A Pregnant Hush

(For Oominor).

To A Mother To Be

When, at last, you finally give birth
Miraculously shall shrink your enormous girth
Returning you to your former self, so slim and slender
Then may you go on one almighty bender.

(After Ogden Nash).

The Beggar Boy

He Begs To Differ

To You
'Spare a thought, as you go on your way
For the one in front of you today.
Everyday, you spend a penny,
Spare one, for one who hasn't any.'

Craig sat outside Drury street car park, a cardboard cup in his hand. I spoke to him, he spoke to me, we spoke to one and other (this is like a Chuck Berry song). He said it was his first time there, he usually sat at the Molly Malone statue, where he wrote his poems on the ground. He spoke one of his poems. It was good, he has a good vocabulary, it was poetic. 'Don't only write about being poor', said I. 'I write about anything', he said.

I asked him did he write down his poems, he said no, he has them all in his head. I said he might forget them.

'I write poems', I said, 'but I haven't written very many, I might write more.' I spoke my Metaphor poem. (He called them poems, I call them verses or rhymes). He liked my poem.

He said the rain washed his poems off the street. (He could write a poem about that - 'Written in tears and washed away by rain,' or whatever. I said I could write a poem for him, it would be rude, and spoke the one above. He said, did you make that up just now? I said yes. He said he spends hours over his poems (his are longer).

'Did you like that bit about spending a penny?' I asked. 'When I was young, you used to have to spend a penny, it cost you something, now it is free. That is one of the good things about today that is better than the old days'.

'They took them all away,' he said. I said 'The good news is they are free, the bad news is they aren't there any more'.

'You should write your poems down and send them to the Big Issue,' I said. 'They want poems from people like you, to prove you are human beings'.

Writing his poems on the street, what could be more poetic?

David ****

God's Dream

(My second ever post.)

God's Dream
That we should be true. May we be part of God's dream. A dream come true.
****
A fucking eejit in search of God
****

God and the devil are fighting for my soul
And one or the other sometimes takes control
Or so it appears, but appearances are not always reality,
and that is as plain as the nose on my face.
I do, however, have a great nose for truth, and that may be
my saving grace.
****
God is self effacing, and his message is be self effacing. (I wrote that when it came to me, catch it while its flying). To a friend, I said 'You have to write it down when it comes to you, or else its gone forever. Its like when you see a butterfly dancing, if you take your eyes off it, you will never see that precise pattern again'. 'Its exactly like that', he said.
****
About the Author
Why am I such a 'fucking eejit'? The answer is first, because I use 'that' word and secondly, because I am Irish. All Irish are eejits and all English are idiots, the words mean the same thing. When we stop hating and killing each other, we stop being eejits and idiots. I have never hated the English, but I am still an eejit, else would I write these words?

I am an agnostic, I do not know if there is a God. I say that those who know there is a God and those who know there is not, are know-alls. We know through our senses, we understand through our feelings. We may feel there is a God, but we cannot, in that sense, know. With us, seeing is believing, we are so fucking thick, pardon my French, I am a fluent speaker.

(If there is a God, humour, good humour, is one of his attributes, and the joke is on us. He is, in fact, if he exists, the source of all humour, all good humour that is, of course, so put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Devil, if you, in fact, exist). This is all a drunkard's dream, of course, an ex-drunkard's dream, if I done half the things they said I done, I must have had a whale of a time (Country and Western song).

To you holier than thou purists, I say this: You must see through the crap, the bad language, badness itself, to see the truth, we see as through a glass, darkly (a glass of Guinness?). If you cannot see the joke, the joke is on you. Love is where you find it, the truth also, everything is significant, everything has meaning, and truth is found in the unlikeliest of places. Here, perhaps? God grant that it be so, if there is a God.

In my defense, may I say that I am a product of the Irish educational system but, as Mark Twain said, I never let my schooling interfere with my education. The only letters I will ever have after my name are R.I.P. If I am going to God, I am going my way (may it also be his). Would you care to join me?

David **** (What do those asterisks mean?)

A Certain Person commented .........a fluent speaker. SHOULD THAT NOT BE EFFLUENT SPEAKER?

Inspired Rubbish

(My first ever post - a mission statement.)

The past provides a rich source of fact, fiction, fun and fancy. I am composed of a unique mix of metaphors, myths and magic, and so are you.

Here, I will attempt to express the inexpressible, say the unsayable and repeat the unrepeatable.

The subject is immaterial, the object is all-important.

Let us get a few facts straight, in order to avoid crooked thinking.

Fact 1: I am Irish. Therefore, I put sound first, tone before content. The truth is true in tone and content. I have found that if something sounds good, or well, as my mother would have said, it makes sound sense. The truth reverberates, sound as a bell.

Fact 2: A fact is a lie and a half, as my father said. It is how the fact is interpreted that matters, and interpretation is in the eye of the beholder.

A taste of things to come, a rhyme written by me:

A Metaphor
I met a metaphor today
It said "I haven't much to say.
You see, I mean two things at once
And might be taken for a dunce."

I wish my writing to be such that its meaning is immediately apparent to the meanest intelligence, such as yours (Groucho Marx).

Genius is of the spirit (anyone can be a genius). Rubbish, crap, shite, call it what you will, are the base materials alchemy seeks to turn into gold. I make no apology for my language, now or in the future. I am made of shit and stars, and so is everyone else.

Await further developments.

David ****

Are You Averse To Poetry?

To Whom It Concerns (Slightly Prematurely)

Sabh
Is five
And glad to be alive.

Oisin, Oisin,
You never can be queen
But perhaps, and here's the thing
With a little effort you may, in fact, be king.

(Ogden Nash legalised the use of variable line lengths, poetic license knows no bounds).

Uncle Aesop