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Ian Foley Poem
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My braces are pinching me and I remove them but really I only want to get closer
The harder grasses prickling our arms but why does she complain so little
The sun beats down and the clagg is to swished away from exposed flesh
Her focus is love or lust or me for now at least
The wood wasp announces its arrival and stands still in the air and looks
Too early for distraction he thinks and gone in a split second.
The summer sun beats down and hums as far as the eye can see
She arches her back a little and peels her long auburn hair behind her ear and smiles
Anticipation pent up amoungst the tall waving ears of meadow grass and poppy
She asks is this grass tall enough beside the river bank
The river chuckles and laps and quacks with ever notes of time going by
Again can anyone see us she says. Don't worry there's no one for miles.
She stiffens and recoils in a fractional notice and my torrent ebbs some what
I sit up on the tartan rug. Look there is no one my love and I stoke her ankle
I turned my head to the river bank opposite to an anxious man sitting up too
The tall waving grass as if supporting the lone head of this man this courting spoiler
My torrent disappears down. A drive becomes my angered disappointment contained
My beauty in lace white and of steady eagerness then abates with my news
I told you. I told you. And her heart shows me no sad disappointment no loss
Gathering our selves and bits of grass dart away past cocks of meadowed hay
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Tom sat fer-nent the table within a smoker's chair
A table pot of pra-tes and bacon quivers there
The cook an apron dirty wipes the grease and clears her throat
She cooks her husband dinner the children's and the goat's
He smokes his pipe asunder and prods and pokes its shoot
Burnt black his index finger tobacco by the root
Dear wife is it not ready for the pit I have to trot
the horse will soon be ready the timber and the shot
Dear man move to the table the butter there just melt
The pra-tes are King Edwards and tighten up your belt
Tis hot and floury flavour the bacon salty rich
Some milk would be a cooling or you will have a stitch
Dear child come home from school now those shoes a wearing bare
You scholar and a brother of fiddle and of flare
Before you have your pra-tes put turf upon the light
Where's dear dear sister Nancy be home before the night
And Annie did you eat yet asked he a million times
Not yet the lady calls out but yet she never dines
The kettle purring steadily in black and iron cast
A crook a blackened lever and tea for all at last
Hurry up now dear dear Annie the night shift I must go
Some bread some bacon sandwich the night for money sow
The sound of carts a coming and following the man
Oats and horse a chopping the collars and the ham
Goodbye now Cook and ready now depart and bid fair due
My jacket wet and dripping, tonight and on the crew
Carts a pulling coal blast the horses strain and tear
A fire man's instruction and all are quite aware
Black sandwich square the dusty air take soda made with fruit
I hope one day I'll get away and always wear a suit
The night is done and Annie come to greet me on the mat
Without you dear I'd not be here my life my joy my cap
(1940s- West of Ireland)
Ian foley- for the :Middle Of The Road Contest
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Packed all our bags and into the car
A family of eight a dog from the bar
My father a publican hard worker as wife
deserved all their holidays each year of their life
We struggled and pushed and found a niche seat
a twin on a knee a boy at Mom's feet
Crew cut and bowl shape a haircut to last
A sister and mother rules they would cast
Up the long Highway M6 to the north
In the Welsh mountains and lakes not far from old Borth
Over the Menai to Holy Island port
Holyhead ship the Munster we thought
Seven in the morning up and alight
Sugar loaf mountains pull into sight
Feeling of home of excitement and glee
Twins are a missing Oh toilets you'll see
Down the N4 by Kilcock Dad had said
Mullengar for a draper shop selling sausages and bread
Past by the undertaker at the back of a dump
A chemist is busy selling petrol at pump
Down to the Granny and uncle who dwell
On a farm in the west with cattle and well
Black jack on bee stings and hay to a toss
Kittens and dogs and pine martens the lot
Father so proud doing well to a view
Mother delighted her brother just knew
Working for family his pride and his way
Both gave us good times as children we say
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Montezuma Golden on earth he lived upon his land
Cortes his rival metalled horse and soldier Spanish grand
Aztec warrior a noble race to them a god should come
From far beyond their skeleton homes and on beyond their drum
Arrived with thirteen horses led, ship- wrights cooks and priests
Conversion of the savage race for gold to calm the beast
Convert or die a mottoes cry or fall before the sword
For Spain to bow for Phillip now and seek out your reward
They marched and welled volcanoes tell their horses bayed the throngs
Allies deide a growing tide a force with banging gongs
To Mexico go a causeway row an empire of the sun
