Category Archives: WW2

The Troubles

The trouble with Ireland is all the hardworking, intelligent, energetic people emigrated. I stayed behind, draw your own conclusions.

Some people come to live in Ireland. What the Hell for? The weather? It takes all sorts to make a world. Once there were nothing but Irish people here or more or less, God was it boring. All the buildings falling down and all that sort of thing.

If you go to England you can meet Irish people, but why? Or Spain or America or wherever the Hell else. Avoid Irish pubs, they rip you off. Okay for one day, they will tell you the good places to go, somewhere else is a good idea.

So some Irish guy was in a pub in America going on and on about how wonderful Ireland is, the people, the music, the mountains, the scenery and so on and on and on. If its such a great little country why did you leave it, said his drinking companion.

We Irish love to talk. So a friend of mine was in a foreign country not very far away and he started talking to the man beside him.   The other man, who was not Irish, said you came here to drink, why do you want to talk? That question would not make sense in Ireland.

During the seventies the I.R.A. were bombing, shooting and murdering everyone, mostly each other. We called that the troubles. The second world war was called the emergency in Ireland. Do we ever call things what they are?   We were neutral during that war, but neutral on which side?

Come to Ireland, its better than nothing. It’ll do to be going on with. But don’t stay long, we might drive you mad.   If you’re not mad already.   Ireland is a state of mind, it exists only in the imagination. The imagination of a drunk God. We take after him. What are you having yourself?

I could go on and on, being Irish, but its closing time. Have you no homes to go to?   We have your money, you can go home now. A barman at closing time.   The long goodbye.

So some American came back from the toilet in a bar in Dublin. He said there’s no lock on the toilet door.   I never heard of anyone stealing a shit said the barman. That’s Ireland for you.   Me too.

I’m Irish, what do you expect?

Tich Ennis

22nd January, 2018

 

 

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Honey

Stands the clock at half past three and is there coffee still for tea?

Who wrote that, me.

Strongly influenced by Rupert Brooke who’s poem is worth a second look.

He died in the first world war possibly in the trenches.

When alive he may have sat on village benches.

Everyone loved his poem he said he wrote it in five minutes flat.

That’s that.

I suppose I’m less serious than him.

The boy in Treasure Island is called Jim.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that and many others you have heard of but may not know he wrote.

Frank Sinatra was called old golden throat.

I sailed on the mailboat.

I name some famous names here.

They come and go and disappear.

Life is not homosexual but queer.

I’m still here.

Tich Ennis

30th November, 2017

God’s Fatal Error

He made me. I let him down.

Into a hole in the ground.

The rest is history.

It is no mystery.

He trusted me.

I will exhume if I can.

To fulfill his plan.

God being God can rise again.

The question, when?

When I get down to it.

Should I do it?

I suppose so.

Here I go.

Call me mister Slow.

Now I know.

His mistake was mine.

It happens all the time.

Tich Ennis

26th July, 2017

Daggers Drawn

Why are we at daggers drawn until dawn?

Who fights a duel except a fool?

Death rather than dishonour, yes, he said, as for me I’d rather stay in bed.

He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.

So they say.

Why fight all night, why be uptight?

Alright.

I am seventy-six and survived some dirty tricks.

Its as clear as mud to me its better if we agree.

Now and then, as Elvis sang, there’s a fool such as me.

People just like me died young, alone, unhonoured and unsung.

I don’t wish to die for a flag or any other rag.

That’s not my bag.

Nor do I wish to die alone in a tangled mess of blood and bone.

Why can’t we leave each other alone?

Talk, at least on the telephone.

Friendliness is not unknown.

Blood or an ice cream cone?

I know which choice is mine.

I hope the weather keeps fine.

Tich Ennis

13th July, 2017

Depend

You can’t depend on the weather in Ireland or anything else at all.

Hear politicians talking, they might as well be talking to the wall.

They make no sense at all.

Ireland is rather small.

Does it punch above its weight in anything or is it fate?

We’re not bad at talking, when will we start walking?

We wrote some books, we sang some songs, we tried to right some wrongs.

Occasionally, once or twice, we get it right.

We emigrate, take flight.

Beannacht De libh, good night.

Alright.

Another wonderful day, as Beckett said.

Cheer up, you could be dead.

Tich Ennis

30th June, 2017

 

Toddler

Bemused, confused, I toddle on.

Who knows right from wrong?

Excuse my look of consternation.

I overhear your conversation.

So, some are older even than me.

Some younger too, I toddle on.

With whom shall I agree?

Someone, somewhere set me free.

Am I a slave until my grave?

Fortune favours the brave.

Each step I take nearer to my maker I make.

Should I put him right on a thing or two or is that me or is it you?

What’s a guy to do?

Ask you?

When all else fails observe jet trails.

Birds fly in the blue.

They know what to do.

Tich Ennis

30th June, 2017

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