Proinnsias

Proinnsias

Wednesday, 28 June 2017

The Lonesome Scot

Ne'er they laired me hou tae kiss,
And ne'er they laired me hou tae coort.
Nae I gainder in the mist
Unkennins as tae hou tae do it.

They laired me hou tae spell and coont,
And all the kintras in the warld.
But it ails me that I leared not hou
Tae woo a lass with golden curls.

I see the wey they keek at me,
The lasses blithe and canny:
Whate'er it is a man should hae,
They deem I hae not anny.

And it's becase the lame-legged wey
I habble to approach them,
And hou I ganch and stammer then
To try to get words spoken.

What guid to me are all the beuks,
And all the problems solven,
While I gang forth all on my ain,
A lonely furrow ploddin'?

Thursday, 22 June 2017

Swinging in the Choir

One of the additional eleven poems added to the new edition of Outrageous Poems published today:



Swinging in the choir

(A fictional choir of course)

The swinging began
When the choir went on tour,
Each Soprano and Alto
Already a whore
When we sang for the Pope
In Rome.

Father McCarthy
Was at it a lot.
We found he was both
A sod and a sot.
With no altar-boys,
Every Tenor he tried.
With respect for the cloth
Each one complied
And welcomed him into
The fold.  

As we headed for home
We swore to stay mum,
But never forsake
What we had begun.

Choir swings every week
On each Thursday night
Leaving our spouses
At home.

Avoiding attachment,
It’s best, so we found,
To constantly pass
The partners around.
We hope to continue,
For swinging is fun,
For ever and ever,
Amen.

Friday, 3 February 2017

Once I had a pen-knife




Once I had a  pen-knife
That could pare a stick so sharp
I could fling it at a lion
And penetrate his heart.

Once I had a pen-knife
That could shape a spear so fine
I could bring down an eagle
Or fight a crocodile.

Now I have a pen-knife,
But the stakes I mould
Perform no useful purpose
But pretty flowers to uphold.

Masterpiece

What a masterpiece
Nature paints,
As sun sets
On tranquil lake.

An artist quite
Indifferent to who
His present master-
Piece will view,

A timeless view
Known equally
To megalithic
Man and me.

Yet once off!
Next day's event
Will differ to
A great extent.

Saturday, 17 December 2016

Someone Else's Poem

Originally posted 7 September 2012


Sometimes, I feel that I have written
Someone else’s poem.
No wonder, then, one morning brought
Loud knocking on my door.

There stood a man with flashing eyes
And fluffy hair uncombed.
Are you Krunchie? Yes, I am.
You’re the man that stole my poem!

Sorry, I didn’t mean to.
I thought it was my own.
Well, I serve you with this summons.
And I’ll see you in court.

The judge was a stern-faced man
With a grim expression.
He asked me if I did it.
Seems he wanted a confession.

I answered, how can I tell,
Since I have not seen the poem
I am supposed to have copied?
I only know my own.

He told me my impertinence
Was a contempt of court;
And that I must go to jail,
Or moderate my tone.

But they provided me a copy
And I scanned it seam to seam.
When I could not read a word,
I knew this was a dream.

I made a guess and ventured this:
It’s different to mine.
The judge asked, how’s it different,
In content and design?

My poem, couched in simple words,
Has intellectual depth;
This is a pretentious poem
Of mawkish sentiment.

Says the judge, now a lady with
An Imperious frown,
This poem is sweet sincerity,
Yours has a mocking tone.

Yes, yes, I said; you can’t deny
How different mine is!
But Fluffy jumped up shouting:
He stole and mocked my whizz.

Triumphantly, I answered,
There’s no copyright in jists,
But only in expressions,
So, the case should be dismissed.

There IS no doubt the lady judge
Did not take my side.
She sternly said, ‘snot for you,
But the jury, to decide.

It was a jury of twelve ladies
With their breasts exposed,
Who scanned me disdainfully
From my head down to my toes.

The lady chairman of the jury,
Whose name was Lucy Sprockets,
Asked the judge to direct me
Take my hands out of my pockets.

I stand accused, like Jesus Christ,
Of stating something new
That challenges the web of lies
The world proclaims as true.

Whenever I record a poem,
It is heaven sent.
I just pass on the words that come -
Even to my detriment.

Blasphemy, the judge cries out;
What need have we of more?
This so-called poet would attack
Our values to the core.

We know what true poets would write:
Sound sentiment and view,
To guide folk on the rightful path
And keep us good and true.

They would not dare to upset
Sincere folks of dullish brain
Who need constant reassurance
That proper values reign.

Well, the court is full of dimwits
Who cover up their ears,
When I speak, for fear their world
Be stained by what they’d hear.

The judge addressed the jury then.
She said it’s plain to see
That Krunch’  has stolen Fluffy’s poem
And mocked it shamelessly.

The jury soon enough returned
With a question to be answered:
Could they take into account
My shameless, scathing manner?

Yes, said the judge, you surely can,
It is quite appropriate
To take full account of how in court
This scooundrel misbehaved.

They came back with a verdict:
I must give up my profits.
I laughed because the poem
Had made not one dollar.

But the laugh soon turned to tears
As damages were added,
And the fees of half the bloated
Lawyers of the planet.

And then the judge, smiling, added:
And for his contempt of court,
I order the imprisonment
Of this so-called poet.

And as I am carted off
Handcuffed and disgraced,
I wonder is there anywhere
I can dare to show my face.

Friday, 16 December 2016

Arlene Foster's time is up

Arlene Foster's time is up.
She made a scheme that is corrupt.
If corruption was not intended,
Why was the scheme not sooner mended?

One thing for which there's no defence
Is wanton waste of public pence.
So, in our hearts we surely know
That Arlene Foster has to go.

Thursday, 17 November 2016

Beautiful Sleet Shower






Beautiful, this morning's sleet shower,
The first one of the season,
The heavy snow-flakes dropping slant-wise
Like falling stars,
Constrained by abundant rain.

It's to enjoy such cosy sights
That conservatories are made.