SAYING FAREWELL

Getting ready to say farewell,
words clear in my mind,
rehearsed to perfection,
masterpieces of short speeches
primed and ready to go.


What can go wrong?


At the pinnacle of emotions,
the heart will rule and unsettle me,
the words will stick, the mouth will dry,
surely as it should be.

EMERALD BLUE

I am dazzled by the knife blade in the sunlight,
my skin cuts easily but the pain is less than I imagined
and as my blood escapes I notice it is less red,
more emerald blue.


I see the history in it, the life and death - it is blood after all -
and as a delta appears on my hand, I resist the urge to lick
or press the wound, waiting for other colours in vain, continuing to
bleed emerald blue.


I hear songs and poetry, see old faces, hear breathing, sense spirits,
noises from a long-distance life, siren wails from wars on streets,
witness splashes of full-colour blood, sepia blood, black blood,
seldom emerald blue.


For this liquid is mine, my protective albumen, my defence, my roots,
an unstoppable slow-flow to mesmerise, to kindle feelings, to remind,
to stimulate a fondness for beginnings, to underline weaknesses, to ease 
feeling emerald blue.

MOMENTS

For Rita


There are moments
for memories,
for happiness,
for reflection,
for resolutions,
for forgiveness,
for creation,
for untangling,
for emptiness,
for consolidation,
for perspective
and, as now,
for sadness,
for appreciation,
for love.

TWO TREES

Two near-identical trees, 
side by side,
one is dead still,
the other sways in the breeze.


I wonder which tree
is a reflection of me.

IT'S ALL GREEK TO ME

I was there when
the Minoans emerged in Crete,

the Mycenaeans arrived in Greece,


civilisation collapsed,


the Dorians invaded,


the colonies were founded,


Athens entered its golden age,

and the Hellenistic era
emerged,

only to fall when the Romans came.



My table weighs heavy with myths


as I ponder another Bushmills tumbler.



I look at Plato, Saucero, Knifeo, Forko, Spoono,

and bang my head in boredom slumber.

CHEERS

Terror, murder and mayhem,
financial and climate concerns,
political and social bickering,
festive enjoyment classed as a crime,
naysayers, gurus and charlatans
out to subdue and suppress
any notion of human goodwill 
at this and every Christmastime.


Cheers!

CHRISTMAS EVE

As Chrismas Eve
eases into Christmas Day,
I still listen
for the swoosh of a sleigh,
for bells in the sky,
refusing at fifty-seven
to let the magic die.


Sssssh! Listen...........

SAUSAGES BURNING AND SHAVING SOAP

Two smells

resurrect images of my father:

sausages burning and shaving soap.

One day after a blazing row with him

my mother took us kids out of the house,

for a breather, fresh air, time for things to calm.

We came back to find him lying on the settee,

in a light, smokey haze, sleeping off the booze, 

while sausages burned in the frying pan.

In the half a dozen times 

he hugged me, the scent of earthiness

on his chin was overpowering but reassuring.

Affection did not come naturally to him.

Six hugs, one for every year of my life

before he walked away from us.

CERTAINTY AND DOUBT

She's a beacon,
a shining, guiding light,
I know what she means to me,
I need to know she's close.

I have no axe to grind,

except what's on my mind.

She's my strength,
a shoulder to cry on,
I know what she means to me,
I need to know she's there.

I have no axe to grind,

except what's on my mind.

She's my seasons,

my present, my future,

I know what she means to me,

I pray we last forever.

I have no axe to grind,

except what's on my mind,
except what's on my mind.

HIS CHAIR

The chair 
was his chair.
He is no longer there
but the chair 
is still his chair.


Why do we stand
next to an empty chair?
He is not there
but he's always there.


It is still his chair.
It will always be his chair.

MOUSE CATCHER

At that time, I was the only male in the house,
the day my sister's face drained at the sight of the mouse.
Her jaw-dropping, silent-movie gasp said it all
and I heard the panic yell of the "mouse catcher" call.


I slid the door between the kitchen and the sitting room
and tiptoed to the cupboard for the sweeping broom.
I banged the larder door to disturb the monstrous pest,
listening hard for scuffles between the thumpings in my chest.


"Have you got it? Have you killed it?" came my sister's yaps.
"Sssssshhh, be quiet!" I breathed, searching cracks and gaps
for tiny eyes and movements to reveal the hiding place
until, at last, the moment when we both came face to face.


Bangs, clatters and crashes echoed around the kitchen room
but the mouse had no chance against me and my lethal broom.
(Word must have spread to other mice
for we never had to do the same thing twice.)

FOUR ARAN JUMPERS

Happily, Irish folk music has always been in my system and this is an affectionate tribute to The Clancy Brothers & Tommy Makem who immortalised the image of folk singers in cable stitch pullovers! I can hear myself singing this with a three chord arrangement on my old guitar.


