A Dream from the Past

My name is Minnie Mooney, I’m almost 94 (and I know what your thinking, she doesn’t look it)
I’ve always wanted, to take part, in the parish Scor
So I dressed in my Sunday best and headed to hall
Would I sing or would I dance what would I do at all?

I looked in awe at the crowds, the like’s id never seen
We all then stood to attention (stand up straight) for “Amhrán na bhFiann” (sing last line)
Suddenly the curtains opened wide and the ban an ti came out to say
Failte romhat ag Buiríos Ó Luigheach and let’s get on our way

First came on the figure dancing, then the solo song
Ballad groups and instrumentals, oh I wished I did belong
But then (pause) it was announced, there would be no set (IMAGINE THAT)
As one of the dancers hadn’t arrived yet

The sighs were heard throughout the crowd as disappointment loomed
No set dancing at a scor, we were to be doomed.
So I saw me chance there and then and I jumped right off the seat
I’ll tell them I had danced before and was quick on the feet

The dancing teacher scratched his head looking me up and down
The other 7 dancers all began to frown
So I zipped up the dancing dress which was a little tight (OPEN COAT)
But I didn’t really care; this was going to be MY night

Then on came the music and there I was at last
Dancing in the Scor (LA LA LA) ….a dream from the past

I held my partner’s hand as my heart began to beat (pat your heart with your hand)
And off I took around the stage with my pirouetting feet (dance again)
But then (pause) something happened…..the whole thing is a daze
I tripped (pretend to trip) over me partner’s foot and flew (kick leg out) right off the stage

I stood up like a shot but unknowns to me
The zip on the dress had opened wide for everyone to see
I’ll never forget the embarrassment with the underwear in view (and this is what they saw)
And I left the hall in haste that day sure what else could I do

But that was a year ago and I’m almost 95 (and I know what your thinking she still doesn’t look it)
I’m glad to be on stage again, I’m glad to be alive
The dancing didn’t go too well but I’m not one to give up
So I’m in the recitation (and just like the Tipp hurlers) I’m hoping to win that cup

Guest

The Path beneath the Haze

The Path Beneath the Haze
 

Off the beaten path I walk

Terrain harsh and unfamiliar

The hard sun casts my shadow long

Truth and courage I remember.

The eyes of the wolf upon me casting;

Judgment with his stare.

Unscathed is my approval

My soul naked and laid bare

Basking in thought I summon regret

Loves lost and times swallowed whole

For life offers no refund

Now, I wait the horizon to soothe my soul.

Brian Mullins

 

Are Lice Lousy?

The Bed Bug and Lice Infestation Support Group

Creeper Lane

Headley

Li9ce M24

Dear Parents

Most people treat lice and bed bugs as nasty little blood sucking low life forms, which infest the heads of children, and bed clothes. They are unmentionable in any conversation and must be got rid of at all costs, in secrecy. The mere mention of Lice is enough to have a family isolated and quarantined until fumigation and de-licing has taken place.

Lice have had very bad press over the years and I wish to encourage you to have a closer look at the situation from the louse’s point of view. He’s really not a bad fellow! He creates many jobs for people manufacturing everything from fine combs to Lice deterrents. Children need to exercise their arms and fingers, and scratching is an ideal way of doing this.  They will also get time off from school, giving teachers a well-earned respite, possibly saving the Health Service time and money in the treatment of teachers suffering from nervous breakdowns. Washing power brands do well from the washing of bed linen and children’s’ clothes to the sale of clothes pegs.

Home de-licing can be great fun for all the family-sitting in front of the fire combing and counting the Lice to see who has the most and the biggest; racing them on the table and also putting them on the cat to watch him scratch. In the old days people washed children’s hair with lamp oil; but this practice was discontinued after some children sat to near the fire and were badly burned! Also some parents were charged cruelty to animals-the animals in question being the Lice.

Lice can also make nice little pets, and can be trained to wake you in the morning with a gentle nip. So I hope I have shown you a kinder and more compassionate view of the humble Lice. Remember you are never alone with a louse in the house, and you don’t need a licence to keep one.

 

 

Yours sincerely

 

MS Ima Crawley

Head Secretary

 

H J. McDonald

 

 

St John’s Eve

ST JOHN’S EVE by Maura Fylnn

Weeks of gathering would finally bring its reward as the huge pile was lit on bonfire night. The flames created long shadows as we sat around, our faces black with the smoke that reached into the night sky and could be seen for miles. Maggie Ferris’s old mattress fizzled as the flames caught it, and Ned Gibbon’s rickety old table groaned in protest as the flames licked around its legs. An odd tin of beans had found its way into the fire and everybody jumped when it exploded.

All the villagers used the bonfire as an excuse to have a good clear out. Elegant shoes from American parcels rubbed heels with worn out wellingtons and hobnail boots as they made their final journey heavenwards. Yellowing papers sent their ancient news sparkling into the June sky. Old blankets and feather pillows added to the blaze, and Maura Heneghan shed a little tear when young Tommy’s pram took its last walk to the waiting flames.

