Easter Memories - repost of Monaleen Church

 Waiting for the Easter Vigil, having done way too much this Easter already. My poem, Monaleen Church isn't in for a competition at the moment so I'm putting it here to remind us of Easters gone by. This poem resounds with me more than any other, apart from 'Lough Foyle'. Some of it could be based on the fictional characters of Angela and Nollaig in my manuscript 'My arms are holding you'. It's still dedicated to Andrew.

Monaleen Church

I remember from childhood,
the rain on the stone and earth of the walls at Castletroy.
I remembered—but couldn’t tell you—the feeling:
sitting in the day services, looking out at the rain.

I remember you.
I could read you, though you didn’t know.
You meant well. I miss you.

I remember Groody and Golf Links,
Dublin Road, home.
Music, dance, oranges.
Dancing Queen. I lived for my music.

I was with you
when you brought her home—
when you brought me home.
Answering God’s call without knowing.

A companion to dance, to laugh,
to love the music.

I remember the rain on the walls of Dublin Road,
the trees drawing night in early.
But most of all—
the Easter Vigil at Monaleen Church,
the bonfire blazing bravely.

May 9th.
December 25th.
Monaleen Church in full bloom—
the flowers, the beauty, the ache of it all.

So here I am.
Home.

A ghost made of ice crystals and fire embers,
soaring above Monaleen and Castletroy—
and in her, in her music,
in her dance with life...

I came home.

Limerick-Tipp Misc

 Limerick / Last Stop

My ritual on Sarsfield Bridge,
watching The Strand in sun and ridge.

The stubborn chimney looms ahead,
the Cleeves factory where laughter led.

I stand not in longing but in memory,
what you offered wasn’t real, yet brought me here—
to Limerick, my last stop, my sanctuary.

That night in rain I landed on O’Connell,
the people of Limerick, gentle, personal.

During homelessness, Limerick became home,
from Annacotty to Raheen, Caherdavin to Ballysimon.
This town held me steady as I fell,
became family, hope, life to tell.

The friends I made because people cared,
as I sat cold in snow, in doorways, unprepared.
Those friends still linger as life moves on,
but I’ve never forgotten who left me alone.

This town I didn’t know is now mine,
from Meelick and Shannon to Adare and the Salmon Leap.
Limerick caught me as I fell,
breathed new life, made my heart swell.

Limerick, my last stop, my final gate,
yet I return to the start, contemplate.
I look at the apartments on the Strand,
and remember you, and understand.

At least you brought me home,
to Limerick, my last stop, where I roam.

It’s Not Far to Tipperary

It’s not far to Tipperary,
it’s not far, just up the N24 if you’re careful.
Gerry’s got the kettle on,
so get yourselves here, stay a while.

Beautiful Tipp, with the Galtees behind,
the skins lorry passing, wheels unwinding,
and the Rogue car waking the town,
rumbling past with a distant sound.

We can talk about the ploughing,
and who speaks Irish among us,
and the grim abbey with long shadows cast,
and why it’s raining now, but not a minute ago,
clouds shifting as the minutes go.

Michael's Garden (4 line prose) 

The garden is green and alive

and the flowers are in bloom

and there's a nice wooden bench

and so I leave you there.

Galway

 Galway

It’s not the same now when I return,
you are gone beyond forever, and I yearn.

I watch the Corrib’s quiet rage,
and think of memories time cannot cage.

I remember standing here through years,
the laughter, the sorrow, the pain, the tears.

Summer days at McDougall’s bright,
chipper by the Spanish Arch, a simple delight.

Waiting in the sun, no shade to find,
or in cold rain, shelter left behind.
Bullying, cruelty, hurt so deep,
a broken rosary, the prayers I keep.

Walking Salthill Prom in wind and mist,
the mountains hazy, the sky kissed.
True Light tied as I paced the wall,
swans and seagulls answering the call.

Students passing, life flowing by,
and most of all, I see your eye.
You are in heaven now, the truth is sad,
and Galway grieves with the love we had.

The road to Shannon

I'm up at Shannon airport, my favourite place, watching the planes in and out. This is a poem I debated on quality for poetry contests for some time, it's not really contest material, so I thought I'd share it now:

Road to Shannon

I know the road to Shannon blindfold,
easy enough on the 343, I’m told.
“Learn it blindfold,” he said that night,
in the rain before the coup took flight.

I know that road to Shannon well,
so many adventures, stories to tell.
I remember Bunratty, mishaps and blunders,
and Two Mile Inn, home to old wanderers.

Everyone met their spouse at Two Mile,
and now they retire there, resting a while.
Shannon Town Centre, grit teeth and smile,
giant baubles returning year after year in style.

All the tales of Newtown Shannon,
friends, legends, losses, joys unplanned,
you are a part of every story spun,
each memory shining like the sun.

The Shannon marshes guide to the airfield,
where I have waited, hope unrevealed.
And in the end, redemption came,
the promised answer, earned by name.

So remember, children, heed this mention,
the road to Shannon is paved with good intention.

