Becoming The Man My Father Always Was

by Dónall Dempsey (b: 1956 in the Curragh of Kildare, Ireland) 
Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny!'

That's alright love
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to bong

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts

'That's it son!'

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

'Thank you Donall!'
she always smiles

'That's all right love!'
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

Parents

by Bernard Shaw
Parents are you both so blind,
That childish being is but yours to mind.
Give care, give love, give guidance well ,
For that baby of man, is but a shell.
Deep within lies a Godly love,
Entrusted to you by him above.
Such eyes of innocence, shining bright,
Those tiny hands that hold you tight.
Yes that is your own flesh and blood,
So let love flow like a rushing flood.
A childhood composed of loving Joys,
Kindness and compassion shall be its toys.
Parents heed my words of warning,
The awareness of your child is dawning.
What reports of you will it give above,
When it is called by that Heavenly love.
Will it say that you were blind,
Or were you of that loving kind.

Weep You No More, Sad Fountains

by Anonymous Olde English
Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sorrow

by David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930)
Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mothr downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady.

I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.

Abandoned Dog

by Robert W Service (1874-1958)
They dumped it on a lonely road,
Then like a streak they sped;
And as along the way I strode 
I thought that it was dead:
And then I saw that yelping pup
Rise, race to catch them up.

You know how silly wee dogs are.
It thought they were in fun.
Trying to overtake their car
I saw it run and run:
But as they faster, faster went,
It stumbled, sore and spent.

I found it prone upon the way;
Of life was little token,
As limply in the dust it lay
I thought its heart was broken:
Then one dim eye it opened and
It sought to lick my hand.

Of corse I took it gently up
And brought it to my wife
Who loves all dogs, and now that pup
Shares in our happy life:
Yet how I curse the bastard who
Its good luck never knew.

Volcano that sleeps

by Emmanuel George Cefai (b. 1955)
When the volcano sleeps
The clouds gather round
like hawks on the face
Of a frowning heaven.

The volcano sleeps
And dreams
Of lava red and scalding
And smokes from vents
All spurting.

And it was night
And above circled high
The night-stars
Frightened
The bats flew, now and
Then
A solitary owl wisely
Sped herself
Opened full her wings
To by-pass high
The nether hell of red
To trees of safety.

History behind a rock
Near yet safe
Hides
Waiting.
Then when the feast of the
Volcano's wrath subsides
In hieroglyphic hands
And characters
Writes down
For discoverers to come
Decades after, see
Discuss and wonder
What happened on the night
The fateful night
Of the Volcano.

The Sick Lion And The Ass

by Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
A lion sunk by time's decay,
Too feeble grown to hunt his prey,
Observed his fatal hour draw nigh:
He drooped and laid him down to die.
There came by chance a savage boar,
Who trembled oft to hear him roar,
But when he saw him thus distressed
He tore and gored his royal breast.
A bull came next (ungen'rous foe),
Rejoiced to find him fall'n so low 
And with his horny-armed head
He aimed at once to strike him dead, -
He strikes, he wounds, he shocks in vain,
The lion still conceals his pain.
At length a base inglorious ass,
Who saw so many insults pass,
Came up and kicked him in the side:
'Twas this that raised the lion's pride.
He roused, and thus he spoke at length,
For indignation gave him strength:
Thou sorry, stupid, sluggish creature,
Disgrace and shame and scorn of nature!
You saw how well I could dispense
With blows from beasts of consequence!
They dignified the wounds they gave;
For none complain who feel the brave.
But you, the lowest of all brutes,
How ill your face with courage suits
What dullness in thy looks appears!
I'd rather far (by heav'n 'tis true)
Expire by these than live by you:
A kick from thee is double death -
I curse thee with my dying breath!

The Moral

Rebukes are easy from our betters,
From men of quality and letters;
But when low dunces will affront,
What man alive can stand the brunt?

Good And Bad Children

by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
Children, you are very little,
And your bones are very brittle;
If you would grow great and stately,
You must try to walk sedately.

You must still be bright and quiet,
And content with simple diet;
And remain, through all bewild'ring,
Innocent and honest children.

Happy hearts and happy faces,
Happy play in grassy spaces -
That was how in ancient ages
Children grew to kings and sages.

But the unkind and the unruly,
And the sort who eat unduly,
They must never hope for glory -
Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies,
All grow up as geese and gabies,
Hated, as their age increases,
By their nephews and their nieces.

To Live Merrily, And To Trust To Good Verses

by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Now is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth
The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the rose, and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow
And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,
In sack of such a kind
That it would make thee see
Though thou were ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth
To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth
An Indian commonwealth.

A goblet next I'll drink
To Ovid, and suppose,
Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup
Of aromatic wine,
Catullus, I quaff up
To that terse muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat;
O Bacchus! cool thy rays!
Or frantic, I shall eat
Thy thyrse, and bite the bays.

Round, round the roof does run;
And being ravish'd thus,
Come, I will drink a tun
To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next,
This flood I drink to thee;
But stay, I see a text
That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies
Here burnt, whose small return
Of ashes scarce suffice
To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then;
They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,
Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all bodies meet,
In Lethe to be drown'd,
Then only numbers sweet
With endless life are crown'd.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

by Lord Byron (George Gordon) 1788-1824
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset was seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and blown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed:
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances all lifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols all broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!