Poem for Seamus Heaney at 70

Congratulations Seamus
As you reach this milestone age.
You have managed to inflame us
With your words upon the page.

As a poet, the clear fact is
Your whole life’s in black and white,
And with a bit of practice,
I am sure you’ll get it right.

Some might struggle ‘gainst the bin tax,
Others fight for the deported.
You have struggled with your syntax
But I’m sure you’ll get it sorted.

You possess a sense of timing
That is often called inspired,
Though perhaps your skill at rhyming
Leaves a lot to be desired.

But I don’t want to deflate you,
Or to criticise your views,
For, in truth, I think it’s great you
Still seek out the poet’s Muse.

So a happy birthday Seamus,
Keep on working on the book.
Sure, one day you might be famous
With a little bit of luck.

Sketching Taoisigh on the loo

Photo RTE

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The Irish are a lawless race,
Duplicit and conniving.
Within this god-forsaken place,
The criminals are thriving.
Thieves and robbers,
Double jobbers,
Hard-nosed killers too,
But worst of all is one who sketches
Taoisigh on the loo.

This sick and evil misanthrope
Remains a shady figure.
The Gardai simply cannot cope
Whene’er the masses snigger.
This evil crime
Requires that time
And money’s spent to foil it.
But they can’t catch the man who sketches
Taoisigh on the toilet.

Thank God the Gards have made it known
Crime tolerance is zero.
To some, this arty Al Capone
Is some kind of a hero.
His sick mind fuels
Deluded fools
Who praise his evil plan
To overthrow the country, sketching
Taoisigh on the can.

Soon we will be overrun
By Taoisigh in the buff.
How much painting will be done
‘Ere someone cries ‘Enough!’?
Thank God the law
Is ready for
These cultural attacks
By this foul mastermind who sketches
Taoisigh on the jacks.

Let them leave no stone unturned
To root out this dark villain.
His heinous crimes have even turned
Our thoughts from all the killin’.
Yes, let the force’s
Huge resources
Catch this arty slob
Who’s horrified the country, sketching
Taoisigh on the job.

The St Patrick’s Day exodus

As they soar through the air
To those shores far and fair,
Oh let us not question the wherefores!
Let us honour them roundly
And toast them all soundly,
With a fly-past from Ireland’s famed airforce.

Do not call it a junket!
‘Tis a myth! Let’s debunk it.
They are not flying off for enjoyment.
It’s a task to be done
To fly off to the sun,
A strategic, political deployment.

For a five star hotel
Can at times be sheer hell,
A veritable purgatory when you
Find yourself far away
From the issues of the day
With nothing to read but a menu.

And the vats of champagne
Do not lessen the pain
Of their selfless but lonely devotion
To promoting our cause
To the dignified bores
Who never show too much emotion.

Oh let’s not be spiteful
Or nasty or frightful
And claim that their morals are iffy.
For they’ll certainly tell us
That we’re all just jealous,
Stuck at home with the freezing grey Liffey.

Our economy’s wrecked
And the country is fecked
But we really should come to our senses.
Why condemn politicians
On their Paddy’s Day missions
For daring to claim their expenses.

Flying out to the sun,
Some might see as great fun
And oftentimes may misconstrue it.
It may cost a few bob
But it’s a tough thankless job -
A blessing on those that would do it.

Yes, its money well spent
And wherever they’re sent
I’m sure they will well represent us.
Oh a shame on you cynics
In your sarcasm clinics.
Get back to your local Job Centres!

The buses are going on strike again

The buses are going on strike again
It’s just been announced on the news,
Inflicting their annual dosage of pain,
As people put on sturdy shoes.

It seems that they do it whenever they like
They don’t seem to need much excuse.
Just give them a reason and they’ll go on strike,
However obscure or obtuse.

The buses need painting? The depot’s unsightly?
They’re raising the price of a ticket?
We don’t take industrial action lightly –
Sure it’s weeks since we last formed a picket.

Some people may wonder if going on strike
Was the bus drivers’ only real option.
Was forcing Joe Public to get on his bike
The sole motion down for adoption?

Were there other options, we’d all like to know
To bidding commuters aloha?
Well no – for the call to adopt a go-slow
Was thrown out - for they can’t go much slower.

The great Dublin Airport Authority

When the cold of the morning is bitingly keen,
I will climb in my Yaris to find
The windscreen caught fast in a thick icy sheen
And I’m sitting there totally blind.

It happens quite often when winter takes grip,
The jug of cold water’s prepared.
When the tone of the air has a definite grip,
My windscreen is often ensnared.

So please tell me why, with each cold snap foreseen,
The airport has but one de-icer,
And planes are left standing when they should have been
Arriving in climates far nicer?

Just one lone machine to go ‘round every plane
And give them a two-minute spray,
While ordin’ry folk off to Greece or to Spain
Are left cursing the shaggin’ delay.

Most other airports in Europe’s chill parts
De-ice as a matter of course.
They quickly negate bitter Winter’s cruel darts
And let his cold hand feel the force.

But no, here in Dublin, why should we prepare
For freeze-ups that happen quite often?
Sure, why should the airport authority care
If the ice takes an ice-age to soften?

Having it both ways

Yes they told us it had been
The finest Government we’d seen,
Responsible for economic boom.
The leadership was given,
The economy was driven
And Ireland’s global stock began to zoom.

‘Twas great Government, they said,
Unsurprising that it led
To a wave of most unparalleled prosperity.
Our finances truly soared
As the Celtic tiger roared
With bravado and defiance, not temerity.

But now dear old Ireland’s fecked,
The economy is wrecked
And suddenly the focus has been shifted.
The world recession is to blame
For this unemployment shame
And the plaudits, once so loud, have slowly shifted.

It’s a worldwide fiscal crisis
That affects our costs and prices –
The Government is really just a victim.
And poor Brian, what can he do
But shut his eyes and see it through?
It’s so unfair how journalists depict him.

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Barrack Obama’s Inauguration Speech

We had a sense of hist’ry in the making,
The dawning of a new and golden age.
The earth stood still – my wizened hands were shaking,
All eyes upon this man upon the stage.

The rhetoric flew down to earth like manna
And landed on our aching, yearning ears.
From Washington to Brisbane and Fermanagh,
We answered him with loud, affirming cheers.

For half an hour he spoke with deep conviction.
We marvelled at how well the message flowed.
With clarity of purpose and of diction
Into people’s consciences he strode.

Black and white and young and old united,
We listened as the neck-hairs stood on end.
We felt that every past wrong would be righted,
A President ‘pon whom we could depend.

A speech with all the elements of drama,
We sat back overwhelmed when he was done.
Then Rasher pointed to Michelle Obama
And said, “Begod, I’d like to give her one.”