Four aran jumpers singing of all shades of green,
of rebellions and highwaymen, martyrs and pretty colleens.
Four aran jumpers singing the songs of the past
of old folks in old times from Dublin up to Belfast.


Hearty and hellish, the tales of the tinkers, the drinkers, the rare mountain dew.
Rambling and roving the roads and the oceans and dining with John McEldoo.
Supping and sipping the porters and whiskies from dawn to the rise of the moon.
Courting and loving the young and the old and missing those taken too soon.

Four aran jumpers singing of all shades of green,

of rebellions and highwaymen, martyrs and pretty colleens.

Four aran jumpers singing the songs of the past

of old folks in old times from Dublin up to Belfast.

BLATANT BOOK PLUG

This is a poem that disguises an advertisement for my book “Retail Confidential”. I think I’ll call this type of blatant plugging an “adverpoem” – or perhaps not.

I wouldn’t say it’s definitive,

I wouldn’t say it’s unbiased,

I wouldn’t say it’s balanced,

occasionally it might be pious.

I wouldn’t say it’s boring,

I wouldn’t say it’s essential,

I wouldn’t say it’s suits all tastes,

this “Retail Confidential”.

I would say it’s an honest book,

about two hundred pages

with advice and stories tucked between

random rants and rages.

I would say it’s an offbeat look

at shops, shoppers and shopping

that should raise a smile with customers

and get store managers hopping.

“Retail Confidential”

a book from my career

on sale at Amazon and elsewhere

and you’ll find it’s not too dear!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Retail-Confidential-Joe-Cushnan/dp/1852526475/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1313088734&sr=1-1

Alternatively, go to Amazon and Search "Joe Cushnan" or "Retail Confidential"

LAST QUESTIONS

"Where will it end?"
said the whiskers and wrinkles.
"It's got to end soon,"
he cried, nearing decease.
"Can anyone prove,"
came the last words he spoke,
"that there is such a thing as peace?"

THREE CHRISTMAS POEMS

Three Christmas poems:

CHRISTMAS CRIB OUTSIDE ST TERESA'S CHURCH
HIJACKERS
CHRISTMAS CHAOS

A SAILOR REGRETS

I love the ocean and I hate the ocean,

I laugh and I cry with the tide,

I have my pride and I have my sins,

and I have nowhere to hide.

I spend my days here at the window
looking out on the sea,
the noise of the ocean whispers and moans,
it's a pain and a pleasure to me.


I am an old man remembering friends,
the courageous young folks I led,
storms and lightning ended their lives
and they haunt me now that they're dead.


I drink my whisky straight from the bottle
like the crew of the last boat I sailed,
I steered them into the troublesome waters
now I live with the fact that I failed.

PERFECT DAY

It was a perfect day for asking,
it was a perfect day for trying,
it was a perfect day for hoping
that you'd say yes to me.

It was a perfect day for romance,

it was a perfect day for love,

it was a perfect day for me if you

would just say yes to me.

Second by second,

minute by minute,

hour by hour,

I thought of how I'd play it.

Day by day,

week by week,

month by month,

I wondered how I'd say it.

It was a perfect day for walking,

it was a perfect day for humming,

it was a perfect day for praying

that you'd say yes to me.

It was the perfect day

to find a perfect moment

and you said....................

ORANGE SKY

I remember them sitting in the evening breeze,
holding hands and watching the sun go down,
not saying much for they both knew why
they loved each other and the orange sky.


When they first met their world was young,
his jokes were corny, her laugh polite,
a simpler time when love was shy,
at first sight under an orange sky.


A family raised as best they could,
ups and downs on a rocky road,
then decades passed in the blink of an eye,
now they've time to enjoy their orange sky.


Ascloseasthis in the evening breeze,
holding hands as they always did,
never taking for granted the love in their eyes
and the warming glow of orange skies.

WHEN GRANDA LOST HIS STAMMER

Memories of my grandfather Tommy.


We didn't call him Grandfather or even Grandad. He was Granda, my mother's father. He was a small, slight man but with the work ethic and grit of somebody twice his size. I remember he did the annual wallpapering and decorating in our house, always with a cheery demeanour, the occasional whistle and, every now and then, a song to himself. He had a stammer, quite severe at times, but that made him all the more endearing. He would give opinions and tell stories, sometimes struggling with certain words that simply refused to roll off the tongue. But, and I recall this very clearly, at a family do, he sang the song Nellie Dean and it was beautiful, even to a young kid like me. When he sang this simple little tune, the stammer was dead. Instead, he had the sweet voice of a tenor, unforced and pitch-perfect. "There's an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean," he sang and, you know, he looked happy and content, a small man but a great Granda. 

