The Changing Face of Ireland (parts 1 and 2)

The Changing Face of Ireland pt. 1

Alas, the dark peat has covered the land,
The bog, the flax dam,
Like my father, poised, upon a roof
His shovel held high,
Fell, like a descending leaf,
A graceful descent, above the bog
Eaten by a bear.

His spade, now, lies rusty and old,
I stoop, to pick my pen,
From the wet peat.
The slap of sod onto the earth,
The taste of potatoes,
The bottle of elderly gin on my windowsill.

I turn and write. To set the ground
Shaking. a comet passes. But I do not see.

Tonight, I shall go to the Bee Hive.
No longer a place for honey,
But a pub. We shall drink there tonight.

Although I am broke. And must scrounge drinks
From my kindly friends. Surely one day
Someone shall give me a job. But for now, I turn
Take up the spade, and dig.

The Changing Face of Ireland pt. 2

Phone Mast Dave
amidst a waterfall of dreadlocks
parted the rapids
and reached for a lighter

Dublin accent
With a twang of canadian
For this
We have hip-hop to blame

Cyclops like
He took Ulysses from my bookshelf
A handy flat surface
To roll some jazz

Stately, Plump
I hoped he didn’t roach the cover.