The wind in the rigging
In my sweet little home that moves with the waves,
Just down a spell from the bridges of knaves;
I lay my head in a place called Poolbeg;
Ringsend is the village through the park a peg;

I feel the surge of a river well known;
Strength, power, and life, as its people have shown;
The winter wind on its way to the sea,
Howls in the rigging; Is it speaking to me?

It pulls my gaze from the soft written word;
Are there voices and truths that want to be heard?
I stop what I’m doing; I crave to hear more,
So I still myself and wait by the door.

There’s more wind coming with stories galore,
Of dreams, and deaths, and glory in store;
Can I open my soul to the misery and ache?
Of this Nation’s lifetime without my heartbreak?

My boat shakes itself in its tightly tied bonds,
As though it were hearing from those long gone;
Of the desire for freedom from the ties;
Freedom from the hate and lies.

Wait– what sounds are those that come to me;
Surely I’m dreaming… or maybe,
Can I hear the crowds murmur with misery?
Is that shouting and clashing a sign of ill will?
Has Cromwell arrived to conquer and kill?
Could that be the wail of children forlorn,
On a prison ship for stealing corn?

Is that Captain Bligh I hear going by,
Sounding the bay to help foreign ships ply?
Is that boat taking food to the east of this isle,
As the families with children starve all the while?

Can I hear the hungry, the dispossessed?
Surely God heard them and made them blessed,
As they carried their life and their babes in their arms,
To board a ship for better times.

Do I feel the hopes of young and old,
In the belly of ships, the human gold?
Are there guns on that boat to help with the cause,
Turning kindness to killing with grievous loss?

Is that the anguish and the pain,
Of the patriots failing once again?
But others say, ‘you gave us victory, you paved the way
For the freedom that will come some day.’

Do I feel the pride of giving your life,
For a visualized future without any strife?
Did I hear the shot… surely not fair;
To kill a hurt man tied to a chair.

Did I hear the crowd roar, and an orator soar;
And the anger of men more and more?
I hear the stillness of a city on strike,
That starved while the rich took their time and watched.

I feel my chest heave with the sadness of women,
Who lost their sons before they were men,
In causes for freedom…
For Ireland… for them.

The tears come forth, from now I know where;
From the living; the giving; the never despair.
There’s only one way to clear the slate;
It’s forgiveness; forgiveness; forgiveness; not hate.

I hear sounds of change; there’s hope in the air;
Of peace and goodwill and not of despair;
Still feeling, yet healing, the wounds of the past;
Adjusting to harmony for a good life at last.
Out of the ashes emerging here;
A country desired; respected; held dear.

This river’s alive with the history so clear;
I’ll never forget my being here;
Can my heart leave this land, ever again.
I’ve been captured; enraptured; a lifetime I’ve gained.

I will carry the Liffey along with me now,
With its pain and its joy… as I look at the bow;
Over wave after wave as I make my way home,
With my boat untied, and wherever I roam;

The wind in the rigging I’ll never forget;
On the lovely old Liffey in Dublin’s Ringsend.
By John Moloney

Reflections (Written for an old friend)
It’s many years since we first met
At the Woollen Mills on Sunday
We saw many traders come and go
And friends that faded away.

We’ve a lot in common as we both found out
Our interests varied a lot.
He is a printer by trade, but redundancy put paid.
To a friend who deserved much better than that,

Harry lives on the north side of Dublin,
The same side of the city as me,
His surname is Swedish and he’s proud of it too
But he’s as Dublin as Dublin can be.

The years may go and time will pass
And nothing stays forever
But a true friendship between good friends
Will never waiver, never.

The Dublin we knew has changed over the years
And the rare ould times forgotten
We’ve seen the best of what was good
But the core of the city is rotten.

There is drugs, corruption and murders too
A far cry from the days of old,
We meet every Sunday at the Ha’penny Bridge
Our previous week’s tales to unfold.

It may be two hours we meet on the day
But to us it’s the joy of meeting
To see the friendly face we missed for a week
And to receive a wonderful greeting.

How long it will last no one can tell
Ah sure it’s only one day in seven
And when the time comes and we have to go
Please God we’ll all meet up in heaven.
By Sonny Kinsella

Annie’s discovery
Annie was going to live in her body from this day forth.

Yes and no, you see, Annie had always lived in her head.
She’d lived with her mensa, mensae, joined the elephants
as they climbed over the Alps with Hannibal,
lived the French revolution, saw heads being chopped,
didn’t dwell there, too gory.

She liked Shakespeare. Thought he was a great guy
Told him how much she liked his melodic verses.
She would skim through the world; dwell where delights were.
Her body was a frame, in that it carried her head.
She threw on it what fell out of the wardrobe
If not warm enough, she added the next falling layer.

It started with a Yoga class.

“Breath out,” the instructor said, “Relax your toes.”
She’d forgotten she had toes, much less to relax them.
“Relax your knees, your abdomen” and on to her upper body
“Relax your neck. Scan your body for tensions.”
Annie realized that while her jaw was now relaxed,
her toes had tensed up. “Relax those toes,” she told herself.
She loved the sensation. She had muscles, she had never dreamt of

There was her head sitting on this magnificent machine
That would obey her every command. She was very excited.
She’d seen babies study their hands and toes in wonderment.

Now, she Annie had discovered her body.
By Carmel McCarthy

See Them Swing (In the Ryder Cup)
See them swing in the Ryder Cup
See them swing in the Ryder Cup
The Swing is the Thing… Swing Swing
See them Swing

I can feel the excitement beginning to rise
It’s going to take place right before our eyes
We’ll watch it on telly and in the pub
When the Ryder Cup comes to the K Club

With a ball on the tee and a club in their hand
They’ll be doing their best to stay out of the sand
They’ll be pitching it high they’ll be spinning it back
They’ll be trying to play golf like Sevy and Jack

With the wind at their back they’ll be driving it far
They’ll go on the attack for a birdie or par
From the heat of the sun they’ll be looking for shade
Then they’ll go for the green with a draw or a fade

It’s hard to putt straight when the nerves begin
They have a four footer and that’s for a win
That’s when they start thinking what all golfers know
You drive for show and you putt for dough

And when they start thinking they’re losing their touch
They’ll ask for advice from maybe David or Butch
And with a little adjustment to how they move
In no time at all they’ll be back in the groove

See them swing in the Ryder Cup
See them swing in the Ryder Cup
The Swing is the Thing… Swing Swing
See them Swing
By Michael Green