PUB CRAWL, MANCHESTER, 1976

Here's part of what I remember;
the route we took, the bars
we visited on 14 September 1976,
me and Tom, one night,
as we went and got our kicks.


Mitre Hotel,
Town Hall Tavern,
Vine Inn,
Crown,
Grey Horse,
Flanagan's
Portland Hotel,
Piccadilly Hotel,
Shakespeare

We eased into a satisfying hazy blur,

drinking beer after beer after beer,

bringing our Ulster craic to "the mainland",

in that long hot summer year.

We saw a woman, sitting at a bar,
half a lager, laddered tights,
beetroot sandwich, dangling cigarette,
our one-off crawl, her usual night of nights.


We stole an ashtray from a hotel lounge,
well one of us did but I'm no tell-tale-tit,
we stumbled to the last bus near midnight,
ate a Chinese takeaway and that was it.

The next morning was throbbing hangover hell
from the night me and Tom went out and got our kicks

and maybe there is much more to tell

about 14 September 1976.

.

DESTROYED

Your eyes
your smile
your tenderness
captured me


Your lips
your kiss
your honesty
enlightened me


Your heart
your love
your transience
destroyed me

THE ICE-CREAM VAN

Most Sundays in the summer,

from mid-morning to early evening,

the ice-cream van parked in a prime spot,

near the top of our street

to catch churchgoers and passers-by,

and kids sent out for the after-dinner treat.

We waited our turn listening to the noise

of the engine running, the occasional chimes,

smelling exhaust fumes, watching bluebottles

head-butting the glass, giving the open window a miss,

wondering how the ice-cream man could go all day

in his ice-cream van without taking a piss.

STEPPING STONES

Life's moments are never destinations,
more like stepping stones, not equidistant,
some easy to walk, some more challenging,
urging decisions, choices, grasping of opportunities,
leaps of faith or hope or pure recklessness,
stepping stone to stepping stone,
better without companions or qualms,
to face the risks and dangers completely alone.

AFTER READING 'THE RAILWAY MAN' BY ERIC LOMAX

The Railway Man by Eric Lomax about his time as a prisoner of the Japanese in World War II is one of the best books I have ever read - harrowing, yet uplifting. In 1998, he met Nagase Takashi, his interrogator and torturer, and a remarkable story of forgiveness emerged. The last two lines were written by Mr Lomax.


I read about the thirst,
about the hunger and filth.
I read about the naked fear,
the end of dignity.
I read about the hatred,
about the urge to kill.
I read of brutal acts,
the unbelievable.


I read about the day,
you and him ill at ease.
I read that face to face
you forgave enemies.
I recall petty things,
trivial and useless.
I compare me to you,
pathetic, courageous.


"Forgiveness is possible 
when someone is ready to accept forgiveness. 
Some time the hating has to stop."



CHRISTMAS CHAOS

Rudolph ate the Christmas tree 
while Santa wasn't looking,
turkey hid the stuffing
to sabotage the cooking,
sherry superglued the cork
to stop pre-dinner drinking,
mince pies took a long deep breath
and their middles started sinking,
presents all unwrapped themselves
and swapped the labels round,
cards erased their sentiments
looking blankly at the ground,
tinsel lost its sparkle
in a game of festive whist,
mistletoe withdrew its role
to prompt the Christmas kiss.


It was a relief to find
that this nightmare wasn't true
I just dreamt it as I dozed
in the supermarket queue.

EXPLORER

The whistling indecisiveness of freak winds,
the pull-push buffeting natural bully,
failed to blur the explorer's sharp focus
on the horizon, a point of end and start.
The blazing sun as sky-anchor, director,
the stars guidance at night, cloud patterns, currents,
added science to notions of the possible,
lust for the new, driven by curiosity and fame.
Who knows what is over the distant line - keep moving,
survive, eat snow, gorge on salted provisions, sour milk and flat beer,
drive on to a place without footprints and human smells,
then consider a flawed future now that Man is here.

MINOR INCIDENT BETWEEN MY MOTHER AND THE REVEREND IAN PAISLEY

This happened sometime in the early 1970s in our living room.


In an uncharacteristic burst of anger,
my mother once took off her slipper,
concentrated hard, took careful aim
and let fly at the television set.


On impact, the vase on top wobbled,
we kids tranced between gasp and cough
and the reason for mother's missile -
Ian Paisley shouting his mouth off.

GOOD REEF

Constance the contortionist

on a gig up in Kircaldy*

was performing all her usual tricks

with her supple rubber body.

But halfway through proceedings

in a flash of memory lapse

a leg went left instead of right

and the act veered toward collapse.

