Sunday, May 1, 2011


I had a dream I was floating,
Over the hills and the flowers,
In my dream I was waiting,
For something in the early May showers.

I had a dream I was falling,
Through the earth and rain and snow,
In my dream I was calling,
For something I didn't yet know.

I had a dream it was shadows,
Where my heart should have been,
There were monsters and demons and bad things,
Taking over my body with sin.

I had a dream 'bout forever,
An enternity waiting for me,
In my dream I was trapped in forever,
The end I just couldn't see.

Then I had a dream about you,
About rich summer filled days,
About playing pirates with you in the lake,
Under hot mid summer day rays.

I had a dream I was laughing,
And you were by my side,
In my dream I was happy,
Cause I had nothing left to hide.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Have you ever touched the gold of the sun,
Or the blue of the moon?
Have you ever caught the grasses' green,
Or grasped the spots of the loon?
Can you sing to the red of the flowers,
Or smile to the white of the dove?
Have you ever laughed with the mountain tops,
Or watched a wolf fall in love?
How long has it been since you painted the sunset,
How long since you coloured the snow?
How long has it been since you stood still,
And let yourself fall into the rainbow?

Friday, April 22, 2011

I Could Have

I could have been outside today,
I could have played a game,
I could have eaten something new,
I could have found a lion to tame.

I could have bought a brand new book,
In fact I could have wrote it,
I could have built myself a boat,
And then learned how to float it.

I could have taken Spanish classes,
In that new school down the road,
I could have gone to the swamp,
And caught myself a toad.

I could have made a brand new friend,
I bet her name would have been Jane,
We could have bought new wellingtons,
And splashed out in the rain.

I could have learned how to ride,
A mighty black fast steed,
We could have had an adventure,
Running at a frightening speed.

I might have done my homework,
And maybe proof read it too,
My teacher wouldn't be mad at me,
If I'd had it done when it was due.

But, no I didn't do those things,
When I really should have done.
I sat in front of the telly today,
I watched the things I could have done.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


A cup of tea that's way too milky,
An egg that broke in the pot,
A piece of toast that's gone all soggy,
A sausage that's really lost the plot.

A bagel with a mouldy spot,
A orange that is mushy inside,
Cereal that's broke to bits,
Bacon with grizzle I can't hide.

Just another day i guess,
In a world that's just a mess.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Red Wine

In his burgundy hues do I sit,

And quietly contemplate,

The deepest thoughts in my shadowy mind,

Hidden in a dark unlabeled crate.

Under his swirling blood red,

I isolate my fears,

And they grow in the darkness of my mind,

Where there listen no other ears.

In his clutches I'll lose my head,

In his grip I'm naked, I'm not disguised,

He can see who I am, all my flaws,

A dangerous monster despised.

And no one will know what's happened,

'Cause I sit alone in my room,

Where the shadows await me in corners,

In the closets the elephants loom.

Only he can see me now,

Delicate, elegant, refined,

Only the blood red glass knows the secrets,

In which my ugliness is defined.

My Spring Poem

The time has come once again,

To forget the cold winter's bite,

The trees awaken from their silence,

To raise green buds to new sun's light.

Time to raise your song, you birds,

Till the seeds open bleary eyes,

And hear the sounds of babbling brooks,

Under pale blues in youthful skies.

The flowers stretch their stalks,

And the grass pokes through the earth,

The sparrow perches on a green spotted branch,

And the trees rejoice in their rebirth.

A lady bird flits through clean cool air,

And a doe pricks up her ears,

A mountain sighs in the sun new rays,

As the lake's fresh water clears.

Nothing compares to the first spring day,

When the sun shakes off its cold suit,

And the blankets have melted away from the earth,

Giving way to the first tulip shoot.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

What's wrong with loving Disney?

So it's been a while. I admit I may have forgotten about my blog for several...months. With the Junior Cert coming up and all the studying I feel I have to do to achieve an acceptable grade, there doesn't seem to be a lot of time in between to just sit down and write. So forgive my absence, but I do have exams. I've also rediscovered a great passion for drawing overly the last couple months. It seems to come in waves. First I'm totally obsessed about writing, can't take fingers off the keyboard, then suddenly I've got pencil to paper creating some character from the depths of my teenage muddled brain. The newest addition to my artistic endeavours include a kick ass crime fighting team. At first they were pretty bland characters with no really personalities. Then I brought them into school. I might mention my friends are creative geniuses. All I have to do is draw a blob on a scrap of paper and they'll turn that blob into a Einstein-esc professor with three children and a pony. Anyway, I brought my three characters into school and it was as if I was taking them to God for them to be turned into really people. "I'm a real boy!" as Pinocchio would say. As soon as I pulled them out of my folder, they had personalities as big as the Eiffel Tower and pasts as complicated as physics. This guy was full of himself, she was a mysterious character, he's "feckin gorgeous"! It's so wonderful, I think, to see teenagers at our age still creating, still imagining. Often it seems, people of our age lose interest in the creative side, lose the passion younger minds hold so dear. I bloody love it! This creative ability will defiantly help when I start working for Disney. How brilliant would that job be? To design the characters that everyone loves so much. To be that name at the end of a heartwarming animation. Some people say I'm too immature, I think I've just gotten over the whole being mature thing and decided it so isn't worth it. It's no fun when loving something so... beautiful is uncool. I don't know how other teenagers live with that kind of attitude. Who decided Winnie the Pooh is so uncool? Why can't I still grow up to be Cinderella? What's wrong with watching Beauty and the Beast instead of No Strings Attached or Black Swan?

Friday, February 11, 2011

Where Do You Put an Elephant?

Where do you put an elephant?
He doesn’t fit in the basement.
He won’t squeeze into the shed,
Mom wouldn’t like him in the bed.
An elephant wouldn’t stay in my bedroom,
And he’d look awful sad left in the cloakroom.
An animal like him wouldn’t find,
The confines of the sitting room awfully kind.
He’d stomp way too much to be left in the kitchen,
And crush my mom’s flowers if he’s left in the garden.
It seems I won’t get an elephant this year,
Maybe for Christmas I’ll get a reindeer.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


