Art, Life, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

The One Hundred Year Prayer

Do you remember the days,
Back when Yeats wrote his great poems and plays,
When big Jim Larkin gave himself a sore throat,
While the poor Shinners only wanted a vote.

Cast yourself back to that Easter Morn,
When the most terrible of beauties was born,
It is here that the lily stood most bright,
As O Connell Street burned, a new fire would take light.

Green white orange gold,
From our bogs and bushes we began to take hold,
Out of this fire and brimstone our country was born,
And in our wee little cottages or country was born.

Buried deep within our own personal reason,
We created our own forms of treason,
With the crown still upon our heads,
We set out to take down the last remaining threads.

From here on in our world grew static,
All the promises and pledges stuck in the attic,
While up in Dublin the flat caps reigned,
With each passing day the lily grew more stained.

Now, the lily was put away to bed,
For we only had our prayers left to be said,
And off we went each day to work,
In our low lie farmland, down amongst the murk.

Cast yourself back to that summer of sixty nine,
When we rioted and revolted in weather so fine,
Yet, on the streets with every coming clash,
Our newfound freedom was gone in a flash,

Where you in amongst the herd,
When we where thrown in cells for reasons so absurd,
Or when the soldiers let their rifles run,
And ruin thirteen innocents of their poor fun

Soon the country was rattled down to its core,
Finally people where forced to deal with what was on their front door,
But for every march and flag we held so high,
Away in the blocks another would soon die.

Where were you when the children wept,
While in some bog land the Gardaí swept,
What was it but another empty bed,
Another name amongst the dead.

Out of the blood and bombs and internal rage,
Would come the suits which would be our eternal cage,
Yet, bombs and bombs kept on falling,
As Downing Street burned and London was calling.

One hundred years have come and past,
This great fire we knew would not last,
Now, stuck down in some long forgotten drain,
The lonely little lily left out in the rain.

Poetry, Writing

October by the Lee

Season of mists and amber’s rust,

leaving behind the summer in the autumn’s dust,

one by one the fruits tumble down,

From cherry rose red to the deepest brown.

To get lost in this canvas is certainly no lie,

For a day is coming when everything will have to die,

But now, on the bare trees the daylight will splinter,

The door opens, say hello to winter.

Art, Poetry

Tiny Wooden Pieces

Tiny Wooden Pieces


You never seem to notice me,

Not so much as a wave,

Perched right here, next to this tree,

Did you ever stop and think of all the people I had to save?

I’m more than just a piece of wood you know

Not just some little toy,

Just because I’ll never grow,

Doesn’t mean that I’m something for a little boy.

Once upon a time,

I was big and tall and brave!

Back when I was in my prime,

I was more than just some useless knave.

I have seen great buildings boiled and burned,

And never uttered so much as a word,

With only a few pennies earned

I was thrust back, amongst the herd.

I always did what I was told

To never mind and to always be kind

But next time you see me out in the cold,

Please ask, what is on my mind.

Poetry, Writing

Midnight Whispers

Sometimes, words echo, long before they’re written down

From ever last syllable to the most bitter of noun

They reach out and whisper to us

As the sun is tucked away into bed,

When there is nothing more left to be said,

And just as we are beginning to let go

They let us know;

Our deepest darkest of desires

Our most pitiful of regrets

Even our tiney tiniest of fears

They follow us,

Time and time we awake,

To beg and plead, for God’s sake

Hoping that there is nothing more to say

Clinging on for the first sight of day,

Soon the dreams begin to take hold

Through their thoughts and ideas they begin to mould

They reach out, and whisper to us.

Art, Poetry, Writing

One Thousand Housing Estates to the West

He woke up this morning,

To the cold and blistering sun,

Knowing full well he was on his last warning,

This is going to be any fun.

No food, no job, no gun, no hope

Just another day in this mess,

All he wants is to score some dope

But first he has to get dressed.

Did you hear the news today?

Did you hear the news today?

Another one laid to rest,

Another one of our best.

He takes whatever he can get,

Wallets, watches, phones, rings,

Making sure he can pay the debt,

Which he would not like to soon forget.

Just another day in this prison,

From the top of the flats to the bottom of the rats,

Everywhere you seem to look,

With neither rhyme nor reason,

It’s its own form of treason.

Did you hear the news today?

Did you hear the news today?

Another one laid to rest,

Another one of our best.

Just another day in the estate,

Another young one gone off to some cell,

Just another day in the estate,

Ah well.