23rd of November
One beautiful calm evening,
on the 23rd of November
I strolled in solitude,
to allow my mind to wander
Past the old clubhouse,
to the mouth of the Dodder
Where there in your company,
I indulged in your pleasure.

I sat under the old lamp,
dangled my legs over the wall
And reminisced how as a child,
you made me feel so tall
I close both my eyes,
I see your image everywhere
When I reach out to touch you,
it’s just the cold winter’s air.

You captain your ship,
towards the slimy slip’s edge
With Gonzo your first mate,
home from your long voyage
Carrying a full cargo,
of coal and wild salmon
You call out to me loud,
“tie up a rope me old son.”

“Hey Da it’s me,
look how I’ve come on”
But you can’t seem to hear me,
must be the wash of the Liffey foam
If you’d just reach out,
wipe the tears till they’re gone
I’ll keep it our secret,
won’t tell anyone.

Then you stare back at me,
take your cap from your head
Don’t worry my son,
we’ll meet up again
So it’s then I’ll return,
next 23rd of November
And each and every day,
I’ll always remember.

By Noel Boland

Marie is Magic
Marie is my best friend
if she was not in my life it would be tragic
to have such a true pal is magic.
Caring and funny
she is worth more to me than a bundle of money
Always a kind word
never a frown, never gossipy or unkind
I will be her friend for all time

By Derek Sandford

Friday Night
Friday night was always great
I knew that young Pat was down at the gate.
Watching my workmates pass out on their way
They’d be smoking and chatting and
checking their pay.
Pat is my niece, she was about seven years old
She had lovely blue eyes and her hair shone like gold
She came to meet me every Friday night
She knew it was pay day, sure isn’t she right?

I hang my old overalls in the usual place
Then I went to meet Pat with the big smile of her face
We’d run down the path and sure we wouldn’t stop
‘Til the both of us landed in Mrs Boyle’s shop.

Mrs Boyle’s shop had a bell on the door
And inside the shop there were goodies galore
There were chocolates and sweets,
ice-cream and crisps
And smacking ice lollies on little white sticks.

And so it was for two years or more
‘Til Pat’s little sister was aged about four
One Friday night Pat proudly did stand
The bright eyed Brenda holding her hand.

Brenda was a child who was so full of chat
And how we did talk as we walked down with Pat
Now Brenda would hear, what Pat heard before
The sound of the bell on Mrs Boyle’s door.

How the years have passed, and
I sure feel their weight
No more are the girls seen down at the gate
They’re all grown up now and they
need something more
Than the sound of the bell on Mrs Boyle’s door.

By Victor J Cunningham

In place of Vengeance
The footsteps forcing forward
A wheel barrow
Will leave the ghost of you
Behind them, will
Abandon that phantom here
To crumble
The way a shadow does
Retreating over the red soil
From the face of the noon’s Sun
And lapping against a shore of heart
Is blood, that liquid boundary
Between a body and its soul, while
The sun bites jaws of heat
Through the fabrics he is wearing
Knifing teeth under cotton
And the sweated washed denim of the
Afternoon, troubling it.
If you close your eyes here
You can almost hear the fires of hell
Singing, see forms of souls
Spasming a dance within and the long grasses
Knuckled by the spiralling hardness
Of the plum trees’ wood
With swarming insects shiver, a breeze
Extinguishes herself against
This mountain’s side.

By Kim Costello

Memories
He sits in the window that looks on to the street
Watching the people and traffic pass by,
He is old and his life if restricted,
He’ll be the last of his old pals to die

He lights up his pipe and his thoughts wander back
To the days when he was a healthy young man
A few sad tears trickle down his wrinkled face,
As he remembers as much as he can,

His memory is failing it’s just not the same,
All those past years have taken their toll,

He remembers the day he played his first match,
That was the day that he scored his first goal,

He remembers his friends and the good times he had,
When they went everywhere together,
To parties and dances and holidays too,
Always together what ever the weather,

He remembers the day when he first met the girl,
Whose charms he could never forget
And the day he married the love of his life,
Is the one day that he’ll never regret.

Many years have gone by, now he lives all alone.
And all he can do is look through the glass.
Them he pulls the blind down and
he shuts out the light
On a world that has gone by too fast.

By Sonny Kinsella

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The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the
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Ringsend, Dublin 4.
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