Counting down the days is the only thing that keeps me sane anymore. As long as they don't pull into one mush of emptiness in my mind, I can pretend some form of sanity still remains. Counting the second, the minutes, the hours. Counting the time till I have to wake again, pull myself out of the warm emptiness I find sollitude in and start the day. Thirty six days, five hours and forty three minutes. That's how long it's been since he died.
Someone once told me there was a heaven and a god that gave and took life. That person was a fool, their mind corrupted by the lies of preachers who behind closed doors comit sins of pure evil. If there was a single glorified being, a one of all knowledge and all power a god of "love", then why is there death? would an all powerful all loving God not love us enough to save us from this hollow feeling the fills my mind now? Would he not think me important enough to keep those I love, rather scattering his ashes to the earth by way of mockery for my sins?
Thirty six days, five hours and fifty eight minutes. I can hear Ben playing with his toy cars in the kitchen, the scrape of the toy wheels like that of fingernails on a wall. The day of the funeral, Ben asked me when we'd be waking him up. I didn't even have the courage to silence him. I simply turned my back on the dark procession and ran. I must have lost my shoes as I ran because I remember Nanny returning them to me later that week. I ran away from the coffin, away from the black hole threatening to engulf me. I know what they say about me now, the crazed widow, not fit to care for the child, mad. My feet were bleeding when I got to my front door. But I didn't notice till I saw the bloody footprints staining the tiled floors. They found me moping the floors with a mop soaked in blood, unable to erase his footprints. His footprints? Were they his? It must have been, for I dream in nightmares of the same bloody footprints when he approaches my bedside, pale white skin drained of life. I dream of his blue lips parting to release the hiss, like wind in a tree.
Ben is calling me. He's lost me. I've lost me. Where am I? Am I a ghost, forever sentenced to float this earth alone? They took him, why not Ben and Nanny? Why not take every living soul until all that is left is my empty heart, alone, broken, unfit for the afterlife?
After fifteen days, the motions became mechanical. I didn't have all our pain lies, is it not? Is it not in memories we cry, in thoughts that we find sorrow? Is it not our minda that capture every dagger of grief, letting it grow into the monster that over throws us? After fifteen days, I didn't let myself think anymore. I stopped crying at night, I stopped breaking down. I stopped knowing. I simply started counting.
Ben sounds scared now. His whimpers have become shouts, calling me, calling me. Call me by a name I barly remember to be my own. My son is calling me, so I must answer. He knows no pain, he lives no sorrow. My son is a pure flame not yet silenced by the world.
Thirty seven days, three hours and five minutes. They find me rocking my cold white son on the kitchen floor, clotted blood darkening the soles of his feet.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Theme Thursday- Gonna Go Mad

I think it's time to let go,

Who knows where I'll float,

Is it so bad not to have to worry though?

I think I'll flip out,

Just go nuts, go mad,

Who cares what they think of me,

Who cares what they've said.

Life's too short to live in a box,

Too long to stress all the time,

Too much fun to stay in bed,

Too crazy to stay this calm.

It's time for me to let go,

Cause no one else seems to understand,

Life's too short to live it by the rules,

Too awesome to live without friends.

Monday, January 17, 2011

My Friends

I'd like to take a second,

Just a moment of your time,

To tell you how I love you,

To do it in a rhyme.

I know it isn't much,

I know that I can't spell,

But you're my best friend in the world,

A friendship I'd never sell.

You make me smile when I am sad,

You cry when I feel down,

Doesn't matter if I'm mad,

You always stick around.

You always want to be with me,

You always save my seat,

You don't care if my hairs a state,

Or if my clothes aren't that neat.

You never leave me hanging,

When I'm looking for a five,

You help me see the beauty in,

Just now being alive.

You always want to be with me,

You always wait when I'm late,

You tried so hard not to laugh,

When I ripped my skirt on the gate.

Remember when you wrote that note,

We should have been doing french,

About the time we couldn't find,

A seat on a bench.

You sang that stupid song I wrote,

About the lunch box food,

You sang it pretty out of tune,

But really caught the mood.

Remember when I cried,

The day my heart was torn,

You said, "I'll beat that bastard,

Till he rues the day he was born."

Remember the face masks,

That turned our faces pink,

When we washed them off,

The multi-coloured sink.

I guess I'm trying to say,

What I mean in the end,

No matter where life takes us,

You'll always be my friend.

Sunday, January 16, 2011


Scrolled on a page in the darkest of blood,

Is the sweat of an artist, a staining ink flood,

Bent over a page, the quill tightly gripped,

Into his heart, the pointy end's dipped.

To an idiot passer, to an untrained mind,

Upon his page, only notes will they find,

But in that dusty room, upon that smugged page,

Is a cascade of happiness, sorrow and rage.

Beneath each sharp, behind every half note,

Lies the pain and the love which the artist wrote,

Though his eyes grow weary, he picks up his flute,

To the fading sun, gives the final salute.

And, oh, to hear the scribbles come alive,

What kind of sorrow this artist did contrive,

What joy filled the ink he left on the page,

No longer a broken, weary old man,

The artist flourished as the tune through him ran,

Through his flute flowed a beauty so bitterly sweet,

Through his fingers an anger filled with darkest heat.

How much farther must you look for a symbol or sign,

Than the black ink of the page, than the circle and line.

Monday, January 3, 2011


You're my diamond in the rough,
The kind of thing I can't get enough,
I'd rob a bank for more of you,
Cause I'm addicted to what you do,
You're my drug, you're my curse,
And I think my conditions getting worse,
A million needles can't give the kick,
Over those, it's you I'd pick,
You give me heaven, then send me right back to hell,
This rush is the merchandise you sell,
Diamonds are a girl's best friend,
But your touch will be my end,
Can't run from this, can't hide my lust,
Without you, I'm only living just,
An overdose of you can kill,
But if that's the price, I'll take my fill,
Don't look at me like your surprised,
You're the only one who can be critisised,
Diamonds may be forever,
But this kind of stuff is now or never.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Theme Thursday- Sailing

"Let's sail the seven seas and then,
Ride right back around again,
Let's up the masts and spread the sails,
Let's move this mass of rust and nails,
Take this beauty out of docks,
To our grand opening people come in flocks,
Crying women, waving men,
What will they think of us then,
Us loyal sailors set out to sea,
To see what the ocean makes of me,
We'll fight the ugly dragons that be here,
We'll take on pirates and oceans clear,
We'll man the storms that smack our decks,
We'll be the ship that never wrecks,
I'll be Captian, you'll be my first,
And together we'll face the sea at her worst."

"Your adventure sounds mighty fine,
Except your ships made out of twine,
The raft you float has a leak,
And I heard your 'mast' creak,
I doubt your string and bit of wood,
Would pass inspection like it should."

"I dont care what you say,
Im going out there anyway."

"Fine by me, off with you now,
Does this plank float anyhow?"

"Um... well, that's the missing link,
The boat does tend to sink."

Under the Tree

Once upon a time,
A young boy and his bear,
Worried not of time or day,
Their minds free of care.

Under the tree,
They played their games,
Sang summer songs,
Each day the same.

Till once upon a summer breeze,
The young boy didnt come,
Left his bear under the tree,
Lost his need to run.

There his bear will sit,
Under his childhood tree,
Until the boy comes home again,
And there his bear will be.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Once Upon a Shining Star

Once upon a shining star,
From lands that lie afar,
A woman cooed a lullaby,
The wind that night an angel's sigh.

In a barn, behind the inn,
Born to be the end of sin,
Cradled in a manger bed,
Lay down upon the hay his head.

A chorus sung his praise above,
Surrounded by the warmth and love,
Placed upon his shoulders now,
Where he slept by the horse and cow.

