Category Archives: Communication


I don’t know who you are who agree with me.

I don’t try very hard, you see.

Poetry comes easily to me.

In real life I almost do not act.

That’s a fact.

Still, its nice to know some are of one mind with me, one mind.

The truth is hard to find.

But yet easy, everyday.

It never goes away.

Some of you are damaged goods and some are not.

Whoever you are, thanks a lot.

The last line of a poem is often hardest to write, the last line.

The truth is yours and mine.

Don’t try to write a poem, let it come.

Write some.

Tich Ennis

8th November, 2018



Poem of my heart.


When will you conclude?

Don’t be rude.

I’ll start when I begin.

Original sin.

Forgive me for my faults.

Lets waltz.

This is more or less it.

Except for this bit.

But someday soon.

Beneath the Moon.

I’ll start again.

I won’t finish then.

Poetry and me.

Set us free.

Tich Ennis

7th November, 2018

Not Completely

I have not completely given up hope, although I am a hopeless dope.

Throw a suicide a rope.

Nowadays things are not called what they are.

What would you call a star?

If you discovered one its yours to name.

Don’t call it a number all the same.

Name it for your mother or your favourite poem.

Or simply name it Home.

Tich Ennis

6th November, 2018


I committed perjury twice.

I was not nice.

I did it to keep my job.

Was I a slob?

I suppose it wasn’t very important what I swore.

It made no difference really, it really happened, I could say more.

Do you believe me when I broke my oath?

As requested by a man living in Ratoath.

It went against the grain, made me feel sick.

Browbeaten into a dirty trick.

Smiling the boy fell dead.

I lived on instead.

My employer was a man in the legal profession.

This is my confession.

Later I left that job of my own volition and had fun in another.

I am somebody’s brother.

If I am a saint its of the plaster kind.

Is my soul my mind?

By the way, nice is fake good.

I wish people understood words, I wish they would.

I sailed, I swam, I flied.

Until now I have not died.

My goodness is hypothetical.

I end before becoming anasthetical.

Freud was a fraud, applaud.

Though held in high esteem.

Don’t ask me to interpret your dream.

I was young, not spelled with a J.

If that means nothing to you look the other way.

I met Marianne today.

Finally the end, finis.

That’s me.

Tich Ennis

2nd November, 2018

This Age

How will this age be seen in a hundred years or several millennia from now?

Does the thought make you self conscious, you didn’t mean it anyhow?

We crash cars, we drink in bars, we have not yet populated stars.

Will future people disapprove, say tut tut, why no move?

Will our ears go red when we are dead?

Oh shame, may I speak thy name.

Must we apologise for all our lies?

A backward people, looking back, should the boss give you the sack?

Would a time machine know what I mean?

The future is as now a dream.

Tich Ennis

2nd November, 2018

Heartfelt Plea

This is my heartfelt plea.

What do you want from me?

Good humour, jokes, pigs in pokes.

I offer all these, may I mention fleas?

Big fleas have little fleas on their backs to bite ‘em, and so on, ad infinitum.

Now that I’ve got that out of the way what else have I to say?

I dislike horror camps and torture chambers, some are born to lie in mangers.

I like meeting strangers.

A stranger may become a friend, some drive you round the bend.

Does my serious side make you consider suicide?

Its not all doom and gloom, its fairly cold in this room.

What price fun and laughter, may I say happy ever after?

Okay, a cliché, if only I knew what to do.

To please you.

More of the same from whence I came.

Its early days yet, I want a winning bet.

I’ll get there yet.

You bet.

I am a rambling rover.

This poem’s over.

Tich Ennis

1st November, 2018


A poem bursts upon the world, the Earth, for what its worth.

Does it make any difference whatever, to you or me or never?

Still, people say carry on.

Will you miss me when I’m gone?

Who, me, or this poem, don’t you see?

Okay, whatever you say.

Gone tomorrow, here today.

This is all I have to say.

For today.

Does this poem stand up to scrutiny?

Don’t mutiny.

Tich Ennis

31st October, 2018