Monday Morning
On the country train from Bray
I found a seat beside a young woman
Her head buried in a Maeve Binchy book
The man across from me was talking
Enthusiastically to the young married
Woman beside him, his posh accent
Waked the Monday morning death from
Our minds, as we came to be aware
Of the city sounds.

Crowds left the train at Pearse Station
Disappearing in all directions, some
Into the Church to say a silent prayer
And invoke the strength to face another
Week of monotonous burdens, some queued
At bus stops while others went into shops
Purchasing the paper, cigarettes and soft
Drinks, the necessities to revive the
Body and take it into the routine that
Makes cash available for our survival.
By Mary Guckian

Memories
Was the sky always blue in my childhood,
As we sat in the Shelly Banks and made tea.
We walked back home in the evenings
As the fishermen where coming in from sea.
And the fish that they gave us when they landed,
Would be shared among the neighbours for free.

I can still see the home of my childhood,
When nights where dark, and ships lit up the sea.
They have torn out the roots of my childhood,
Houses built where once a beach was seen,
And by the old sea wall, are factories straight and tall.

So only in my memories can I see
The Pigeon House when it was wild and free.
By Carmel Donnelly Gallagher (deceased)
Carmel was born in 76 Coastguard Station,
Pigeon House Road

Words Words Words
How imprisoning they can be
They paralyse you; they paralyse me
They can freeze us to death
They can leave us bereft
Cheer us up no end
Empower us to extend
Help us not to stray
Teach us to pray

But remember, in what he says,
The speaker gives himself away
By Carmel McCarthy

CinderEmma, CinderEmma. Or the Double Sonnet
CinderEmma, CinderEmma, - my house needs a dust,
Turn off the tap or the basin will rust,
Listen to me and obey my will,
Take out the plug or the water will spill.
Wash up the dishes and dry them quick,
You are far too slow– you make me sick.
Polish the floor and dust the books,
Pick up my clothes– there are plenty of hooks.
Don’t just stand there looking at me,
Get in the kitchen and make the tea.
Plenty of water and not too much milk,
Then iron my clothes but not if they’re silk.
Hoover the carpet, then, make the bed,
I want clean sheets, the ones that are red.
I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again,
Don’t hang out the clothes if it’s going to rain.
Why don’t you listen and do what you are told,
You are far too cheeky and far too bold.
Clean out the grate and mop the floor,
Then polish the handles on every door.
Dust the pictures and all round the edges,
Dust the shelves and all the ledges.
Get on with your work and never complain,
And when you have finished– you can start again.
By A.E. Mouse

Migrants
Hands– roughened and coarse from
over-zealous gardening,
To wish to show in my own special way
A welcome for your home-coming–
Are idle now.

How sweet it was, that task to plant, to weed and trim;
In June a blaze of colour– red triumphant
warring flags–
My favourite floribundas heralded your coming.

The home, once filled with voices, now is quiet.
In the garden the weeds thrive and the grass is long.
Across the road young voices shout at play–
Last games before the call to bed.

Nostalgic sounds– the memory of children’s voices.
Long shadows fall; twilight ghosts that haunt me
On autumn evenings, now that you’ve gone.

What matter if the weeds have grown
Or that the grass is long?
By Maire McAuliffe

I Like Me
I like me because I am intelligent and smart
I like me because I have a big heart
And I am a talented child
The best thing about me is I fit in with everybody
And I like the colour pink.
Nicole Murphy. aged 7

Dawn’s Precipice
A father’s hand warm and tender touching mine
His golden flaxen hair.
Smiling eyes and quiet ways
And just before dawn.
And with the gorse
Beneath his feet.
The silence, then the sound
Of the soil with his spade.
And the breaking of the twigs
Beneath his nimble feet
He then made that steep climb
Up to the cliff’s edge and as he stood
To look at the sea below
And as the fog lifted
He looked down at the currents
Of the rotating circles of the sea below
He, then turned around once and looked at us all
And with his dancing blue eyes
And with a new day beginning
He waved, and then said goodbye.
By Dolores Duffy

It’s Only My Heart
It’s only my heart you’re breaking,
nobody else feels the pain
It’s only my world you’re shaking,
how can I love ever again
It’s only my world, it’s only my heart,
it’s only my life falling apart
It’s only my heart you’re breaking,
nobody else feels the pain

I thought this time I had made it,
true love at last had come along,
But now you say your love has faded
and it is time that you moved on
Well it’s only my world, it’s only my heart,
it’s only my life falling apart
It’s only my heart you’re breaking,
nobody else feels the pain

And now you say that you must leave me,
well if you must go then you must go
But just how much it will grieve me,
no one will know, no one will know
Because it’s only my world, it’s only my heart,
it’s only my life falling apart
It’s only my heart you’re breaking,
nobody else feels the pain
By Michael Green

As always, we welcome contributions to
The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the‘NewsFour’ offices at 15 Fitzwilliam Street,Ringsend, Dublin4. email:newsfourscs@eircom.net