Just a babe, nothing more,
Barely propped up from the floor,
Just a babe, his little toes,
A tiny little button nose.

He doesn't even make a sound,
In a manger, where shepards found,
The baby boy sleeps away,
Not knowing there will come a day

The day that he will save man kind,
From the worst fate that you can find,
For now he lays with closed eyes,
A babe who never cries.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

To Eat or Not to Eat?

Am I too fat, am I too thin?
Look at the world we're living in,
Every day's another choice,
Everyone's an opinion to voice,
I can't eat another crumb,
Otherwise they'll laugh at my tum,
People watch thier reflection,
Is my stomach leaving in an outward direction?
What's in this food, does it fit on my salaries,
How much fat, what kind of carlories?
Everybody feels the stress,
Just to weigh a little less.
Diets, carbs, saturated or not,
Will this food have less if its hot?
If I walk in high heels,
Will that make up for extra meals?
If I stop eating cheese,
Then will the scales be pleased?
All in all, like God said,
"Shut up you fools and break the bread."

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Golden Cup

Once I was a golden cup,
How I stood upon the podium
Raising my arms in the air,
Smiling so big my mouth hurt.

When I was golden, I was the best,
Everybody wanted a peice of me,
Everybody wanted to hold my hand,
Wanted to be my friend.

I was so popular that people were awed by my presence,
I was so cool, so clean, so perfect,
When i was the golden cup,
People cared.

But Im not the golden cup anymore,
Now I sit dusty and cold, wrinkled and frail,
And all I've left are the mermories,

Of when I was the golden cup.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Water falls around my feet,

In, out, in, out,

Her depths curling tempting fingers around my toes,

In, out, Like the breath of a monster.

Her dangerous hum, a growl in the deep,

Her tail whips. lashing in frustration, in malice,

Her mood fills the air with clouds,

Her hiss ominous, crouching ready to pounce.

She is my temptress, angry,

Her hate catching my boat with her nails,

She pushes me, pulls at me,

Snaps at me.

She is my mistress...

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Magpie-The riddle of the sand

Said the Devil to the Lord,
"You know sometimes I do get bored"
Said the Lord to the Man,
"Do not fear, He knows what things I can."
The Devil laughed in reply,
"You still don't trust me, you think I'd lie?"
The Lord shook his head,
"I know what secrets you have said,
What deseptions you have set."
Said the Devil, "Let's make a bet,"
"I'll return each soul each man,
If beat me at chess you can."
Said the Lord, "I'll see your bet,
But it's my terms that we'll set."
"Fine by me," Devil grinned,
"You return those who've sinned,
If you win, you get this man."
"Those are terms I think I can,
Agree upon," Devil shook,
The game started, scores Man took.
The Lord started awful quick,
He had his pawns move quite slick,
But lies can always play thier part,
Cheating is the Devil's art,
As the Lord turned away,
Devil turned the play,
The Lord lost the game,
And like wise Man the same.
The Devil and the Lord still play,
Devil cheats, gains more each day.

And sand riddle trickles away.

Theme Thursday- Pandoras Box

What hides away under your lock,
What treasure does your velvet hide,
Behind the door, shut tight with mystery,
Under the desires of men's knowledge.

"All that glisters is not gold"
Shakespear told us long ago,
His words remain for us to keep,
But we learn not, still as beseached by the need,
To know, Oh to know, your secrets are longed for.

And as wise a man can tell you,
But for his heart can be snared by the curse,
To unwillingly breath for, live for, die for,
A secret that's not his to have.

What story does thou hold,
What weapon doest thou keep,
Hearts of men so quickly captured,
By the corner of your golden sanctuary.

Men are so easily turned from the truth,
In order to have the know,
Adam did turn from God for the lie,
Fed to him by a snake.

Men are so easily tamed,
Thier hearts so easily won,
But fear not, good holder of all that can,
For I myself am a woman.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Theme Thursday- The Reason

Dont ask me why,
Why I can't sleep without you by my side,
Why I can't eat breakfast when you're not around,
Why when I hear your voice, there is no other sound.
Why can't I breath when you say my name,
Why I let you win every single game,
Just for a second to see that glint in your eye,
This is the truth, ain't no lie.
Why when I see you come, I can't move an inch,
Why when you talk to me, my throat seems to pinch,
Why do I hate you because you're asleep,
Why do I call you names and I weep,
Why do I try so hard to walk away,
But I always come back the very next day,
Why do I run when there's no where to hide,
Why can't I be anywhere but by your side,
Why do I call you on the phone,
When I can't stand being all on my own,
Why can't I run from you, like the world from each season,
The only answer is, Because you are the Reason

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Magpie-Standing at the Window

There was once a princess by name,
Tania was the girl to claim,
Seek her hand, many men did,
All for her beauty and father's bid.

Her hair shone like the evening star,
Her songs heard from lands afar,
Her rosy lips to please the eye,
Her eyes would make a grown man cry.

But Tania's father was wise a man,
As wise as any man can,
He knew his daughter was so sought,
He knew the problems this beauty brought.

So one day he told his wife,
His daughter must not feel the strife,
He thought he might take her away,
To live alone from day to day.

Tania was taken to a garden,
Away from eyes of jew or christian,
Gave her toys to play with each day,
Brought her gifts for her to play.

But Tania was unsatisfied,
Often she looked to the hillside,
Where far off the village sat nestled,
Where butter churned and young boys wrestled.

Tania longed for a friend,
Someone to who she could depend,
She wished for a man to keep,
The feeling love from stories deep.

So one day, she slipped away,
Over the wall to where the village lay,
And as she walked the cobbled streets,
It was a man that she meets.

His name was Jack, a strapping lad,
Apprentice to his carpenter dad,
She bumped into him by the mill,
And with love did her heart fill.

Jack asked Tania to take him now,
They ran off with one horse and a cow,
Away from eyes and spies,
Under the blue of the skies.

But woe is Tania, word met thier ears,
That a brutal war nears,
And all the words she could say,
Would not keep Jack away.

Jack left her belly round with child,
To go fight in the war wild,
Tania stood at the pane,
As down came the rain.

Jack died, shot to the heart,
Covered in the war wounds art,
And Tania still stand waiting his return,
A day, a month she can't discern.

Tania stands and waits for him,
Her face now pale, her eyes now grim,
Her hairs turned white like the snow,
Her child left her long ago.

Tania stands and waits for Jack,
She still whispers "He'll be back..."

Monday, September 6, 2010

COT- You don't know about me...