Dream of gold and rape be told a new utopian
Hostage held Montezuma tell your treasures of the peaks
Deliver now a golden brow or life will leave your cheeks
More and more arrival gold in plaza decked festooned
But leave they say won’t go away disease takes over soon
A battle shout of wooden clouts by causeway boats do meet
Eventually send new boats amend an Aztec mass retreat
To citadel retreat to hell burn out each temple top
The fallen crown for Phillip down complete and burn the lot
A sorrow say a race away today their pride does seep
Christian bell before to tell a loss of millions weep
Cortes rebels and changes shell a death mask soon will show
Response a plea a shame you see as god meets him below
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Drones abound the London sky
Search lights stray and flick to something and nothing
The bicycle dings its bell every sixth house
As the warden swishes his front tyre left and right up the empty evening street
The council house drapes of black and brown are shut tight regulation tight
He's coming he's coming tape up tape up she shouts
Don't want another fine for light
The grub is ready at the back door for a quick dash to the air-raid shelter in the night
Sirens whail and bellow and bomber engines humm in ever louder melts
Fire fire and the engines leave the call centre and head the regular route to the city
God bless em souls the dear old lady calls as she stirs the black current jam
Whistling bombs and Stucker dives throttle and hurtle a miss
But they land too well and devastate the docklands and the strip
Hell's fire rages along the wharfs as fire-ships spray the warehouses
Brave soles are they who stay out amid the descending droplets of terror
Face the wrath of Germany's luftwaffe who continue to pour water and pull souls
And morning cannot come fast enough for to French shores a retreat
Arrival of Dawn and the last bombers chug away hasseled by the RAF
And down descends a lonely Tommy ace one of our own bewildered lads
Parachute wrapped and Tommy sitting on Sally's polished red front door-step
Here are her two prides of joy: One sitting on the other; the live one her brother.
(One of her biding memories of the London Blitz)
Night time Bombing raid in London's fair City during Second World War
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Windows thrown open on a sunny June morning
Refreshing and uplighting like a sun flower's first captured vision
Breathe deep and absorb the sallowed air
A woodpecker knocks and signals that summer has sprouted at last
The window causes the wood pigeon to scare and swoop away to the south
It flies leaving my elder berry tree. Oh those lovely teas of the elder berry
I must check the size of the raspberries on those endless spreading tendrills
And tie up the old conference pear to the bending summer wind
New cut grass divine in smell from yesterday's motored cut
The stinging nettles make no effort to grow beside the swings
Small crimson and green rhubarb shoots sprout out and lack a feed
And the wind blown fish meal has moved on beyond the base of the plum tree
The wood pigeon returns and lands and hides like so many years before
Mr swallow swans and loops for insects upon the wing
So many frog sprawn clumps at top the septic tank some born some wriggle
And once before a pine marten appeared and lifted the lid of my old dust bin.
A garden so rich and vibrant so productive and open
I welcome all comers to grow to feed to view to read
It oxygenates the mind and calms the soul
Brings happiness and reason gives purpose and marks the season
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2012
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Ian Foley Poem
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James Foley a rebelious man within his clan
Lends a hand to his neighbour's eviction and land
Decided in a church yard chat of alarm
A process served on a man is evil and darned
Evicted from thatch is fearful in that there is no where to go
They band in the mist on a boheen grass strip await the post man's right hand
The process appears the postman he nears he waits then bowls near the crowd
He fronts the large gang of vagabond brand his letter is blocked y their stand
The post bag is ripped from shoulder and quiped you go and leave this place now
The contents ransacked and process burnt black not delivered for court or for hand
Constables came one hour remains a battering ram then deployed
All scurry on out in fear from a shout leave tears in their door way a jammed
Jail of six months in Limerick they shunt assizes demand of their mane
Their women folk fear the crops needed dear the neighbours gather around in a feat
A cheer and a fire admired by a shire propaganda and telegraph sent
Fair play to those wives revolution aside that church yard endeavoured to dream
My G/Grandfather's act i 1908
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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Remember the day you helped to display a picture of a Mexican Mother
She was swaddled in blankets of orange brown wraps and holding
her new born babe.She looked out of a shuttered window across a
laboured vineyard with unconditional love. Her eyes saw an evening
sky that glowed and ebbed beautiful shades of autumn reds.