A place called memory

 This isn't great work but it's musing. It is both a place and not a place, and it crosses memories and unresolved situations.

I walk in silence down these halls

the night and rain have me in thrall

I think about masks and how we hide

what's real here, what shows outside

I think about her, she saw through 

the delusion which fools many, harms few

we do it for the greater good he says

but I look at who goes, who stays

This building is a mind I'm reading

the memories in my mind bleeding

 these dark thoughts of mine 

about things long since lost in time

I see the winter's night in the rain

someone grieving, trapped in pain

They walk these corridors still

their footsteps, water drips on a sill

In these walls the explosions of anger

someone running from terrible danger

the darkness of a condemned life

the accusations sharp as a knife

The building deserted, I am alone, 

the polished floors, wood and stone

I walk alone through my mind, 

seeking, hoping not to find, 

Who was wrong and who was right?

was there need for fight or flight?

It's time to leave, follow the star

and never look back, however far, 

In my dreams I'll walk here again,

always alone and without sound

walk the halls of time gone by

whispered questions asking why. 

The dark road

I remember a dark road long ago,
headlights shining through the rain.
My memories, usually buried,
have risen from sleep again.

This was my home, everything I loved,
but life sweeps us away on endless roads —
like that road in the dark long ago,
when you were alive and life flowed.

What tragedy leaves me here,
without you, alone, dreaming of that highway,
forgetting, living another life day by day,
and remembering you only when dreams turn to light.

I remember that dark road;
it runs through my heart and sleep.
We only know what we know at the time,
and I thought forever was ours to keep.

I wouldn't go back to the graveyard
of the life we lived and the days we spent.
I am here now, and here forever;
the past sleeps, with all its sentiment.

Get off that phone Michael!

He's sitting there in the coffee shop,
every day, alone, solitary, absorbed,
making love to that wretched phone.
Get off that phone, Michael!

He's never fully with those he greets,
hands glued to that thing,
no matter who he meets.
Get off that phone, Michael!

The phone is his whole life -
emails, news, messages, everything.
He married it, made it his wife.
Get off that phone, Michael!

When he cared more for the phone than the street,
he shot up to his heavenly home,
and God said, "You're welcome, but -
Get off that phone, Michael!"

There's a possible link here to: https://beyondshannon.blogspot.com/

My view of Poetry

 I've been writing poetry since I was a child. It wasn't always good or appreciated. I have taken years to get to a point last year where I started this blog specifically for poetry, because I felt that at last I had something to share and of a standard to share. Previously I published poems here and there on blogs, but last year this blog and the real momentum started and then this year I started competing. 
I've competed in short fiction and non-fiction contests before, but this is my first year in poetry contests.

Do I have any qualification to write poetry? Qualifications aren't really needed. I did A215 Creative Writing with the Open University, where they tried to teach me 'the rules' and I did my own thing and still passed. Poetry is like music, the best of it isn't about rules but inspiration. 

Poetry, the best of it, is a story in fewer words, a crafted tale with a rhythm. My idea of a good poem is one with a bit of mystery perhaps, a tale, evocative, an atmosphere captured. My poems tend to tell a story of places, times or people or all three. I do a lot of poetry about places. The poem has to hit that secret key, to tell a story, historic or current, in a way that people can relate to, or even feel emotion from. 

I consider my best poems at present to be Lough Foyle, Galtymore, Monaleen Church, and The Cold Institution. These are all about places. None are on this blog as they are competition poems. 

I don't publish all my poems on here as some are for competitions, and I store a lot of poems unpublished in the blog archives, for safekeeping, and to publish or not, when the time is right. I will keep adding poems because once you really start writing poetry and start to build skill, it's impossible not to write poetry. It's another bad habit.

Lost Beings

Antisocial and a Hazard

They stare at their rectangles
and expect others to move,
as if they are royalty.

You wonder why someone creeps along,
one inch behind you,
and when you turn, they expect you to step aside.

They no longer see the sky, the sea;
they only feel the need to be validated
by a cold, lifeless rectangle,
an all-consuming obsession.

They stop suddenly in your path;
the rectangle is more important than your comfort,
or the real world, or real life.

I sometimes wonder if they know
that their behavior is bad,
and that people still in the real world
are not impressed,
or whether they’re too far gone
to care about anything
other than the rectangle controlling them.

Some shout into their rectangles;
they seem to need an audience,
a captive audience,
such as people trying to sit peacefully on a bus.

Many of these beings, once human,
also put chemicals in their mouths and lungs
and blow them across others,
making strangers cough and grimace.

These beings, once human,
are now lost beings.

The Whereareyoufrom

The Whereareyourfrom

It’s uniquely Irish.
No other country would dare.

No polite how are you?
No what do you do?

It’s the where are you from?
Straight away —
to put you in your place,
to tell you they don’t consider this your home,
even if you do.

Where are you from?

“South Dublin.”
Not with that accent, you’re not.

And with that,
they dismiss you —
for your skin, your accent, your faith, your culture —
as not belonging,
not welcome.