You dont know about me, because you've never looked. Or maybe you have looked, but what you see is just too gruesome for your taste. In your world, it's easiest just to pass us by, walk resolutly ahead without even a backward glance. Its easier just to train your eyes to a spot just above my head, rather then look me in the eye. I'm invisible to you.
But we are here. We sit at every corner, sleep on most doorsteps, hang our heads upon every stair case in the city. You may have even seen my cup, filled with only two coins and a button. Not that its meansing seems to have registered with anyone, the expectations lost to straight walking zombies who rush by even little me for fear that poverty is infectious. That maybe my disease can be caught, the disease of cold, hungry, alone, dirty, sad. The idea of stopping to take a notice of me is like throwing yourself at TB patients. Its a risk no one would be willing to take.
Its not so easy finding a place to sleep, a shut eye by the garbage cans or a minute of peace in a doorway, only to be roused again and forced to move on. "Move on now," they say, like we have somewhere better to go, "Can't be hangin round here."
But there is nowhere else to go. And as I count my ribs with my fingers, so dieing for something to do, a motive to live, a reason to survive, you walk by. Maybe you dont see it when you look in the mirror, but you are full of life. There's something in your step that all my street friends lack. As i walk like a shadow through the alleys, you stand tall and strong, stride confidently down the street, unaware of the sickness and hunger around you, because you are perfect.
Now I sit next to the steamy window of a McDonalds store, those sweet aromas wafting through the door as it swings open and shut, I can't help but wonder what its like to feel full. To not know the ache in my sides and the dryness in my throat.
A young girl walks by, her hair tied in a blue ribbon, blonde locks falling down her back. Her eyes are deep brown under the layers and layers of protection her mother has wrapped her in, coats upon hats upon mittins. She stomps through the piles of snow, squealing with delight as white flakes catch in her hair.
She reaches the place where I sit. The girl stops, cocking her head to one side, like a little puppy. I've never felt so much like a person in my life. The girl can see me! She sees my hands and my feet, my hair and my face. She's looking right at me! And the girl smiles. She reaches forward and gives my knee a pat, as if to say, "Hang on in there," though she speaks no words. Turning away, she skips back to her mother's side, fitting her small mitted fingers between her mothers warm fingers. She turns back to me only once, and waves a small hand.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Magpie Tales- Vanity

Once upon a time ago,
A girl as fair as white is snow,
An evil witch too vane to see,
The life behind what beauty be.

Mother's curse on her child,
The girl was forced to run to the wild,
Saved by her friends untamed,
A hunter, his dark heart is shamed.

She finds new friends, seven men,
Happiness restored again,
Seven men fall in for her charm,
A beauty who can't do no harm.

But woe is her, vanity unsatisfied,
The grudge again is rectified,
An apple poisoned with her hate,
Turns up old lady at the gate.

One bite has fair one to the floor,
As evil mother runs for the door,
Cackles fall on no ears,
As the beauty's end nears.

But to every story has a turn,
And a kiss that her heart may yearn,
Prince Charming and his snow white steed,
Follow in true lovers lead.

One prince and a maiden ride the sun,
As the fairy tale is spun,
Forever after, thats the end,
A story now to tell a friend.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Magpie Tales- Hidden in the Forest

Hidden in the forest in a faraway place,
Where the Hare and the Tortoise never did race,
Where the trees grow close together with age,
There is a magic from a children's book page.

There's a fairy house by a big old oak tree,
And if you come close you're able to see,
In through the window covered with dust,
Past the old frame dried in with rust.

Inside there's a woman all wrapped up in cloaks,
Sitting next to a bright burning fire she stokes,
And if you bring two pennies and a fine looking snail,
There's a chance she might just tell you a special tale.

Long ago in an age of dragons,
When witches roamed the land with their red wooden wagons,
There once was a girl with the song of a bird,
A tune so heavenly 'twas a thing must be heard.

Her name was Sun, like the star of the day,
She lived in a woods far far away,
She lived with her mother, father and dog,
One hen, one horse and an odd looking frog.

The villagers loved Sun and her voice,
Every time she would sing, the land would rejoice,
And the sparrows would fly close to the ground,
Just to hear this unearthly sound.

But one day while out playing with her horse and pail,
Singing her song to each worm and each snail,
Sun was caught by a frightful beast,
And taken away for his afternoon feast.

He was twice as tall as a normal man,
And could lift twice as much as a normal man can,
He'd sharp razor teeth for cutting through skin,
And his breathe wreaked of blood and sin.

He sat little Sun up on his table,
Tied her up with a cord and cable,
Then he asked the girl, "Now what have I found,
The little girl with that heavenly sound?"

Little Sun could only cry and nod,
But the beast didn't seem to find that very odd,
He simply said, "Now listen here,
I'll let you go if you can please my ear."

Sun thought for a moment, then opened her lips,
And let out a note that made the beast sway his hips,
But he shook his head, "That won't do at all,
That single note is far too small."

So Sun sang another, and another again,
She sang a song that rang out times ten,
But the beast was unsatisfied with her song,
He shook his head, he must have got the girl wrong.

But Sun raised her voice till her lungs almost popped,
She sang so loud that the bird's had stopped,
She sang so high that she brought a tornado,
She sang so hard she blew up a volcano.

The beast cried out, ears covered with his paws,
"Please left it stop," lashes out with his claws,
But with a little pop, the beast disappeared,
And the havoc created by her song cleared.

Sun was saved by her family and friends,
And lived happily to the end of the ends,
Where the beast, well nobody knows,
Some say they can hear his scream when the wind blows.

And then that little old lady will sigh,
As you try to work out whats fact and whats lie,
She'll hum a tune that's familiar but new,
And she'll smile a knowing smile as she looks back at you.


Love him? Do I love him? How can he stand there infront of me, look me in the eye, and even feel a shadow of a doubt. Can he not hear my heart pound a million times a minute, hammering its longing against my ribs so hard it hurts to touch my chest? Can he not see my blood rise in my face when he smiles at me, the way my cheeks flush like a new born rose? Surely my facade is not strong enough to hide the feelings that must glimmer behind, the longing that fills me, hurts me, rips at me when i watch him walk away.
How can he ask that, staring with those grey eyes that waver like the sea on the shore before a storm? How can he not understand the goosebumps that run up my arm at the fiery touch of his fingertips?
Listen! Listen to how my heart begs for you deep inside me! You foolish boy, so innocent to what you do not understand, listen to how my body pleads for your touch, for the smell of your skin, for the glance of your eye upon mine. As I cry for you in my sleep, long for you in my wake, hum to the sound of your beating heart when all other sound has faded away, how can you doubt me?
And yet look at you, so broken, so cold. How can you believe for one second I would hurt you like this? How can you bare to think that I, a fool to your words, would dare to stab you in such a way? You can't even see that plea of my eyes for your belief in me, so dead are you in my presence now. And how much I would give for you to see that I can't live without you. That I couldn't break you like this.
I couldn't hurt you, my love. I couldn't. Not even with the anger in your face, the hatred flaring across your perfect lips, I could not burn you. Not if you broke me the way that I have broken you, never could I turn my fist to your cheek.
If that is not love, then I know only hate. For if love is the greatest pain, then it is because we don't know the pain of hate.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Soccer vs. Girls