One wrong move and what came next

just added to the rot

and Constance left the stage that night

rolled up in a knot.

(*Some will know but others might not – it’s pronounced Kircaudy)

DELICATE

I hear the wind
urging the door to creak,
upsetting my concentration 
and mood so bleak.


I hear a thought
refusing to let you die
a delicate moment,
capturing you and I.

5 X FUN POEMS

BIG GAME

If flamingo

plays bingo,

If baboon

plays pontoon,

can you object

To newt

laying

trivial pursuit?

HOP HAT

Round and round

the milliner’s shop

my group of rabbits

on the hop

eating every type of hat

until each one was very fat.

So now one of my magical habits

is pulling top hats out of rabbits.

GRASSISTANT

There was a gardener called Brewer

who invented a grass-cutting cure

his brain went pow

he thought of a cow

as the ultimate efficient lawn mooer

HUM DEE DUM DEE DUM

One theory

about the humming bird

is really quite absurd.

It’s said

it hums the tune because

it doesn’t know the words

CHUMS IN MY TUM (or HANNIBAL LECTER'S POEM)

I had some friends for dinner

and from the evidence of empty dishes

despite the calorie intake

my friends were quite delicious.

HIJACKERS

One Christmas, Santa brought me a toy tipper truck filled with sweets.
I loved it and had great fun loading and unloading my new toy,
driving up and down the hall, in and out of the legs of my family,
sometimes accused of being a pest, other times ignored completely,
but content in my own imagination, a happy, lucky little boy.


But the fun turned to frustration and despair when the hijackers closed in.
My brothers and sisters ganged up to steal the sweets, mean with greed.
I shouted, cried and appealed to my mother as I tried in vain to guard
the most precious possession at that time in my life, under threat
from my own family, this band of robbers pursuing this evil deed.


What does that say about me as fifty years on I remember it?
My only pleasure is knowing that the hijackers think they got away with it.

SONGS OF YOU

This is more a song lyric than a poem.

Songs of you come easy

The words and music make me cry

Songs of you come easy

It’s been so long I wonder why

The years still cast a haunting shadow

Showing you in silhouettes

Still without you where would I

Have found he time to have regrets

For every moment looking back

Two lie wasted on the floor

And though I see your face at times

I can’t pin my hopes on closing doors

Songs of you come easy 

the words and music make me cry

Songs of you come easy 

it’s been so long I wonder why

It all comes down to loving arms

That hold the past and won’t let go

There’s not a lover in the world

Who doesn’t know the way it goes

I’ll hold the pen and let it write

‘Til I run out of things to say

Then I’ll close the book and try

To put all my thoughts of you away

8 x POP MUSIC HAIKUS

PROCOL HARUM
Dancing salty dog
skipping a light fandango
wearing a homburg


ELVIS COSTELLO
Hire the detectives,
man in specs is watching you,
his aim may be true


PAUL SIMON
Boy in a bubble,
rhymin', hearts, bones, Graceland, saints
and water trouble


LITTLE RICHARD
The guy can't help it,
Lucille, Molly shake his room
with a wop bam boom


REM
Nightswimmers in tune,
sleeping sidewinders tonight
dream of man on moon


HOT CHOCOLATE
Sex thing, little miss,
she could have been a lady,
started with a kiss


THE HOLLIES
Pigtails and freckles,
Carrie-Anne at bus stop with 
Jennifer Eccles


RINGO STARR
It don't come easy,
beaucoups of blues, boogaloo,
Thomas goes woo-woo

ON SUICIDE

He seemed so happy, content,
a "together guy" his friends would say,
life and soul, he'd light up a room,
laugh and joke, give you the time of day.


Nice wife, nice kids, nice home,
great job going well, no sign
that something was troubling him,
something that made him cross a line.


Sometimes we can have it all,
physical, emotional and material stuff,
but sometimes something's missing
and having it all is not enough.

BREATH OF A NATURALIST

This is another poem attributed to my creation Hamish Sheaney, possibly spoofing the rural notions of a poet with a similiar name.......

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw,

chewed and sucked, a mulch of tasty-tangs,

in his molars, remnants of a cabbage dinner,

green specks against his yellowed-enamel fangs.

His scrumpy-filmed tongue laps saliva,

ready for the next gob-spit on the dirt,

he aims for a dragonfly sunbathing

and zaps it with a hiss of deadly spurt.

His lunch is cheese and scallions in a bap,

strong pickles and a string of sausage links,

two jugs of rocket-fuel, four-star hooch

and an afternoon collapsed in forty-winks.

He rouses from his nap and yawns with gusto,

belching out a cloud of rancid breath,

all animals overpowered by halitosis

stagger round on the brink-edge-ledge of death.

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw

wilts from the rank aftershock of every breath he’ll draw.