Category Archives: Nationalism

You

You never tell me whether you like my stuff, okay, what am I looking for, praise?

The end of days.

Lost in a maze.

See through the haze.

Is that the white flag of peace I see through the smoke or a bloodstained bandage, give my heart ease.

The turmoil and the tumult batter on.

When peace comes war is gone.

So I die and no one knows.

Do you prefer poetry or prose?

God knows.

Tich Ennis

23rd June, 2017

When

When quantum computing comes all codes will be crackable, that includes Russian, American and Chinese and what have you.

And terrorists and drug dealers too.

It will be an open book if you want to take a look.

That will give the security services something to do, pornographers look out.

There’s a spy about.

The truth will find you out.

At leat I hope so, God willing.

Are you the full shilling?

I look forward to the truth.

I have since youth.

Okay, so your missile codes are known.

Will you be blown up alone?

Call a help line on the phone.

When secrecy and double dealing ends will we be friends?

When hatred ends.

I pen a line or two to you now and then.

I’m heartsick, sore and sorry until when?

Tich Ennis

22nd June, 2017

Serious Matters

It would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.

Am I delirious?

Fake news and all that, is a dog a cat?

Fancy that.

The real thing is Spring, after Winter, you know the thing.

Can you trust anyone or anything at all?

Graffiti on a wall.

That’s not all.

I suppose you’ll have to trust yourself or me.

The truth will set you free.

Tich Ennis

17th June, 2017

Rules Are For Fools

An indirect acquaintance of mine was in the U.N. army in Bosnia during the war.

That’s what the U.N. is for.

He and his comrades stood idly by while seven thousand men and boys were marched off to die.

I mean, be shot.

You probably heard of it, you hear a lot.

He said he felt awful, but what could he do?

I ask you.

The bloody bloodstained U.N. rules allowed them to do nothing, the fools.

If your house was on fire would you go on watching television? Oh well.

Welcome to Hell.

Rules are for normal circumstances not abnormal ones.

God preserve us from people with guns.

A man in Dublin would not leave a restaurant on fire because he paid for his steak.

The firemen dragged him out or else we would be at his wake.

For Heaven’s sake.

Some Irish guy said we’re Irish, we don’t do rules.

Now and then maybe but not always, we’re not all fools.

In dictatorships everything not compulsory is illegal.

Do rules apply to a Golden Eagle?

Tich Ennis

16th June, 2017

Medical Consultation

Doctor: What’s your complaint?

Patient: I’m Irish.

Doctor: That’s incurable.

Patient: Is it catching?

Doctor: It depends what you do in your spare time.

Patient: The man who made time made plenty of it.

Doctor: What’s that supposed to mean?

Patient: What it says on the tin.

Doctor: Take off your clothes.

Patient: Why?

Doctor: I want to take a look at you.

Patient: Don’t look while I undress.

Doctor: Tell me when to look.

Patient (undressed): You can look now.

Doctor: It’s a boy!

Patient: It’s well knowing you went to medical school.

Doctor: You didn’t need to take off your underpants.

Patient: I don’t wear underpants.

Doctor: Why not?

Patient: What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

Doctor: Everything that passes between me and you is subject to medical confidentiality.

Patient: That’s a load of bull. What about the freedom of information act?

Doctor: We’ll let that pass. You may make full disclosure.

Patient: I am naked.

Doctor: So I see.

Patient: I take my clothes off when it rains.

Doctor: Why?

Patient: My skin is waterproof.

Doctor: What about sunshine?

Patient: You can have too much of a good thing.

Doctor: Well said. Would you like me to prescribe an antibiotic?

Patient: They don’t work because doctors prescribe too much of them.

Doctor: You have to feel you’re getting something for your money.

Patient: It isn’t all about feelings.

Doctor: It is.

Patient: I beg to differ.

Doctor: Doctors differ and patients die. What would you do if I told you you have six months to live?

Patient: I’d get a second opinion.

Doctor: You’re growing too fast for you height.

Patient: You stole that one. Call yourself a doctor!

Doctor: I am a doctor. See that certificate on the wall? Certified insane.

Patient: That’s not funny. I could be mad. Am I alright?