As deminstrated by my newest poem, Penalty Kick, I have a new found love of soccer.Some may look at that, mostly men, and think "Finally a girl who knows her priorities." But i must admit, this new found love affair has come from hours and hours of having to sit through my brother's favorite game. He supports the rather poor Portsmouth in the Champions League. Well, they were in the champions league. I'm pretty sure they were religated from that this year though.
Anyway, after watching all this, picking up on the rules and everything, along came the World Cup 2010. And I fell for it. I swear to God, I knew who was playing everyday and at what time. I knew atleast one player on every team. I knew that Messi played for Argentina, Kevin Prince Boewtange played for Ghana, Kaka played for Brazil (insidentily, did you know Kaka isn't even his real name?)
For the last two weeks of football, I was on holidays in Italy (who failed to even get out of the group stages of the World Cup). Almost every day we were listening/watching the games, cheering on Usa, then Argentina, then Brazil, and finally Holland before Spain took its trophey. For the finals, we were in the process of returning to Ireland, sitting on a bus, our phones out, checking every half a minute to see if anyone had scored.
I really got into the whole thing. We girls are famed for hating the sport, hating the constant flow of games on TV that our husbands/brothers/sons have to watch. But as for me, I'm loving it. I'd like nothing more then an Argentina jersey with Messi written on the back for my birthday. Or maybe an irish rugby jersy. Hmmmmmm.... I'll have to think on that one.

Penalty kick

You're the final man,
The last one who can,
With the ball right at your feet.

The pressure is on,
You try to stay strong,
As millions of eyes watch you sigh.

One step, two step, three step back,
Don't think of the talent that you lack,
Just the goals gaping mouth ahead.

The goalie glares out,
There's not a chant or a shout,
As you take your final breath.

Now your running, forward
forward, toward,
the innocent ball in the grass.

Swing your leg back and scream,
For country, for team,
And let your warrior cry be heard.

And its flying away,
Could today be the day?
There's sweat streaks down your back.

A perfect spin,
So good its a sin,
And you just can't watch anymore.

There's a swish and a roar,
And you know its a score,
As the crowd gets to its feet.

They're running to you,
In thier faces its true.

You've won.
We love you Lionel Messi!!!

Friday, August 6, 2010

Magpie- Wateringcan

Alone on the bench,
Too long have you sat,
Evaporating away.
Rust eats your sides,
Iron oxide your coat,
Notice your friends,
Grown in by your children,
Clothed with your plants,
Around you they blossom,
Now you watch them grow.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Three Word Wednesday- Drink, Feeble, Predict

The lights in the bar flickered over my head, flashing and whirring like fire flies who've lost thier spark. It wasn't much of a bar, a couple feeble looking stools here, an empty beer bottle smashed on the floor over there. The place stank of depression, even the drunks hanging thier heads low over the tables were less boisterious then usual, prefering to hug thier pints close to thier chests tonight rather then swing heavy blows at eachothers' noses.
The barmaid approached me, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and lipstick smeared across her thin pouty lips. She looked like she'd been here since six a.m this morning serving the same bumbs along the counter. I could see something dieing in her eyes even as she picked up my glass to refill it.
I knew her story back to front. It wasn't hard to predict her type, sad as thier story was. She must have been about seventeen, her parents divorced, or a runaway father, leaving her and atleast one sibling to nurse thier raging alcholic mother by themselves. She'd never had a proper education, not with having to come home halfway through each day to rescue her mother from the clutches of the drug dealers. Her brother or sister was still young, maybe ten or eleven, looking on her to keep them safe, to guide them. So young, and still she had the resposibilities her mother had dumped on her.
She spent day after day in the bar, serving horrible old men who geered at her, and returned every night to her mother's pills, whiskey and cursing. Every night she would hear that she was nothing, a slut and a bitch, worth less then the sad dog they barely kept alive on the scraps of food they could offer it.
She looked up from pouring the drink, her eyes meeting mine. I must not have looked like much either, lanky brown hair and grey eyes. But in that moment, I felt I had to protect her. In her eyes, I saw her plea with me, whisper something lower then words. She was asking for me to save her. Me, like I was any better off then her. Like I could be a hero.
I lowered my eyes. Shuffling to my feet, slamming down a fiver on the counter. I made towards the door, forgetting my drink that she was pouring out for me.
I turned one last time as i reached the peeling red painted exit. She was still watching me, but the lightbulb in the socket above her had gone out.

Carry on Tuesday- The Road

Does this road wind uphill all the way,
To the gates at the end of the line?
Does this path have a tunnel for me to follow,
To the clouds where tonight I will dine?
Does this track lead to the final bright light,
Will it take me to Himself , I implore?
Does this road wind uphill all the way,
And if so, is there a backdoor?


The words that we speak dont have to be true,
Each rhyme that we sing doesn't have to be new,
It doesn't take knowledge to make us rejoice,
It's the lies that we tell in a sure enough voice.

To say that it's fine, we'll all be okay,
Those are the things that give hope its ray,
To pretend for a while that things can be turned,
Its not lies that they've taught us, but lies that we've learned.

Is it so bad for once in a while,
Turn your back to the darkness and put on a smile,
Do we have to know everything that we see,
Or can I live my life just knowing I'm me.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


We are burning, burning,
Watch the flames lick the walls,
Feel the heat under your palms.
Darling, fall, come away from the window,
Fly with me, two ghosts flying over the grass,
We will not give him his final death kiss,
No, he dosen't even deserve that.
Darling, let us move away from his fists,
Away from his whiskey and beer,
Away from his ciggerette.
Darling, take my hand,
Let him burn with the house,
Let him crackle with the falling timber,
And noone will call us crazy,
We are not mad any more.
For now we are Angels,
May your bruises fade,
That your mind be at ease.
Who could blame your tormented mind,
For the fire in you heart burned him out,
Like his fists hit your cheek,
So your fire has broken his back.
if you enjoyed this poem, check out my others, posted on my blog. I love to get comments, they make my day, so go for it!


We are the secrets behind your lies,
The crimes that you try to hide in your eyes,
A sin in your mind, your criminal thought,
A sickness of darkness your head had caught.

We are the faces under your skin,
We laugh when you fall, scratch you deep within,
Paranoia is a disease of your mind,
An itch which straining fingers can't find.

We are the rebel, the killer, the sinner,
Upon your concience my bitter will linger,
We are the darkness inside you, under scar,
We are the part of you heart made of tar.

I am you.


I am the worm who's under the ground,
I am the rusted down penny you found.
I am the earth and the bark of the tree,
I am the wing of the eagle you see.

I am the wood of the chair where you sit,
I am the table upon which your candle is lit.
I am the fur of your beloved dog,
I am the eye of the slippery frog.

I am the stone where the sea meets the sand,
I am the whistle you hold in your hand.
I am the scab over your knee,
I am the door to your lock and key.

