hold.
She'll open a jar full of light from July,
And turn winter lead into gold.

Friday, April 02, 2010


Another Busy Night Ahead

Another busy night ahead,
A banquet with a beauty queen,
Model maids who'll be well-fed
When they've consumed a magazine,

Dresses with a show to stop,
Dancing dishes courting spoons,
A Roman Catholic Robocop
Who laughs upbeat electro tunes,

A marching band of mannequins
With teddy bears released on bail,
A man who is a fan of sins
Assisted by a bath of ale.

I'll talk about my fake career:
A helicopter pilot who
Is always haunted by a fear
Of what his rebel brain might do.

I'll speak of past mistakes I've made
And deep regrets for what I've done,
Of memories that never fade
And demons who insist they've won.

I've no desire to turn back time.
I only want to halt its flow,
To see flood-waters cease their climb
When time's great tap is turned down low,

And I could float and watch white clouds
Drift by above this tranquil place,
A private pool devoid of crowds,
Where time has lost its frantic pace.

I'll treasure gifts of clear blue sky
And silence after years of storm,
Until the plug is pulled and I
Can feel a whirlpool start to form.

I'll note a certain downward trend,
A fate from which no one can hide.
I'll sink and soon I'll reach the End.
I'll see what's on the other side.
I hope to find a water slide.

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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