Poems Micheal Oâ€™Donnell
adopted time seems to have stood still for me the months have stretched like years the years that pass are more like hours I now shed wrinkled tears I still feel the day when I was told youâ€™d vanish from my life our bonding time just 30 days adoption was then rife I kissed and said that I love you at least for the thousandth time no matter what lifeâ€™s lost for us those memories are still mine I hold you close to my loving heart got the sweet smell of your breath the day they dragged you from my arms was the start of my living death
I could see them smile as they accepted you by the gate on that primrose lined path when they closed the doors of the baby ford I knew that was that there’s not a day since I took you away a thousand tears I’ve shed I tried to find you all my life but faced obstacles instead I can’t believe that after 70 years it was you that located me I love you now, as I did then and I hope that you’ll love me
remembering all mothers, married or unmarried, whose children were taken from them
achill henge the hill was bare, by the old railway, when first the plans were made. the materials sourced the scene was set, foundations then were laid. the turmoil that this structure caused, was a test for arts and state. but short, the time it took to build, alas, it was too late. in rain and hail and western gale the work did not take long. a rotunda structure did appear. magnificent and strong. it has no significant ancient past, with history or lore. it is no colosseum, with blood and guts and gore. but it is a place to ponder, and how it works the mind. your sense of being takes a rest, and peace of mind you’ll find. its here I’ll find my inner peace; it’s where I’ll dream the dream. I hope that in my future life, things won’t be too extreme. there is a sense of magic here, whether feeling up or down. happy or sad I close my eyes, I’m encircled by a crown. the sun beams through the different opes, each eve and dawn of day at night to contemplate a star, or watch the milky way. i know most things we do in life are either sold or bought. but the structure here was gifted, there was no treasure sought. when they say to take it down, who's right does it infringe. the magnificent crown of achill. they now call achill henge.
cillin na leanai / childrens graves on corry or hill, or lonely rill, in sand or bog or loam. was the burial place, were there’d be no trace, where souls remained unknown. in the dead of night, without a rite, men laid the souls in clay for a thousand years, the parent’s tears could not wash the sin away. no visits made, no flowers laid, on graves they'd never seen. no crosses placed, no names were traced, as if they’d never been. no mothers breast, to feed and rest, no loving kiss or praise. no bond to make, just hearts to break, that time tries to erase. no babies cry, no tearful eye. just empty cot and cradle. no name to say, no first birthday, no treatment for postnatal. in mothers grief, there’s no relief, words sometimes did console. she would be told, inter the fold; get churched and save your soul. they prayed to gain, that god would claim, and grant them heaven’s key. when not baptised, the sin deprived, no sight of god they’d see. if mother died, it was decried, they must be separated. where dogma ruled, opinions fooled, the faithful exonerated. but time and tide, and waters wild, will change and will corrode. the tide comes in, to erode again. and expose an ancient code. of cillin na leanai, and there many. now we’ll mark and reinter. and from this decay, a new newer way, will change the way we were.
Line 1. Verse 1 Sand or bog or loam Because the burial would have to be done quickly, hard ground would be avoided. Sand ,bog or loam was ideal. Also those graves would be located in ground that was not likely to ever be disturbed for any reason. . Line 3 Verse 1. Without a rite - It is not known if silent prayers or any prayers were said by the grave digger who was usually a distant male relative or other trusted person? Line 4. Verse 1. The Sin - Original Sin Line 4. Verse 3. Get Churched. - She would have to go to Church to be cleansed by the Priests prayers, so that she could continue to receive the sacraments, to visit the church be able to visit other homes and prepare food etc. This practice was dropped. This practice was stopped after the 2nd Vatican Council 1965 /1967 Line 2. Verse 5. Expose an ancient code. Sometimes those long forgotten graves are eroded by the elements, often bones were exposed and this could be the first indicator that this was a Cillini location. The bones are then reinterred, and the graves marked for the first in possibly in hundreds of years.
cutting the grass
it’s been, a while, since the animals, grazed in the fields prepared for hay. where the fresh, green grass, so lushes grows. fenced off since early may. the lark soars high up in the blue and sweet the song it sings the fluttering butterfly will land to spread and close its wings wild chamomile and daisies grow, with clover pink and white. and the haunting call of the corncrake fulfils the summer’s night. there’s the gold, reflecting, buttercup. and the sweet forget –me-not. that adorns the herb rich meadow natures, fragrant, flower pot. the time, is right, to mow, the sward. and tall, the grass now stands the sun, evaporates, the dew the scythe, in the mowers, hands.
each swing is made with steady pace the swathe, to his, left hand side. back slightly stooped, knees slightly, bent, each swing a steady glide. the snailish pace of the cutting edge wild life, will get, a chance lets the corncrake and the little frog escape the blades advance. the honey bee with its determined buzz will escape from flower to flower. to raid the nectar from each bloom and ignores the busy mower. the busy, mower, stands up, straight. the scythe, he rests, for now. he takes, a breath of the perfumed air lifts his cap, and wipes, his brow. he views, with pride the work heâ€™s done loves the scent of the new, mown hay. he scans the sky, for the, twittering lark, thanks god, for the lovely, day.