I'm a secret mix of the colours you know,
And yet you still leave me out of your rainbow.

if you enjoyed this poem, please check out my other pieces posted on my blog. Comments make my day, so go nuts!

Tuesday, August 3, 2010


I am warm,
Wrapped in the shell of my own thoughts,
Spinning and weaving, colours and shades,
Windows and doors, broken and sealed.
I am home,
Tucked under my own mind,
This is my own fortress, my own stands,
This is my freedom and my prison.
I am close,
I feel the light and the shadows,
The moon and the half-light,
I can feel the rain on my window pane.
I must break free,
Its too tight, too close, too near,
I am stuck, wriggling, writhing,
I must get away.
I am through,
And i can feel the sun and the stars and the open sky.
I am free.

A Lock

A lock, rusted with time,
Who knows lies behind it what crime,
What dark hidden secret behind its shut eyes,
Behind its red teeth, what truths that it lies.

What treasures are locked fast behind its wood,
What could one have, what riches they would,
What jewels, what wealth, what knowledge left unknown,
What shadowy deeds behind it are sown.

With its black forever eye sinking into its head,
With the orange red socket for bed,
The call of unknown to the ones wished with greed,
The doubt that its mystery does seed.

If only I had its key,
Then what wonders or curses would I see?

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

A reflection

A candle stood by the window. Its flickering light left an eerie glow on the pane, the wax dripping slowly down the stick. A small pool of molten wax was left curlding at the bottom of the holder, cooling and hardening.
A book lay open on the desk. it was unremarkable, turned to a page of words after words, a sprawl of handwritten symbols, spinning spidery webs across the page. its red leather cover was woren, stains and slashes marking it. A burn in the left corner spread unevenly, black, like a disease.
Next to the desk, his hand white and gaunt, the veins popping out of the wisend skin, a man gripped the desk. He hunched his shoulders against a chill that floated in the room. He wore a long black robe, trailing along the wooden floor, crumpled in the corners like he'd worn it for years without taking it off. Long black, greasy hair fell down over his face. The heel of his black boots tapped as a twich against the floor, an incesent thump, thump, thump. Like the beat of a heart.
He stood as still as a stone aside from his tapping foot, silent in his fix. Dark scarlet droplets oozed down his arms, pooling between the fingers of the hand that gripped the desk. under his long claw like nails, dark stains were clearly visible.
The man lifted his head to the mirror that stood infront of him, slowly raising two white dead eyes. In the reflection, the candle fluttered in a breeze. The desk stood alone but for a pool of blood slowly growing across the surface.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Deliverance Song

I sat in the corner of the smoke ridden bar,
The smell of bitter whiskey filling my lung,
The stink of old men smothering the wood,
And the alcohol thick on my tongue.

Then the music started, the sweetness of the drums,
And the strum of the guitar string,
The waver of a voice on the old microphone,
Round the grey darkened room it did ring.

In kicked the bass, the sweet thump of its heart,
To the plucking of violin strings,
And the throb of the bass drum filling my body,
With it the movement it brings.

As the tap of my foot kept the rhythm in time,
And my head bobbed without thought,
The bruises began to fade away,
And away with the pain that it brought.

The music swept me off my feet,
Curling warm colours through my hair,
When i hear the ring of the chorus note,
With the delivering beat of the snare.

Were you to look upon the girl I become,
When Old Billy picks up his guitar,
You wouldn’t think of the broken slut,
That sits alone in the corner of the bar.

Mountain Road

Mountain Road,
a threadless way,
and if i dare to stop,
and watch,
the cloud that haunts the mountain top,
and if i dare to look upon,
below the wander of snaking rivers,
the haze thats settled on the trees,
covered in the dew of morning,
mist of spirits kiss softly 'gainst my bare cheek,
in my ear i hear them speak,
but alas the moment passes,
like a whisper through the grasses,
and i find myself alone,
alone on a Mountain road.

My Teacher Killed Shakespear...

Okay, obviousely not literally, we all know shakespear died about four hundred years ago, and since his death, we have all come to know and love his works of art. Each year, second year students learn collectivly one shakespearian play for thier junior cert course, and this year, my year, we have been assigned the play "Merchant of Venice".
Now this is not the first time I have read/watched/audienced this play. I've seen it on stage and watched the movie starring Al Pacino as Shylock and Jeremy Irons as Antonio. My mother is an qualified english teacher and explained the whole story while we watched it, helping me to understand the meaning of shakespearian language and see through the complicated verds and adjectives to the true meaning being expressed. I liked this play, once upon a time.
Then my teacher started teaching it to us. Now, you must understand, this is our full time teacher, not any H-Dip or anything. This is our fully qualified teacher.
She started out asking if anyone knew the play already. Obviously my hand shot up, and i may have explained the whole thing in the space of five minutes.
She spent three full classes explaining to us how jewish people in those times ended up lending money. THREE CLASSES! and it wasn't even new stuff each class, it was the same stuff again and again and again! how the jewish people starting pawning merchendise, jacking up prices and so on. she explained how they were the only ones who could lend money by usury. Over and over.
by week three, we had gotten to page two in the play and those who hadn't really been pushed about the play now hated it.
And that's not all. after we got to about page ten and were pretty much half way through the year, she had us write down our first impressions of the characters. we had learned of bassanio's wish to borrow from antonio and go to belmont in search of portia's hand in marriage.
i wrote that bassanio was a lazy, disorganised fool who couldn't keep track of money and was only intrested in porchia because of her money. My teacher shot this down, saying that we had found out from portia that she and bassanio were flirting with eachother. But as i seem to recall, it was only portia who ever seemed to truely fall in love, and we girls so easily fall in and out of that, i hardly think it means bassanio loves her. But my teacher didn't want to hear it. Bassanio loved Portia and that was final. Forcing thier opinions on us is NOT a way to teach. We're suppose to form our own opinions, are we not.
Sometimes i wonder if teachers really want us to learn, to be able to answer questions from our own minds, or if they simply want us to have one idea so that they only have to find how that idea is worded in order to correct the work. Its like thier too lazy to try and think about something deeper then the surface, like they couldn't be bothered to try and understand our point of view. Shakespear would be ashamed.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Nothing can Kill a Stray...

