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.