you can sing all you like about workin’ and fishin’ the beauty of Achill or whatever it be. but this story i tell has a different dimension, for it’s of the lone boat-man and his craft Q.E.3. the evening was dark and the high seas were breaking, the forecast said 9 from the south generally. when a flare from the sea set a process in motion, what size was this boat and who could it be. no time was lost in calling the garda, the sub –aqua and ambulance were quick on the scene. such a gathering of people that gathered in minutes, you wouldn’t believe it unless you had seen. the tension built up as the boat came in nearer, the danger was greater than ever before. everyone knew that the storm was “ the big thing “ she could smash on the rocks and be never no more. well, the boat hit a rock and she quickly turned over, “ the next one will swamp her “ I heard someone say. dom allum pulled hard on the oars and he bowed her, she came in on a wave to dooagh’s lovely bay.
well the next thing we knew, he was flung in the water, in seconds, tom corrigan is out by his side. charlie and chris were soon there to assist him to escort this great oar’s man from out of the tide. tom corrigan and joe tied a rope bow to stern the tide it was rough and the night it was dark. there were scores of men there to make damn sure and certain this boat would be brought above high water mark. well you won’t believe this for it sounds like a lie, the boat was hauled up to “the pub “ high and dry. the celebrations went on for nights and for days, one continuous party we will remember always so three cheers to the men who brought him ashore. my hat and my glass to dom allum once more. the first man to row the atlantic both ways, the world will be forever be singing his praise.
Sand disappeared from Dooagh beach with 50 years or more. Relentless movement of the sea, had nudeified the shore. Bare rugged rocks, and rounded stones. Some brown and grey and green. And some forgot, that there ever was, a beach there to be seen. One morning early in the spring, I could not believe my eyes. I looked away I looked again. And there to my surprise. The sea delivered over night, gold sand that filled the shore. The sandy beach that I remembered, fifty years before. A brand new, real old, sandy beach, my thoughts now running wild. With visions of the games we played, when I was a child. Running away from little waves that chased me on the strand Building castles, filling moats, love letters in the sand. Drawing pictures on rounded stones, of boats and crabs and fish. Gathering shells of every kind, to adorn a jar or dish. It is lovely to remember what happened in the past. But time it is a fleeting thing it goes so slowly fast. Sometimes I feel the bayâ€™s asleep, as the little waves swell home. Sometimes awake as storms break, with surging sea and foam. The sea did take the sea returned life to a changing a shore. A relentless force of nature that man must not ignore.
would ye like to fish for sandeels ned asked as we did play, it’s a perfect night for fishing eels, the moon’s as bright as day. with the sun the moon the earth in line. a spring tide there will be. it’s a tradition here at easter time get your hooks and follow me. fishing sandeels in the moonlight. with ned and his three sons a low tide, a bright night. reaping hooks and wellingtons. a gallon can, to hold the eel blunt reaping hook in hand. to catch the greater sandeel that burrows in the sand. how do you catch the sandeels, ned. do they put up a fight? say’s he,” you grab them near the head. and hold them good and tight.”
now listen lads you must take heed, or they'll slip out of your hand. they'll squirm away at high speed. and disappear into the sand. now sink your hooks at the waters side the sand is softer there just score the sand with stealth astride. be ready to lift and snare with a silver belly and a green blue back we caught them with delight. it was simple really once we got the knack.. on, that lovely, full moon, lenten night.
If you will only have me
I’d walk from here to the golden gate. I’d swim the atlantic for a date. with you my darling maggie kate - if you will only have me. 2. I’d carry a calf to timbuktu, I'd bring you a monkey from kathmandu.. even if i had the flu - if you will only have me. 3. I’d chop a forest into logs. I’d make a thousand pair of clogs. for every animal on the isle of dogs - if you will only have me I’d build a house with an acoustic room. it would have to be in mullingar or croom. where i’d sing to you night, morning, and noon - if you will only have me. I’d climb the eiffel tower tall. with a parachute in case i'd fall I’d skate across niagara fall - if you will only have me I’d build a castle in dublin bay. with a hundred rooms for their kids to play. our, hundred children, by the way - if you will only have me. I’d phone you forty times a night. on what’s app, face book and on skype. I’d twitter and tweet ‘till morning light - if you will only have me.
I’d phone you forty times a night. on what’s app, face book and on skype. I’d twitter and tweet ‘till morning light - if you will only have me. i’d post a u tube video for the world to see. i’d be proposing, swinging from a tree. when it, goes viral, infected you will be - then we’ll have to marry me. says maggie kate " you are stark raving mad." you’re even crazier than my dad a hundred children, aren’t you the lad - well there’s no way you can have me. moving catalonia out of spain. floating it across the atlantic main indicates to me that you quite insane - and that’s why you can’t have me. tattooing pigs in malibu or chasing monkeys in kathmandu. you're the craziest buck i ever knew - that’s why you can’t have me making irelands eye go blind. building castles in your mind every daft thing you can find - your kind i won’t marry. now just to let you know the score. i’m sure that you're a lying bore. and don’t you call me any more - you're kind I won’t marry. no. you're kind won’t marry.