Poems From 'It All Ends In Green'

Just Passing Through Section

POETRY

Gift of The Gab

Once more in pilgrimage the winding stair beckons.
My frailty earns a steadying hand as I ascend
To a Celtic patterned blanket on the castle’s battlements.
Manoeuvred into the prone position on my back,
An attendant assists as I, eyes wide, bend my neck
To greet with lips the ancient Blarney touchstone.

The vivid evocations conjured, frame my setting sun.
A quest not just for eloquence but for clarity of thought,
For the wisdom to bend the word for good is a rare gift.
Shaped by a deep aversion to gale blown hot air,
A father who could sell sand to Arabs, mirages to the gullible,
Blustering to be stranded in a self planted minefield.

The embers are stoked for a final flourish.
A nod to prophet Jeremiah, St.Columba’s deathbed pillow,
The oracular throne of Irish Kings, stone of destiny,
Stone of Ezel, a Crusader’s relic, a Churchillian whimsy,
A stone struck by Moses to call forth a flood!
The dream, the myth, the resolution of faith.

The stone-stored energy fusing mind and earth.
A kiss of hope, a kiss of wonder,
A kiss of curiosity, a long, long, lingering kiss of love.
When the myriad-mirrored reflections perfectly align
We’ll meet again on the ruins of crenellated fortifications,
Speaking freely in exaltation of our eternal bliss.

Shamrock Soundbite Serenade

All was perfect before ‘The Fall,’
‘Ourselves alone’
In a land of milk and honey.
Oh, the rhythm of the saints,
The scribbles of the scholars,
Hold back the dawning of a new day!

But there was something in the air,
A politics borne of inclement weather,
‘The centre would not hold.’
They had a modest, mischievous proposal,
To serve our children as entrees!’
A ‘terrible beauty’ had been unleashed.

They called it ‘a little local difficulty.’
Let’s draw an invisible line in blood,
Behold the chaos of wrong headedness,
Peer into a well of inexhaustible sadness,
When will the rivers run free?
A long wars, long revenge to commence.

‘We did it all for you ma boys,
We did it all for you!’
A raging chorus of triumphant disapproval,
Exit stage Irishman pursued by a conscience.
Are the battles behind the forehead winnable?
The pose of pessimism is passé, Sammy.

Corpsing at funerals draws admonishing looks,
‘Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.’
I know why the caged monkeys blow raspberries,
‘Never wrestle with pigs, they like it!’
Where have all the Bible thumpers gone?
A country of saints, scholars and psychopaths?

Are you Irish or normal?
‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on.’
Holy scrotumtightening shenanigans!
Our devilish leprechauns’ piss into a crackling fire.
Behold the little fellows dance upon the hearthstone.
Aye, it was a grand old time before ‘The Fall.’

The Stone Walls of Galway

Behold the snail trails of permanence,
Remnants of human occupation
Meandering over undulations, heaving
To the still pulsing heartbeats of lost generations.

They stand in defiance to the Atlantic gales
And soft, warm erosive rains,
That have found greater purchase
In the yielding Burren’s limestone to the South.

In the dark recesses of a cavernous universe,
Coffin ships still sail deep with those
Who have the strength to flee
And heart to face another day of torment.

Light emanating from the darkness
Reveals the grain ships being scuttled in the bay,
The dogs feeding on the old and infirm,
The taunting masters on foreign shores.

Light years of revealed historical grievance,
The birth of Christ, the assassination of Caesar,
The smouldering remains of Hitler,
All on a remote viewer’s playback.

Rewinding a cosmic clock,
Can you hear the fevered prayers
Pleading for earthly deliverance
And angry cries seeking retribution?

Whispers of the dead guide the living’s hand,
‘Build the walls, build the walls!’
A passing tourist from Chicago
Joins my defiant endeavour.

Each stone placed a prayer for those who came before,
Each stone placed for the drops of wilfully wasted blood,
Each stone placed for the futile sweat shed on masters’ orders,
Each stone placed an offering to a God who withdrew his love,
Each stone placed a rotting tuba oozing in the hand,
Each stone placed a tear in a starving baby’s eye.

Down, down, down,
The tears percolate with the rains,
Forming subterranean lakes of sorrow
From which we all continue to drink.

The walls still bear the imprint of the witnessed tragedy.
The crystalline elements within impressed
By images and energies
Of those forsaken victims of the blight.

Come view the dancing on a moonlit shore,
The thatch roofed cottage being razed to the ground,
The haunting whistle-led chorus to a mournful ballad,
The old woman waving goodbye to her only child.

