Category Archives: Abyss

CD and Book

Singing and writing, who’s fighting?

I fight myself and sometimes win.

Is it too late to begin?

I nearly built a shop down a street where no one goes.

I still may do it, who knows?

Maybe someone lost their way.

Why not walk down and stay?

Bring something home with you, you may share it too.

If you wish to hear and see then come along with me.

I don’t cost much, not much, a widow’s mite.

Why fight?

Tich Ennis

17th October, 2017

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Fancy Free

Money and me are passing acquaintances, money is fancy free.

I borrow from a friend to bring music to you.

You and you and you and me too.

Artists only buy from each other an artist said.

Are we all artists before we’re dead?

I wrote a book, I sang a song, how long, oh Lord, how long?

For a joke God made a money tree.

I sit under the apple tree.

My pockets are empty, can’t you see?

Tich Ennis

16th October, 2017

Save The World

How can I save the world when I’m going gaga?

My mind wanders, that’s my saga.

Suppose I punch you in the eye have you a right to punch me back?

Or is punching wrong whoever started the attack?

If you atom bomb me can I or should I do the same to you?

Like, me too.

What about collateral damage, innocent people with no finger on the missile button, no part to play?

Fair is fair or is it, what do you say?

If I suicide bomb you do you suicide bomb me?

The question is can we agree.

Call me senile if you like.

What about a boy on a bike?

Or a girl on a trike?

As you like.

Its your choice, so choose.

Do you agree with me we have a lot to lose?

Tich Ennis

14th October, 2017

Banjaxed Anthem

Banjaxed is Irish slang, meaning broken or not working. Everything in Ireland is banjaxed, probably including me.

See our history.

The Irish national anthem, not this one, was written in English first.

Which version is worst?

Nationalism mean killing people as far as I can see.

That’s what it means to me.

De Valera, our leader, sent condolences to the German embassy when Hitler died.

Jews cried.

De Valera was half Irish, his first name wasn’t Paddy.

Not as Irish as my daddy.

Patrick Pearse was half English and probably by a full blooded Englishman was shot.

Patrick Pearse, that’s your lot.

The county boundaries in Ireland to which people are loyal were laid down by the English in times past.

Unknown to some, the truth at last.

During the famine Irish people exported food, strange to say.

They looked the other way.

In North Korea now people die with green stains around their mouth from eating grass.

As happened in Ireland, alas.

The Irish are generous to others in times of woe.

They contribute generously, I should know.

We certainly know how to criticise each other, we do it all the time.

As me, in rhyme.

Maybe you think its different where you are.

Where do you live, a distant star?

We have murderers in our parliament, known as the Dail.

That’s not all.

They lie, they know they lie, they know you know too.

What’s a guy to do?

Can a reformed serial killer or paedophile bring about justice and peace?

Yes, if they have reformed, not if they lie, give my heart ease.

If I was born somewhere else what would I think of Ireland?

Great to visit, a great little land.

Great talk, music, horses and for passing time of day.

But would you stay?

Why do I, why don’t I go away?

Laziness has something to do with it and lack of ambition.

Gone fishin’.

Other places may be too busy for my taste.

Ireland is as good as any place your life to waste.

The same only different as we like to say.

If you expect logic look the other way.

The sins and crimes of others we love to talk about.

My point is the human race is all the same, the truth will find you out.

Wherever you are, that’s your home. There are a lot of knowalls in Ireland, that’s true.

They say they know what’s best for you.

Empty vessels make a lot of noise.

Posh boys.

We have ourselves to blame for how we are.

Gaze at a star.

If I was born somewhere else would I criticise them you bet your life.

Cancer requires a surgeon’s knife.

Good enough to be going on with is not good enough.

That’s the message of my stuff.

I’m Irish, tough.

I lament the human condition what can I do?

I write to you.

Hell is other people Sartre said. He’s dead.

Maybe Hell is you?

Me too.

Must I say it over and over again?

Heaven is here now and then.

A glimpse, reflection, hint, a child’s smile.

Walk an Irish mile.

So at last I end my banjaxed anthem, Irish song.

I may be criticised, what is wrong?

Maybe someday I’ll get around to doing more, maybe you too.

In the meantime enjoy the view.

Tich Ennis

14th October, 2017

Insane

I thought I was going mad, I feel better and I’m glad.

Life was getting me down, I am not one to wear a frown.

I am a happy go lucky guy, which is hard to be, I know why.

Whatever life may throw at me, I do my best, you see, you see.

I feel better now as I said in my first line.

Okay, is this a jail, are we serving time?

Its very good from time to time, I love my friends.

This poem ends.

Tich Ennis

13th October, 2017

Smoke

Why is everyone so screwed up, including me?

I watch your faces, you see.

Okay, not always, not quite everyone.

Why do most look like they never had any fun?

Had or have, have it your own way.

All potential customers of mine walk by every day.

I went so far as to write a book, some enjoyed it, some won’t even look.

My brother gives my book away, for God’s sake why?

Alright, its not that bad, some pay for it before they die.

Would you die laughing if I told you a joke?

I am a living cliché, a poet who is broke.

And I smoke.

Tich Ennis

12th October, 2017

Lost

I left my belongings at the gate and hurried inward to my fate.

I rang my sister about my brother and did one or two or more things other.

Then I said, where are my things, who knows what misfortune brings.

I looked high and low and on the floor, then gave up, no more, no more.

I settled for a substitute, bitter fruit.

Later I went out again and discovered my belongings then.

Cigarettes, a lighter and a pen.

A lapse of memory occurred.

This is not my final word.

I found what’s lost, oh welcome home!

Turn of the tide, bedecked with foam.

Tich Ennis

10th October, 2017