Category Archives: Lonely Soul

Nothing To Do

I write because I have nothing to do.

The sky is black, not blue.

Its night time, nothing good on the radio.

So I write, goodnight.

Will I ever get things sorted out, find out what its all about?

Trying to make sense of it all, that’s what I do and am doing.

A cause worth pursuing.

I’d rather write in hope and be considered a dope, I have plenty of scope.

I hang about not on a rope.

So I write these words instead of being dead.

The purpose of life is to find the purpose of life amid the strife.

That’s life.

Tich Ennis

5th February, 2018

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The Question

My best friend Michael O’Brien said I will be famous after I’m dead.

He died first, instead.

Do I want fame for myself, no.

The truth comes dropping slow.

I want what everyone wants but hardly dares to expect.

World peace, an end to war and argument as you might suspect.

I write my words, they say the same.

Allow children play a game.

Maybe Michael’s right, may my words be true.

I want a perfect world for you.

How about me too?

A perfect world requires perfected people, they are rare.

The burning question, do you care?

Tich Ennis

2nd February, 2018

Apple

An apple fell from off a tree right into my lap, lucky me.

You can’t expect everything to fall into your lap, you sap.

At least sit under the tree, like me, why not pick one, one that’s ripe?

Don’t believe tripe.

Its not all luck, you make your own.

Call the right person on the phone.

Hermit, alone.

An apple waits for you, you’ve got to do.

I was like you, look at me now.

Under the bough.

Tich Ennis

12th January, 2018

Orbit

It seems odd that poems often revert to source.

You may have noticed this, of course.

Back where they came from, they began.

This may be the poet’s plan.

Walk in a circle as the Earth around the Sun.

Back where you came from, where you begun.

You may say orbits are elliptical, of course.

That is if you studied in a bourse.

Look it up in a book if you must before you return to dust.

Or, as I now say, source.

Tich Ennis

27th December, 2017

Anonymous Letter

I am who you don’t know but I know you.

I saw you through the keyhole too.

Be not afraid, I shall not spill the beans.

Do it yourself by all means.

Headlines in the paper inches high.

People will know your name before you die.

In the meantime carry on.

I’m watching you, I’m here, I’m gone.

Tich Ennis

27th December, 2017

Every Son

Every son is a heartbreaker, every mother is a peacemaker.

How was I, how will I be, my mother is ancient history.

If I said I would do something when I’m good and ready when would that be says I to she a very long time says she to me.

So I had my feet on the table and she said she would rather I had not, I thought of girls and rock’n’roll that was all I got.

Now I am the oldest, my older brother died, there was a break in my voice, I almost cried.

I was there when my mother died.

My brother, I have more than one, said to my mother how good she was to look after us when she was left alone.

She said she thought others had done it so she could do it too, from a choking dog’s throat she removed a bone.

Everyone’s life is their own.

Need I say more, must I gild the lily?

In my life I have been silly.

My favourite singer is a hillbilly.

My likes vary from time to time, that is no crime.

My favourite music is what I’m listening to right now.

Well chosen, yes, I love it anyhow.

That’s all for now.

So how on Earth is this poem about every son?

I don’t know, I am only one.

Many are called but few are chosen may be said as many are cold but few are frozen, so my father said.

He is also dead.

Well I’m not quite.

Alright.

Goodnight.

I never quite know when to stop.

Am I the good or bad cop?

Have a lollipop.

Full stop.

Tich Ennis

19th December, 2017

Ballbreaker

God keeps kicking me in the balls or is it the other fellow?

Have I a streak down my back of vivid yellow?

I never really expect anything much, I sure don’t get it.

I lay in bed as a child and wet it.

Now in later life I have no wife.

If I had how would she put up with me?

Patron saint of lost causes, rescue me.

Some few like what I do.

Do you?

A lonely soul struggling to be true.

I apologise for using a coarse word.

Its not the worst I ever heard.

That word is synonymous with bravery.

I’ll have a cup of tea.

Should I end here or say so many promises are broken?

I speak a truth unspoken.

Where is Hoboken?

I do my best all the time.

Am I guilty of a crime?

Kafka instructed that all his work be burned.

I am the worm who turned.

No, I don’t want my stuff to go up in smoke.

I don’t want my life to be a dirty joke.

Self-pity is despicable, I know that too.

I’ll get over it, will you?

Believe me I pity all of you.

I have more or less run out of tears in my advanced years.

Against all odds I have one more thing to say, to turn night into day.

This dope has hope.

Tich Ennis

10th December, 2017