My new friend from the diaspora and I
Stand tall and defiant admiring our handiwork.
Latter day ‘Quiet Men,’ with certain confident smiles,
Survivors of the outrage, holders of the beacon.

Celtic Battle Re-enactment Society

‘What we do in life echoes in eternity,’

-Russell ‘Maximus’ Crowe, thespian.

My name is Rudica, Rudica Keltodius Broodica,
Upholder of the ancient laws,
High Druid and embodiment of the ancient wisdom.

Each day, every day, we wave our flaxen locks in defiance,
For we will not be subdued or placated
Until our rivers run clear of Saxon, Viking and Norman blood’s taint.

This, my end of year report, is a clarion call to re-armament.
Brothers and sisters, the harvest may be safely stored in our ‘ring forts’
But, I fear we risk starvation of spirit unless further sacrifices are made.

I, myself, would fall willingly on my sword,
Enjoy being hung, drawn and quartered or burnt alive in a wicker shroud,
If only our goals of conquest and lasting dominion would prevail.

Let us review our accomplishments.
Through the offices of my good self I have secured valuable alliances
With the tribes of Gaul, Brittany and Lower Bohemia.

Ancient strongholds where our roots show signs of strong growth.
Is it too fancy to dream of the seedlings ripening to sturdy trees?
Remember brethren, our gods demand placation, tribute and quality real estate.

But how best to spread the word and remind the people of their heritage.
Bloody mayhem! Bloody mayhem, my faithful friends!
By what other means can a tribe keep their heads above the whirlpool of time?

If I may be as so bold as to highlight the deficiencies of our people.
As High Priest, I really must criticise our inability to read a map and keep time.
Our audience demand we turn up at the right time and in the right place.

One takes the point, forcefully made at the last AGM by sister Vagina Loquacious,
That we our genetically predisposed to quarrel and sow discord,
But is it really too much to ask to agree where our fights take place?

One thinks not. Stick to the plans brethren or we face extinction!
If I say Melton Mowbray Services on the M1 at eleven thirty,
I actually mean Melton Mowbray service station at eleven o’clock, sharp!

And so to the specifics of our creed. Our so called unacceptable behaviours.
I can no longer skirt around the meaty subject hanging around our girth,
Namely, at what point in the day should we take all our clothes off?

I thought we’d agreed, by emails, to wait until we find a changing room
Near to the field of battle, a safe repository for our valuables. Imagine
My surprise when I bumped into thirty naked men on the escalators at Bluewater.

Few shopping centres, in my considerable experience, sanction nudity.
Smertrios and Agrona themselves, with their raging chariots of impending doom,
Would struggle mightily to persuade the powerful warlords who rule there.

My clarion call entreaties and stiff letters of complaint lie limp in waste-paper bins.
Appeals to the demon Saxon legislature about ‘Diversity, ethnicity and pride,’
Fall on deaf ears in the face of our oppressors ruthlessness and bigotry.

Maybe brother Seamus Scrotinium’s public display, yonder year, clears the path?
Who will forget his brave posing on the battlements of Hastings Castle?
The Green Man festival further elevated by his bollock naked presence.

No one from the Borough Council batted an eyelid that fine May day
As he waved his spear and beat his mighty drum to the trance inducing,
Rhythmic slaying of the effigy that ushered in the dawn of a new summer.

May I suggest we avail ourselves of a communal supply of green body paint
From the worthy auspices of an Amazonian tribe I have contacted? Their
Secret recipe guarantees to stick better to pubic hair than other products available.

Finally, it is with great sadness that I report another fissure with our Scottish cousins.
If I may paraphrase a missive from their leader, Celibate Nonsensicus,
Unceremoniously delivered by flaming arrow through my letter box.

Apparently, we are not mean enough, violent enough or Celtic enough!
Needless to say, on your behalf, I sent a dozen dead rabbits by return of post,
Demanding a full and sincere apology or it’s all out war…... again.

I propose a campaign plan of initial border skirmishes stealing cows, then maybe,
A little light sacking of their High Priest’s village in Ayrshire,
Then, if they fail to submit, a raising of their standing stones on the Isle of Mull.

‘Illegitimi non carborundum!’ ‘Don’t let the bastards wear you down!
Until we meet again on some blasted heath, knee deep in peat,
Keep the faith, keep rubbing the Be-Jesus out of those cursing stones
And pray the gods keep you safe, forever in the palm of their hands,
‘Beannacht agus adh mor,’ Goodbye and good luck, Rudica.