Doctor: Physically yes. Mentally I’m not sure.

Patient: Did Freud say its impossible to psychoanalyse an Irishman?

Doctor: That’s a myth but I can well believe it.

Patient: Can I dress now?

Doctor: Yes. I’ve had a good look.

Patient: There are seven orifices on the human body at the last count.

Doctor: Who’s the doctor around here? Did you go to medical school?

Patient: Don’t pull rank.

Doctor: You’ll feel better when you pay my fee.

Patient: I’m on a medical card.

Doctor: Then it doesn’t matter.

Patient: My symptoms disappear when I visit a doctor. Suddenly I’m well.

Doctor: It’s my bedside manner. I’m Irish too.

Patient: What!

Doctor: That doesn’t mean I’m no good, a quack, anymore than you are.

Patient: I never said I could cure anything.

Doctor: I guarantee nothing. Your satisfaction is my guarantee.

Patient: God knows I’ve heard some rubbish in my time. You should be a politician.

Doctor: I have medical ethics.

Patient: You’ve got it bad and that ain’t good. Is there no cure for my condition?

Doctor: You could emigrate or take a holiday.

Patient: In Ireland? What good would that do?

Doctor: A change is as good as a rest. The same only different.

Patient: You’ve done me a power of good.

Doctor: It’s all in the mind.

Patient: I don’t mind.

Doctor: Mind how you go now. Watch yourself crossing the road. I don’t want to be left picking up the pieces.

Patient: Would a rub of the relic do me any good?

Doctor: Whatever you think yourself.

Patient: Should I go to Las Vegas or Lourdes?

Doctor: I have patients waiting. I can’t sit here all day talking to the likes of you.

Patient: One for a man, two for a horse.

Doctor: Quack quack.

Patient: Will my story have a happy ending?

Doctor: This is it. Next please!

Patient: I’ll remember you in my will. I’m broke.

Doctor: That’s life. Get used to it. Come back if you get worse.

Patient: Kill or cure. What can’t be cured love must be endured love.

Doctor: If you attempt to sing I’ll call the police and have you ejected.

Patient: I can take a hint. (Leaves, closing door behind him).

Doctor: Thank God that’s over!

Omniscient all-seeing Author: And so say all of us.

Tich Ennis

7th June, 2017

 

 

Mad Poet

I wrote two poems yesterday, one called Care. I rang a friend and read them to him.  He said I sounded angry. I don’t want to sound angry.

Me: Do you think I was always mad or am I going mad in my old age?

He: I think the former rather than the latter.

Me: I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t like to think I am deteriorating in my old age.

He laughed.   I asked another friend if I got rich and famous might I become obnoxious?   Do you mean more obnoxious than you are, he asked?

An English girl barmaid in the same place said the Irish are very friendly until you get to know them. She chooses to live here. Is she a masochist? Join the club.

In life we must choose the least worst option. It’s a matter of choice.   My brother and I had a car accident when an English couple drove head on into us. My head hit the windscreen and I was temporarily unconscious. Did your whole life flash before your eyes, a barman asked? It was like a porn movie I said.

An Irish writer said a friend of his swore he saw a headline in an Irish paper, Irish girl killed by English train. They’re still doing it to us said another person.

Being Irish is defined as not being English, said an Irishman, not me. We’re Irish, we don’t do rules, said someone else.

If I am a poet why am I writing prose? What is prose, asked a barman who reads five books a week? Anything that isn’t poetry I said. Is a poet mad to write prose? Quite likely. A politician said we campaign in poetry, we govern in prose. A would be senator who failed to get elected said the people have spoken, the bastards. Similarly, the British voted for Brexit.

Do people know what’s good for them? They vote for heroin, cannabis, obesity, eating disorders and many other fads and fancies, with their feet and their mouths. What is populism? Giving the people what they want, not what they need. They don’t want that. Self inflicted wounds are the hardest to heal.

Populism is popular, the easy option. Its always someone else’s fault. Like blaming the English in Ireland. Who runs this bit of it anyway?

The Irish are an acquired taste. I dislike the term love-hate but it will do to be going on with. Says I who am Irish. Yours madly,

Tich Ennis

30th May, 2017