Tag Archives: Ireland

Answer

Is God the answer to my problems or is he the cause?

Do I defy all known laws?

How come everything is problematic, is the answer in my attic?

It appears doing things is easy, why is finding out how such a slog?

Ireland is one seventh bog.

This pilgrim’s progress is a mess.

If I keep going I will find out how.

I am my own God anyhow.

Back to the grindstone now.

One thing, go to source.

You’ll find the answer there of course.

Tich Ennis

27th September, 2017

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Remember

We knew everything before and discover it anew.

Some ancient philosopher said that, I don’t know who.

Alright, he said it is as if that is the case.

I don’t want egg on my face.

In a flash of illumination and recognition we know, at last.

As if we knew it in the past.

What can this mean, is all time one?

There’s nothing new under the Sun.

Is my life nearly run?

Not quite I hope when I have not begun.

Tich Ennis

29th August, 2017

Corn

I don’t know why I bothered being born.

I am an unripened ear of corn.

Possibly sometime it will all make sense.

Or maybe, quite likely, I am dense.

In the meantime I sit on the fence.

This may be just a mood I’m in.

The question is, when will I begin?

When young kicking up a row someone said don’t start.

I hope I will not break my heart.

Tich Ennis

24th August, 2017

Up And Down

Things are looking up and down again, some things aren’t half bad.

Some things are only slightly mad.

Not quite as bad as I thought whoever or from whomever I bought.

Life is quite fraught.

Not quite as bad as I thought.

But still not quite completely all there.

When I trust them I go spare.

So the misleading mislead the misled.

I sometimes think I should have stayed in bed.

Tich Ennis

17th August, 2017

 

Wonder

Has it all been done before and said before and if so why say it again anymore?

Not all people seem to know or have heard the word, including me, I agree.

Truth is free.

In every age we rant and rage and fill a page.

We seek a sage.

The old is new and new is old, a neverending story told.

We wonder why we live and die and laugh and cry.

Beneath the sky.

So do I.

Tich Ennis

17th August, 2017

Litter

Should I write a poem about the bad things in life, a mugger’s weapon or a surgeon’s knife?

A knife may be used for good or ill, to cure or kill.

Dirt is misplaced matter, eat the wrong food and get fatter.

Uranium makes a bomb or an x-ray, kill or cure children while they play.

I hate the word nice, nice is fake good, I should take my advice.

Superstition is not good, touch wood.

Does a gun serve any useful purpose except as a paper weight?

Skaters skate a figure of eight.

Self defence it was decided in the year four hundred is alright.

Make a preemptive strike, goodnight.

I am not quite so sure.

May peace and love endure.

Tich Ennis

16th August, 2017

Sock

Deer Oirish Riters’ Soc, I want to rite but should I?

I can’t spell, but what the Hell?

Does grammar matter, should a thin person be fatter?

A writer must have something to say more than have a nice day.

Nothing rhymes with I except die.

That’s not completely true, are you?

I’ll put a sock in it for now.

Have a nice day despite the rain anyhow.

Tich Ennis

16th August, 2017