I went out to ride my horsey, Thunder, today. I've owned him for a year and he's a black connemara gelding, aged 14. i love him with a passion. but today, he came trotting right up to me. i went into his feild, and about six months ago iot would have taken me ten mintues just to catch him, but he stopped eating immediatly and ambled up to me. Admitedly, he had gone ahead and lost his halter somewhere in that feild, But I'd prefer to not dwell on that loss.
And it made me think about your relationship with animals. domestic ones i mean. They've become so attached to us, so loyal and loving, i wonder if they would cope if thier humans were whiped off the face of the earth. would they become instinct orientated once more, every dog for himself kinda deal, or would they die out too.
We've modified so many animals to fit our own likeings, changed thier posture, thier ears, thier tails, thier size, and we've taken it to the point where they are actually in physical pain to be the way we want them to look. I've heard of pugs that were bred to have such a squashed face that they couldn't breathe properly and german shepards who's backs have become so sloped they can't even walk right any more.
The only animals i could see surviving a human extiction would be the street dogs, the strays, the outcasts. I own a terrier mut we call Oscar who was resuced from a pound. Well, actually my aunt rescued him, then went ahead and had three children, gave him to my grandma to keep from harming the children, then when my irishwolfhound, Butler, died, we took him to help fill the hole. But anyway, he's one of the smartest, most cunning dogs i've ever met. I have no doubt that in a nuclear explosion, the cocroaches and Oscar would survive.
He's pure genius, he is. He settled himself into the life of a domestic dog from living basically ferral at my grandmothers house like a snap. he took one look at us and thought, "Yep, i can walk all over these guys."
we tried to ban him from sitting on the couch, but sometimes he sneaks on. and when that isn't enough for him, he snuggles into any space between you and the sofa cusion and as the night progresses, he will slowly dislodge you from your chair and sit his big but down in the warm spot where you were sitting.
He also manages to kick our 10 month old Irish wolfhound bitch, Duffy, out of her shed when its raining so she has to sit on the soaking ground for hours. She's not the brightest bulb, i must admit, but Oscar is an evil master mind. he steals duffy's toys and tears them to little peices so no one can play with them, then leaves the pieces lying around the floor in the hope that she'll try and eat one and choke.
There's also a time at night when Oscar insists that he be snuggled. we like to call this "Huggle Time". basically he sits right next to you, leans on you, and expects you to hug him till its time for bed. he doesn't return the affection, at least not in any visible way, but he seems to think he diserves the love anyway.
i don't think anything could kill oscar. He's got the stray set of mind, taking advatnage of any opertunity.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Maybe you don’t see it when I push you down,
Maybe it’s invisible to your eyes,
Maybe when I laugh at your tears,
Maybe you can’t see behind my lies.

I know that I’ve hurt you,
I know you’re in pain,
And I know you can’t see round
The smile that I feign.

Every time that I break you,
Every time you fall cause of me,
I see my own pain reflected,
And her bottle of whiskey.

Maybe you never noticed,
When i walk home at night,
The bruises and cuts,
From the previous fight.

The smell of the alcohol ,
Fresh on her breath,
The swing of a fist,
Curses wishing my death.

I hate her, i hated her,
Now she lies in her grave,
I never had time to,
Return what she gave.

Now you chain me up,
Lock my door with a click,
Hate me forever,
Think I’m so sick.

This anger i feel,
It’s not my own,
It’s what she’s never given,
Is the love I’ve never known.

Pull the Trigger

In my experience, those who beg for mercy rarely deserve it. It’s criminal, the way human emotions are so easily swayed by the merest glimmer of a tear in an eye, or a dry sob of fear. Anger can so easily be turned to pity, hatred so quickly turned to fear. And all because there is that part of us that is so innocent. So wanting the world to be a perfect place. And yet some people don’t see the fear.
As I stood above him, my gun trained on his forehead, the cold weight of the trigger so reassuring in my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes. Those horrible little squinty eyes and crooked nose that fell slightly to one side of his ugly wrinkled face. I hated that face. I hated the way he breathed so raggedly, the way he licked his dry lips and the way the muscle under his left eye twitched out of control.
His eyes quivered, the black pupils dilating in fear. He shuddered under the point of my gun like a little girl, in no way a man. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his wrinkled, sun marked skin.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, barely able to create the words, “Please.”
I drank in his fear. It was beautiful, his horror and distress. I loved it. Was this how he had felt when he had turned his gun on her? Did he feel this great rush in his body when he had pulled the trigger of the gun? When she had hit the ground, had he felt satisfaction?
I shook myself mentally. The street around us was dark, the glow of distant headlights too far away for him to run. I knew that, and he knew that.
I shrug my coat closer to me, the rain dampening my clothes and drenching my hair. I know I’m stalling for time, know that he can see it too.
“You don’t remember me do you?” I say, trying to distract him from my own reluctance.
He squints at me from under his mane of grizzled dark hair. I can almost see the cogs turning in his head, working hard to place my face.
I hadn’t expected him to remember. It had been almost a year now, and we’d only seen each other for a fleeting glance. I imagine he’d not thought of me for more than a moment as he had run from the train station, fleeing from the oncoming police. I remember the cold of the cement floor when my knees had hit it. I remember the blood staining my jeans as i reached for her limp head, covered in her own blood, already drying. Her new dress was ruined with the red tide that spread across the floor.
Ben had been crying. I remember not being able to lift my hands enough to take him from her lifeless arms. He continued to cry, confused by the sudden absence of warmth from her body.
“You didn’t even have to kill her,” rain poured down my face and into my eyes, running down my cheeks, “She didn’t have to die.”
I could see the sudden realisation rising in his face. He would remember now, the day he’d run through the station in that black leather jacket and wool cap, the gun hidden under his arm.
“It was an accident,” he stuttered, rising a little from the seated position he had taken on his heels, “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“It was her birthday,” I whispered, the memory of the golden locket I had saved up for, put aside money every payday till her birthday.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” he scooted forward, arms still raised in surrender, holding his head to the side of the gun.
I turned the gun back on him, holding him at bay. But my hand was shaking with rage.
“You didn’t see the baby, did you? My son. What’s he suppose to do without his mother? Did you think of that?” I screamed, my anger getting the better of me.
He fell back again. I could see my own face, contorted with rage, in his large fearful eyes. I looked older, darker then I had a year ago. Now my cheeks looked gaunt and pale, my eyes haunted with a wisdom that I could have done without. It had been so long since I had looked in a mirror, I didn’t recognise myself.
“You will pay,” I narrowed my eyes, composing myself once more.
“Look, man, don’t...,” he stuttered, trying desperately to find a way to talk himself out of the situation.
“You have to pay,” I repeated myself, taking another step forward.
I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my heart, making it pound loudly in my chest. I had been waiting so long for this moment. I’d hardened myself, planned for so long, searched far and wide and now I had him, under the point of my own gun, begging me for mercy. The same mercy he’d denied her so many years ago.
I took a deep breath, my hand tightening on the handle of the gun. This was it, the moment i had been waiting for, breathing for, living for for the past year. This was it.
Suddenly headlights shone in my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in the darkness, blinding me and throwing his shadow across the ground.
“Drop the gun,” a magnified voice boomed around me.

“I sentence you to eight years for attempted murder,” the bang of the gavel rang through my head.
My eyes fell to the ground. The chains around my wrists were cold and hard.
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the stench of his sweat stinging my nose.
“Someone has to pay,” he whispered, before turning and heading toward the door.

Am i getting old?

