Steeping under my instant shower,
Wrapping myself up in my preheated gown.
Slipping into my warm bed,
Knowing in my head that all the tech
Will turn it off once I fall asleep

To have a clock so wonderful and silent
That wakes me up to the sound
Of humming birds.

During the day I could be busy,
Watching TV or listening to music
From my high Tec system.
But instead I type up my CV,
Hoping one day to get a job,
As a program engineer.

No need for my friends and I
To be quiet as we party
Long into the night,
For not a sound can be heard
For miles around,
Nor from my nearest neighbour
Who lives three metres away.

But alas it’s all a dream,
For when I awake I’m still in O’Connell Street,
Wrapped in that tattered quilt,
Waiting for a kind passer by
To spare me a few cents

To you big guy I pray,
With these few cents I’ll spare,
To win the jackpot
Would relieve my pain.
And with that I promise you
I’ll share with those who are the same as me.
By Fatimah Alaya Kenny, student at Scoil Mhuire
(This poem is her modern version of
‘The Old Woman of the Road’)

My daddy’s a skeleton
My daddy’s a skeleton under the ground
in the grave where there’s room for more;
I wonder will Sister Death telephone first
or just barge in at the door
when she comes for me in her black limousine
with her black dog at her heels,
and will I have time to pack my bags
before the death-knell peals?
Will I be like Marie who swam for two hours
on the day she was taken away,
or more like Janet who had a few months
to get ready and have her say?
Will I be like Laura who went for a nap
at home, and never woke up,
or Rosie who lingered for over a year
while sipping the fatal cup?
Will I ever be ready, I muse today,
as I lie in my cosy bed,
will I always be needing a little more time
to get things straight in my head?
By Dorothy Molloy
(From Gethsemane Day,
recently published by Faber)

Age is a quality of mind
Age is a quality of mind
If you have left your dreams behind
If hope is cold
If you no longer plan ahead
If ambitions all are dead
Then you are old.

But if of life you make the best
And in your life you still have zest
If love you hold
No matter how the years go by
No matter how the birthdays fly
You are not old.
By Anon

For Pope John Paul II
Some said you should retire
and maybe they were right.
Yet the faith your persistence showed
brought solace and strength to many.
It’s true you grew too old
to steer a rudderless church
but to the outside world
you were a Christ figure
stretching arms to embrace
suffering, serene in your role
at the centre of maelstrom.
By Brian Power

He would be seventeen soon and after the
Leaving, he and his dad would make his dream
come true, whilst his mother prayed.
Sweet music, as her son sped down the road.

There would be sunny days before the university.
The breeze would embrace him,
Delivering pizzas to each smiling face.
Mother’s sigh of relief.

The lorry driver didn’t even feel the bump.
Tim’s short life. Motor cycle wheels still spinning
Departure morning– mournful pals.
Tearful girls with flowers.

Leaving, science points– some answered prayers.
By Paddy Kavanagh

Walking the strand
An anniversary reminder
made me search for you.
They told me you were out
walking the strand with your dog–
and your acid-sweet memories?
I followed and missed you
yet you made me take a walk
along Sandycove promenade
saluting sentinel herons
on their seaweeded rocks
transmitting messages
of stark endurance.
I imagined you come running
towards me with your collie
but had to settle for James Joyce
starting his journey to eternal fame
from his tower in Sandycove
to his rock at Sandymount
where he listened for the bell
of the Star of the Sea benediction.
By Brian Power

Easter
Her father said
“The sun dances on Easter morning”
“If you’re up early enough”
Had he seen it?
“Why?”
“Out of joy”
“The Resurrection”
She wondered
Did it whirl?
Were there streamers?
Forks of light?
Did it bounce across the sky
Like a yellow balloon?
Free
No string
“Pray between Friday and Sunday.
You’ll get what you want”
“How?”
“Jesus goes to heaven
He brings the requests with Him”
She knew what she’d ask for.
By Carmel McCarthy
(Apologies to Carmel as her last poem ‘Good Morning’in our February issue was attributed to Carmel Maguire)

Elm Tree
They buried him in a plot
Under the elm tree
She watched and stood apart
From all the rest.
And as the family stood dignified
The howling winds and harsh elements
Stood all around them
Engulfing their now
Windswept hair and clothes
Now mingled with tears.

The one that stood apart
Numb with the cold, pain and grief
Had always watched
And stood apart
So that no-one could see
The pain that had always lived within
By Dolores Duffy

As always, we welcome contributions to
The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the‘NewsFour’ offices at 15 Fitzwilliam Street,Ringsend, Dublin 4. or you can e-mail us: newsfourscs@eircom.net