The picture sat on the wall above our new crib beside our bed.Our
new baby's crib. Baby Katy. Black hair just as in the picture I'm sure.
A new patchy red skin of unbelivably vunerablility and loved so
much by both of us. She would russell away all night. No sleep to be
had but thoughts of love all day at work.
I see you wife now so many years later as that Mexican Mother. And
loved you that way. And as for my daughter I see you as then too.
I can by pass your demands now.Demands unreasonable and biased.
You will return one day with that loving effect on me. You will understand
when an adult. My second daughter arrives later just the same way.
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2012
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Ian Foley Poem
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After two Pints of Guinness an old uncle of mine in the West of Ireland would
become very cantankerous. When he went into a bar he would smile falsely to
pretend he was not cantankerous - after the second pint it crept back in.
His name was Pat and he would be around 75 years then. He always wore
a sleeve-less autumnally coloured horizontally lined jumper and a browny black pin
striped tag (suit) and peak cap. I know he wore long Johns back then in the 1980s.
He also had two clear apparent rods to the back of his neck when he strained it! His
main difficulty in life was that he had no heirs and lamented about this when ever
there was drink taken. One of his favourite comments for nephews of all families
when pint two or more were sunk was to say to us:
You can keep coming but you'll get nathing. (We never wanted anything).
His wife Mary had a loud shrill voice and each time she spoke Pat's eyes would
flicker. He'd turn his head away from this loud noise a hundred times a day.
I often thought the sound would penetrate his brain and that's what disturbed his
mind some what.
Pat had drank three pints in a certain bar while seated at he counter on a high stool.
John Francis came into the bar and sat beside Pat. John was around 65 years. He
wore a long creamy coloured rain coat. So coloured from never having been washed.
It stretched down to the top of his cattleman's wellingtons. John had a perpetual
white scum in the corners of his mouth. Why I cannot say.
How ya John says Pat. A pint for John. John says:
No I'll get me own - John knowing Pat's character traits only too well.
Pat went into the details of his cattle trading days as usual and the many fights he
had at the cattle fairs years ago. But at the end of almost every sentence Pat would
always say:
"Are ya lishning to me are ya on the point " (lishning-listening)
John would continually reply :
"I'm lishning to ya" repeatedly.
"Are ya lishing to me are ya one the point" Is said yet again but now he is elbowing
John as well.
More talk and another: Are ya lishning to me are you on the point (elbow)
This is said at least 15 times over the hour and John is getting fed red sick of this
constant: Are you lishning to me etc and the elbowing to the ribs and says to Pat:
Didn't I tell you I was lishning to ya and I'm Sick lishning to ya and while I'm at it
would ya don't be talking shi_e.
All the young girls around the bar burst out laughing at this. (True)
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2011
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Ian Foley Poem
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We waited quietly as the sirens calmed and quenched their searing drone.
The air raid shelter hushed in baited breath. One second more. Maybe the end is nigh.
All a quiet beneath an unseen sky. Maybe her child wont cry.
Maybe I wont every see those shower room white tiles staring back at me again.
Tiles arched over us. Over our laments and muffled cries.
Our house our street. Will it be there.
Or will it be there but emptied by scounderels a plenty.
Stay close child and use my heat. This ticket office door pushes drafts beneath it.
Drafts into my ears her ears. Woolen socks pulled up as high as they can allow.
One second more again the droning and I cover her ears my child don't listen.
Screaming Shrills and thuds again.Move away you bombs elsewhere.
To East ham or anywhere. And you you acursaid man. I do not know you.
I fear your motives.If only my fire tending husband could defend me now.
Go down the platform now sir.We are bedded here and intend to stay till bombs end.
This is our platform. Huddle close child the night is long and the platform grey and cold.
Later it ends.Too soon to move.The parrafin stove simmers a kindly brew.
God above tea at last.Tea has saved the night and brought the dawn raids end.
For I know this that a war will be won and won with tea and no credit shall tea be given.
The moving masses alight from their drab and coated stage. Queitly and slowly maybe
reluctantly ascending to the London sky.Delaying the vacant and unknown future.
London Tube station shelter in 1940- Ian Foley
Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2012
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