Our mothers made buns and cakes which we downed with mugs of orange squash and cocoa. This was in days before coke and crisps, and a hot dog was when spot got too close to the fire and the sparks got his tail. As the night wore on and the fire died down, old tyres were added and our mothers rushed to take the clothes off the washing line before they were ruined by the thick black smoke.

Tom Staunton would arrive with his accordion and the dancing would start. It was the adults’ night now and the children sat back and listened to the music. Someone would produce a bottle of whiskey and it would be passed around in old chipped mugs. Soon a singsong would start and we would all join in the chorus. Patrick Bourke would give the rendition of the thirty two counties of Ireland and seen as each county was painstakingly gone through, people would yawn and look at their watches. Our eyes started to close, and our parents would carry us home to bed, the music wafting along behind us.

Off to school next morning, the fire would still be smoking and we would imagine we could hear the protests of all the items that had met their fate the night before.

 

 

 

By Maura Flynn

Taken from: Inspirations of a curious kind by Ward9writers

St John’s Eve

ST JOHN’S EVE by Maura Flynn

Weeks of gathering would finally bring its reward as the huge pile was lit on bonfire night. The flames created long shadows as we sat around, our faces black with the smoke that reached into the night sky and could be seen for miles. Maggie Ferris’s old mattress fizzled as the flames caught it, and Ned Gibbon’s rickety old table groaned in protest as the flames licked around its legs. An odd tin of beans had found its way into the fire and everybody jumped when it exploded.

All the villagers used the bonfire as an excuse to have a good clear out. Elegant shoes from American parcels rubbed heels with worn out wellingtons and hobnail boots as they made their final journey heavenwards. Yellowing papers sent their ancient news sparkling into the June sky. Old blankets and feather pillows added to the blaze, and Maura Heneghan shed a little tear when young Tommy’s pram took its last walk to the waiting flames.

Our mothers made buns and cakes which we downed with mugs of orange squash and cocoa. This was in days before coke and crisps, and a hot dog was when spot got too close to the fire and the sparks got his tail. As the night wore on and the fire died down, old tyres were added and our mothers rushed to take the clothes off the washing line before they were ruined by the thick black smoke.

Tom Staunton would arrive with his accordion and the dancing would start. It was the adults’ night now and the children sat back and listened to the music. Someone would produce a bottle of whiskey and it would be passed around in old chipped mugs. Soon a singsong would start and we would all join in the chorus. Patrick Bourke would give the rendition of the thirty two counties of Ireland and seen as each county was painstakingly gone through, people would yawn and look at their watches. Our eyes started to close, and our parents would carry us home to bed, the music wafting along behind us.

Off to school next morning, the fire would still be smoking and we would imagine we could hear the protests of all the items that had met their fate the night before.

 

 

 

By Maura Flynn

Taken from: Inspirations of a curious kind by Ward9writers

The Purest Snowflake

The Purest Snowflake

Expectantly we wait months for the expected snow to come, in its beautiful soft and pure form

Tiny and light at first, but growing all the time

We dream and plan for the future, how we’ll love, treasure and groom you into a beautiful snowman

But then when you finally come you are so tiny, white, soft and beautiful, but yet so still

Never growing, we look with disbelieving eyes as our ears hear the words we do not want to hear

We cradle our dream and weep as our treasured dreams ebb out between our fingers

Our dreams are dead, our hearts have been ripped from our chests and scattered on the Dead Sea

We cradled you, and watched with tearful eyes as you ebbed away from us, now we must stand and watch as you melt deep into the darkened ground

Far away from our aching arms, but never far from our loving thoughts

Our purest snowflake

 

 

 

 

 

Gus Defoe ©

Reasons To Be Cheerful

REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL

To quote the famous Oscar Wilde “we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars”, this is a wonderful metaphor and in my opinion its meaning implies that it is the optimist and the grateful who is indeed looking at the stars as opposed to the pessimist who is often too busy working or worrying to appreciate the wonderful gifts that they possess or the beauty that is all around them.

Working long hours to pay the mortgage or payments on the second car ,worrying about when the repo men are coming, stressing about what others think of them, when the Next World War is coming, anticipating that one day everything will work out and the love of their lives will eventually show themselves.

To these people I say stop! For these are just illusions that you are creating in your head, they are not real .You have no control over them and all this time worrying and stressing is time wasted. Take stock of your life and what is good in it and open your eyes and mind to this wonderful life you already have.

Stop, look, listen and feel the life-force flowing through your body and mind, for it is the greatest asset you will ever own, value your intelligence, your ability to decipher the emotions of sound being made by your favorite records, your ability to lose yourself in so many wonderful books and films, the many projects and great things you can do to challenge yourself, use your body to run, swim and play.

