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Best Poems Written by Brigid Foley

Below are the all-time best Brigid Foley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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April Snow

Of pink or white I don't quite know
the blossom tree of April snow.
Rebirth in spring creation wise,
on winters tale to clear blue skies.
A tree once camouflaged in green
now spring like born not clothed but seen.
The sudden April breeze it lifts
and blossoms blow as snowy drifts,
pink white blossoms scatter round
confetti covered snow like ground.
Alas the beauty of this tree so
quickly gone from sight to see,
is only lent a spring surprise before
re clothed in green disguise.

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Matchstick Girl

Matchstick Girl.

Matchstick Girl in ragged clothes,
lace up shoes and purple toes.
'Come buy your matchsticks from me sir,
your wife all fancy in her fur'.
Every night on London's streets
there were matchstick girls
with clip clop feet.
Men with sticks and big top hats,
cobbled streets with hungry cats.
Gaslights dimming out the night,
pavement shadows causing fright.
The matchstick girl to a window ledge,
strikes a match from behind a hedge.
Yuletide greetings she does see,
candles lit on a Christmas tree.
Girls with velvet ribbons and bows,
fancy frocks and socks on toes.
A mantlepiece with stockings hung,
gathered folk and a carol sung.
Satsumas, figs and dry cured ham,
chestnuts roast in a metal pan.
Then the matchstick girl with her stick of light
returns again to the dark cold night.
'Come buy your matchsticks from me please'
as she starts to shake and she starts to freeze.
That night her matchsticks all ran out,
she could not light a match to shout.
Snow had poured down snow on snow,
little matchstick girl nowhere to go,
she lay down on the snow instead,
with angel wings to rest her head.
The snowflakes carried her soul away
to a place called Heaven far away..

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Daffodil

Daffodil.

Oh, sweet welsh flower now rest and sleep,
hide your bulbs welsh women weep.
Your men not here they have since gone,
knee deep entrenched in France's Somme.
Welsh valleys, hills, now left behind,
to fight for King and fellow kind.
Oh, yellow flower of David's bloom,
on March 1st in each welsh room.
You let us know that Spring is here,
but men in France are far not near.
They do not see their native flower,
when cannons blast they fear and cower.
In Poppy fields of blood they lie,
where they once fought and then did die.
Oh, sweet welsh flower now rest and sleep,
your yellow blooms for welsh men keep.

Details | Brigid Foley Poem

His Jewish Face

His Jewish Face.

All of a sudden we no longer had names,
a gold star on our coats to make us feel ashamed.
All of a sudden they branded our arms,
numbers in ink like herds being farmed.
All of a sudden no homes did we own,
what money we had in our coats we had sewn.
All of a sudden no friends that we knew
would acknowledge us now
they could not know a Jew.
All of a sudden to ghettos we were led,
where we met with starvation
no food to be fed.
All of a sudden they came with their tanks,
their soldiers on foot and their high Commandants.
All of a sudden as the trains then grew near,
they divided us from the ones we held so dear.
All of a sudden as the trains pulled away,
we knew that on earth this would be our last day,
Then;
All of a sudden because of our 'chosen' race,
we met with Our Lord with his own Jewish Face.

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Aberfan

Aberfan

Fifty years since Aberfan and a welsh town's grief it first began.
For every coal mine, slurry mounds,
theirs claimed the young from school playgrounds.
Miner's digging underground below slurry piles that made no sound.
Seasons's came and then passed by and slurry tips held up the sky.
Charcoaled men worked as the norm, the day October grief was born.
Children just arrived at school when nature broke its own set rule.
Mother's who to school they led, some buried with their own sweet dead.
mothers lived and mothers died, that day old mother wales she cried.
Rain had poured on vales and hills, it stirred the base the slurry spilled.
Children in a flash wiped out, no time to plan or even shout.
Teacher's killed along with them, a school assembled said Amen.
A child was saved by twist of fate, she ran back home which made her late.
Her sister's life fate did not spare, when the girl returned no school was there.
The priest he knew not what to say, but held their hands and cried their pain.
He saw it as how Mary felt, when Jesus died and his mother knelt,
her broken son no longer here, she cried her pain with her own sweet tears.
The news it travelled world around, its focus on the ghastly mound.
The ghastly mound that sat so still, until the day it's larva spilt.
The dead were buried side by side, a school of souls in one landslide.

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The Street

'The Street'.

My naked arm leans on the cold window sill
and the street comes to life without whistle or drill.
A hinged gate making music with a squeak and a thud,
as it meets with the post full of rust in the mud.
Clip clop, clip clop a rhythm of feet,
heavy bags, dropped shoulders how far now
she must shriek within her bones and joints
that by now start to creak.
A ball a bounce, one, two three,
a child with a bike and small feet that must reach.
A small voice breaks the air, 'I'm telling on you',
then a punch from the boy we will call number two.
A postman a bag, and a letterbox to find,
a bark from a dog in front not behind.
A tree that is swaying, a gentle soft breeze,
A neighbour with nets, a cat purring a wheeze.
Flowers in rows in an orderly ground,
birds soaring by on a featherless sound,
An umbrella goes up, rain from the skies,
observing 'The Street', with my window ledge eyes.

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Wales

Wales

Oh, where is the land of mountainous hills 
where sheep ran the vales and men ran the mills.
Where mining was life for all those around,
with the pits bringing coal from dark undergrounds.
This was the life my friend you see,
of charcoaled men drinking charcoaled tea,
backs bent up and coughs they had
dawn to dusk these men worked hard.
It was Dad who showed me what to do,
'don't sit there lad it's up to you'.
'Up at six is what he'd say, early start to work today'.
It was his life, aye, and Grandad's too,
God, man the pits were all they knew.
There were no luxuries then my friend,
no point no money to spend.
Tins for this and tins for that,
the rent man, milkman and musn't forget Pat,
Pat he'd come round each other week
a couple of bob and then he'd keep
the graves around nice and bright,
we would have done it ourselves only we didn't
see much daylight.
The wife, no she had too much to do,
gossiping was all she knew.
But she worked hard in her own way,
washing sheets took her all day,
she always took in washing the wife,
she never complained about her life.
But times have changed I fear my friend,
you think I'm mad but I didn't want it to end.
You see what we had you never knew,
the pits have gone and life has too.

Details | Brigid Foley Poem

Sweetest Butterfly

Sweetest Butterfly.

Oh, sweet my sweetest Butterfly
you float and fly around,
wild flowers for your playmates,
like you they make no sound.
Wings of satin sheets
sewn with a silk for thread,
the Rose she hides you from her thorns,
her petals form your bed.
Sometimes you fly in two's or three's
on a bright Summer's morn,
you twirl and dance so daintily
and settle on my lawn.
Oh sweet my sweetest Butterfly
in my garden as I tend,
I work with joy and care for you
as you roam with all your friends.

Details | Brigid Foley Poem

Seamless Sky

Seamless Sky.

A sea of fluffy cotton wool,
clouds of changing scenes,
that softly but swiftly
move above our world of dreams.
A picture painted every day
to colour days gone by,
the artist sees a different stroke
with a gaze up to the sky.
The silence of the birds
that take the form of peace in flight,
prepare us for the beauty of
the Seamless Sky infinite.