I've been doing a camp this week with Whizzkids in NUIG. The camp starts at the age of ten and it goes up the fifteen. So i am the oldest. At first i thought, damn it, this is going to be like really awkward. but since its started, i've felt like i've actually gotten younger. i really wish i was that age again, even though i spent those precious years wishing i was fifteen.
Youth maybe wasted on the young, but age is wasted on the old. i spent time after time wishing i was fifteen, thinking how great it would be to date guys, get my first kiss, go to discos and what not. But now i'm on the otherside of the curtian, how much i wish i could go back to not caring about these things, to believe that they would all be so wonderful, when to be honest, not that great. Teens involve a lot of drama, and i can tell you, fifteen ain't no walk in the park. There's hormons and rejections, rejecting suitors and loosing friends you thought you'd never loose.
And i watch these eleven year olds running around, playing rounders or soccer, not caring who's a guy and who's a girl, and i gotta tell ya, seems like more fun to me then the drama of the teenage years. And I'm only half way through it. It only gets worse from here. More responsibility, more drama, more heart breaks. what did i ever see in being a teen?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Bird's Song

There's a tear in the sky where the clouds huddle near,
There's a drop from a now broken atmosphere,
There's weeping from the choking poisoned birds,
Unable to utter a pleeful word,
And for the creatures who can't look up anymore,
For the ones who've shut themselves behind doors,
They've forgotten the bird's that flap on broken wings,
The bird's who've lost the voice that sings,
They've forgotten the world that still spins round and round,
They've forgotten the beauty that once could be found,
now the hills falter to the shovels of trucks,
and the ponds have sucked out from under the ducks,
The birds will wait till we see once again,
But can they survive till then?

Top Ten Things I Miss About America (Not including my awsome friends)

1. I miss the feilds and feilds of golden grain that haven't been rained on recently, that smell dried and crisp, ready to be harvested.

2. i miss basements. don't really know why, but i do miss them, that cool feeling of being under ground.

3. I miss Walmart. No, i never liked it, but it was always a land mark i could rely on. "Where do you live?" "Oh, you know where Walmart is..."

4. I miss yellow school busses. They were so obviously school busses, no need to put up strange numbers in windows or crazy symbols, they were all school busses, no weirdos, no public transport.

5. I miss the blue sky. I've said it many times before, but I'll say it again, blue sky is rare in Ireland, and it wouldn't hurt to get it once in a while.

6. I miss my keyboard telling me the right letters and symbols. since we started using irish websites, the @ and " signs switched places on our keyboard and now I've got to think before i writer any dialogue.

7. I miss the smell of hay. I ride horses, and never before i moved to Ireland had i heard of silage, and yet, since hay can no longer be kept dry, i stink of silage. My horse stinks of silage. Where's my lovely golden hay??????

8. I miss the ise skating rinks. i mean real ice skating rinks, not the tiny little kiddy ones they put up at christmas time, i'm talking real hokey rinks that you can skate around forever and ever.

9. I miss outdoor swimming pools. its kinda hard to swim in the rain, and the sea just keeps getting colder and colder. i miss being able to lie in the sun next to tons of screaming kids all splashing about.

10. I miss the american twang sometimes. not all the time, and in Italy on one train, i certianly did not enjoy listening to two american college boys waffling on about thier jewish girl friend. but sometimes i do miss it, i iss the sound of my american friend's voices.

Pickle Jar

To me, politics seems like a big long line of people all trying to open a pickle jar. The first guy tries opening it, but he can't do it. he hands it to the next guy in line, and the next guy's all like, "You're such a fool," until he realises he can't open it either. so the next guy tries, and he's sneaky about it. he tries using a knife, or hitting of a table edge. But that doesn't work either. The next guy in line seems like he's almost got it open, and just when your tummy's rumbling with the idea of a pickle, he takes his hand away and there's a giant blister on his palm. He's no good either. The next guy secretly manages to open the jar, and steals a pickle while no one's looking, then reseals the lid and it's all hush hush. Then all the guys in line start arguing about the best way to open the jar, shouting at one another, and basically forgetting about the jars actual presence all together. And all we can do is watch these men fighting over the pickle jar, hoping against hope that one of these ejiits in line can open the blessed thing cause by now we've finished our hamburger, chips and are moving on to the jello.
Its all just a bit useless, isn't it?

Irish or English

Ireland is the only place I've ever been that had so many accents in such a tiny amount of room. Even if you could understand Galway dialect, that's no garuntee you'll understand Cork. And to be honest, you probably won't understand either anyway. I've got grandparents in Cork and i still don't understand them, even after so many years. It's like you have to learn a whole other language to live in Ireland between the "Gowanyabuya!" at the GAA matches, to learning the volcbulary "savage," and "legend". I could not believe my ears.
Not saying that i haven't adjusted, I think I've done quite well, picked up a few phrases or two of my own, but I can't imagine the transfer students coming to learn english here. They've learned every correct use of the grammer, every proper punctuation, every adjective in its own context, and they're suddenly thrown into a shower of, "That's so legd," and "Feckin Hell,". I can't even start to imagine how complicated it must seem to them. It's like Ireland has taken english and made it have a whole new meaning, and it's not even like it's the language Irish (cause no one seems to speak it as far as i can see accpeting when my friends are forced to learn verbs and the appliances in the kitchen).
"What are ya on about?" that's another one that I've taken to. "What's the Craiq?" often used as well. Someone should write a guide to the Irish English language.

Where are all the Italians?

So i went to Italy about a week ago for vacation. It was so gorgous there. we stayed in a smaller town called Lucca, one of the old forts with huge red brick walls surrounding it and the only way in or out is through the large arch gates. The buildings rose so high above us down every little pedestrianised street that sometimes you couldn't even see the sun over the rooves of the houses. I, being also an artist, got some amazing pictures done of the yellow washed buildings and that rusty orange coloured churches. It was so beauiful. The only problem was the open sewage line that ran around the outside of the walls. Really quite a revolting smell.
And as i was soaking in all this beauty, i suddenly realised, wait a second, I'm walking around looking at all the acient italian buildings that have stood hundreds of years, I'm being wowed by St. Mark's Square of Seina, The Baptistery, the Leaning Tower of Pesia, and i haven't seen a single italian resident. i mean, I've seen tourists from Germany, Spanish teens gawking at old statues, but I don't have a clue what Italy today is even really like. I sure as hell know what was going on like a hundred years ago, but who knows what a really italian looks like anymore? i know what german tourists look like, but where are the hot italian men? sometimes i wondered what Italy looks like from someone who actually lives here, cause obviously they're not trapsing across Venice, so where exactly have they gone?
Then i realised, hang on, if i'm over here looking at thier cathedrals, then they're over in Ireland watching us too. And its true. when i came back the population of Galway had changed from pale white, socks and sandals irishmen, to tan skinned, forgien teenagers, jabbering away in languages we can't quite understand. Every summer, both countries empty of thier own citizens and fill with those of others.