You know that's what the Press will call it
The latest Norris rant
Cause someone has to write the minutes
Even though he might recant

Adolescence in the Seanad
Dirty words across the floor
You wouldn't hear it in a barracks
Nor in the work place anymore

Maybe it's ventriloquism
Surely David meant no sleaze
Fair to say a woman's privates
Are not his field of expertise

If he'd said, "she's talking bollox"
I at least would sympathise
Every politician does it
A turn of phrase for telling lies

So Norris sullied poor Regina
Mentioning her holy ground

 

The patter of rain was constant
on the galvanised roof
drowning out the Royal show band
on the radio.
It was a Saturday in summer,
your baking day
and Sean and I
were on the dining room table,
a sheet of brown paper between us,
odd sized of crayons
colouring our dreams.

I drew our house
with a curving avenue,
an apple tree
at the end of the garden.
Chubby fingers struggled
with a thick red crayon
circling shiny apples on the tree.

 

Sweepings

Fresh forays

Dander days

Melange melee Melange

Leaving Topsy Turvy land

Set out on unknown Seas

Wherever we are swept

In tears wept or shared smiles

We are but sweepings

Scattered, strewn upon a crooked mile

Tread carefully?, I think not

For it does not matter

In the scheme of ….

The Is-ness of it all.

 

Mark Manning

2012 

On this day a martyr was killed
Though more than eight centuries have since been filled
The terrible slaying of the “turbulent priest”
When the wrath of a monarch couldn’t be policed

There in that sacred soaring of stone
They followed an order roared from a throne
Did God close his eyes or side with the King?
Block up his ears to the swords fatal ring

The Bishop’s defiance angered the Knights
Fearing he’d perish without the last rites
Then when the bloodlust was pumping and full
They drew forth their weapons and smashed through his skull

america 

Will i be a shadow of the man that was my father?

Will i walk the road of men who looked on him as honorable?

Will i carry the smile of kindness that he wore?

Will i sing to the Curragh of Kildare when beer takes my spirit ?

Will men refresh my drink as men do to get recognition ?

Will my clothes reflect my wealth ?

Will my wealth be of honesty ?

Will my family have enough to eat ?

Will my mother eventually say enough ?

Will that be in this world or the next ?

Will we tell the world of this shadow ?

 

Was woken up at five

By a neighbour scraping his windscreen,

Thought, 'Sounds like someone scraping a living

'From the bottom of a barrel.'.

 

Slept again

And cuddled a grey terrier

I last saw when he was four years old

In 2001;

Uncuddling him, he lay soft but still,

This was goodbye.

 

My mobile said it was 7.15,

Got up to work on some redrafts,

Thought, 'What's the point?',

And wrote this.

 

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