Acknowledge the endless wonders and beauty of our world, Go stare at the starry night sky and be in awe of its enigma. Take a walk in the park, appraise the beautiful animals and nature all around you, Bask in the serenity as you look out toward the ocean and watch the waves reclaim the land, but most importantly look for the beauty and kindness in our fellow human beings .Learn from each other, listen, talk and laugh and absorb the love all around you; from your family and friends. Cherish these moments with our wonderful children, their innocence, naivety and their ability to laugh; perhaps sometimes we need to be just like them.

Ladies and Gentlemen time is running out, stop worrying about these illusions we create in our heads and what is going to happen in the future, for there is no future yet there is only now. So start living. Because when you think of it; there are so many reasons to be cheerful.

 

Brian Mullins © 2014

 

BYE-BYE BABIES

BYE-BYE BABIES

Like many mothers and fathers everywhere, I will shortly be saying goodbye to my babies, sorry, children as I drop them off for their first day at Montessori. With dread, I have been counting down the years, months and now weeks until they will leave my care to attend the local pre-school. I honestly can’t understand why I am finding this particular milestone so irritatingly difficult. In their short lives of 3 and half years, my twin boy and girl have achieved many milestones, big and small (admittedly this is one of the biggies). And I can remember so many occasions where I fantasized about a break from the little darlings, for someone else to take the reins, change nappies, or buy groceries so that I could enjoy a hot cup of tea as opposed to stone cold, or make a casual visit to the hairdressers rather than a military style operation planned weeks in advance.

Sometimes it’s hard to find a moment’s peace. A simple trip to the bathroom involves a small audience with numerous questions and observations ‘mummies have boobs, daddies don’t have boobs’. Even now, I am deflecting a small artist covered in gloopy glue and sparkles (glitter to you and me) away from my laptop here on the kitchen table. And then there are times when it’s just plain stressful, like the day we were about to leave for a developmental health check and Dylan got his leg stuck in the septic tank. Or earlier today I looked up to see them both perched on my car roof. ‘We’re just having a bit of fun’ explained Eva nonchalantly. And as I tried to coerce them down, my neighbour drove by and waved at us looking slightly perplexed at the sight of us.

Soon I will have the freedom and head space I have craved, at least until 12.15 in the afternoon, yet secretly and confusingly I don’t think I want it anymore! Perhaps it’s because I have twins and I’m experiencing these emotions in full double-whammy effect. Or maybe it’s because I gave up work amongst other freedoms to devote myself entirely to them. Is it the feeling that no one other than me understands their tantrums or their special twin dynamic, or simply that this confirms they are definitely and absolutely not babies anymore? Most of all I fear feeling redundant, which could well be confounded when they dash off on their first day without so much as a ‘see ya’.

I have scoffed at my mother and my mother-in-law’s musings ‘oh you won’t know what to do with yourself, it’ll be lovely’ and ‘you’ll have a little cry on their first day’. Nonsense I rebutted. I can’t wait I thought. I’ll go running every morning and even do a little yoga, then settle down in a quiet house with a strong coffee to pursue my postgrad , which, might I add, has been waiting in the doldrums since around the time the pregnancy test read positive. So what is the solution? Have another baby perhaps? Don’t even go there.

Despite my intentions to busy and distract myself while they’re at Montessori, I remain slightly apprehensive about the whole thing. After all I can’t fall apart at the school gates in front of small and anxious children. Can I? No. I’ll have to keep that bottom lip in check and save the tears until I get home and settled with my new text book and a lovely strong cup of coffee. I’m going to miss my little monkeys.

By Olivier Fitzgerald

Farewell Seamus Heaney

The voice of Ireland’s

most beloved scribe

has fallen silent.

The quill that

traversed blank page

to tell us his most inner

thoughts and feelings

now dry of ink.

Gone to chat with

Kavanagh, Moore, Wordsworth

and other literary titans.

To wander on his cloud

above a host of Daffodils

enthralling angels

with his soft Irish voice.

A voice that will reverberate

forever in the annals of time.

As a deep sorrow hangs

in the Derry air

and a soft mist weeps

over Mossbawn,

we bid you farewell.

 

By Harry Mullins

OUTCAST

He feels no headache anymore
At daylight in the dosshouse,
Just a dry-mouth craving for the cure
To take him to a high
Now each day measured
By an even lower low.
To start again the routine drinking
Which helps him to forget, forget Mayo.
Nothing there but rain and hardship,
With a wicked wind from Nephin
Blowing poison, as it was
When he was bullied
From the homeplace
To be bullied here as well
By gangers and their cronies,
Mayomen, fuck them, fuck them all.
No going back now, ever,
Fuck Mayo and fuck the dawn.

By Noel Burke

Taken from the book: Inspirations of a Curious kind by Ward9writers, who have kindly allowed us to post some of their work.