Irish Toast
Dhia Duit
the Irish love a good páirtí
and go at the craic with gusto
the Guiness and Jamesions flow
musicians gather round: bodhran, fiddle,
guitar, concertina, the hall
reverberates to the sounds of a lively ceili
lasting till the wee hours of the morning
enough to keep the fairy folk awake
when all is finished before leave takin’
a toast is hoisted with glasses all around
Slainte mhaith to you all
Went to see an Irish band
For a late St. Patrick’s day
In a little local restaurant
Not very far away.
The fireplace was crackling,
The menu Irish-based,
The Guinness fresh and flowing,
All just perfect for my taste.
The 3 piece combo sang and played
Guitar and pipe and flute.
A banjo and a concertina
Joined the fun, to boot.
We rarely get to do this
But as time makes it advance,
We should grab each opportunity
While we still have the chance.
The Friday that is here today
was here yesterday, of course.
That's what getting older seems to be, to do:
today was yesterday
was the day before
and before.
It's my weekly washday today -
weekly, but was here yesterday,
or so it appears.
Always appears to be.
Yes, so it seems,
and seems.
Time is a concertina.
Friday was a week from Friday,
then three or four days
before those days closed in,
closed in, closer and closer.
A concertina can squeal and whine.
(21 Oct 2023)
The aroma of mellow gardenias, the dance of a ballerina,
the sound of an Italian concertina
Purple, shaded, toe shoes that glide across a stage with
footlights and an applause of praise.
Tender thoughts to remember, in winter, Spring or even
a blustery, Midwest September.
Birthdays that my parents bought me corsages for, and
many relatives with presents at the door.
Birthday dinners on ivory and gold linen with candle lights,
such elegance.leaves, my soul, sparkling bright.
Decades later, I recall, my little daughter, Maria born three
days prior to my birthday, was the most blessed gift from
God~overall!
I may be eight-five today, but I still am full of life and to plan
to play, full-out, till God calls me home on my final day.
3/13/2023
I ponder whose hands concertina time.
Sometimes my brain wakes up 40 years younger
for a few moments I am vital,
perfectly formed and a smile for every eye.
Other times though, I arrive in the world
already clawing at my coffin lid.
I'm riding a double-decker London bus,
there's a girl beside me
and she is rubbing the inside of my thighs
while she talks of Kafka.
Now I'm in a train, liver-spotted hands
trembling, as I myopically read a book
about bloody Kafka;
I am gonna have to read some of his stuff one day.
It’s another morning,
and I am hill running with my 10 year old son.
Breathless we get to the top
he is laughing and I am winded.
Now I recall Kafka's book, 'The Metamorphosis',
still don't have to read it,
I understand perfectly well
that the hands of time
are always squeezing us into what we were
by what we became.
Summer sky sparkles under huge bursts of light
Spiraling rockets and rainbows of color delight
Kiddie rides and merry-go-rounds spinning around
While roller coasters lift one high off the ground
Vendors sell hotdogs and pink cotton candy galore
Even if you win a prize, you come back for more
The midway is lively with strange, exotic shows
Sporty guys have their gals, and the gals their beaus
Warm breezes waft through the open-air cantina
A wandering stilt walker plays a squeaky concertina
The dads will gain bragging rights ringing the bell
A barker guesses mom’s weight, but she’ll never tell
Then, too soon the fun was over, tents folded up
All I brought home was a tiny, plastic loving cup!
written February 25, 2022
Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.
Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.
Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.
Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.
I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.
FINGERDANCE
I remember finger dancing as a young ballerina.
Why I could, leap, twirl, fly in the air to the sound of
an orchestra or even a concertina!
As many decades have quickly whirled away, with the
beauty of the seasons.
I am trying it yet again, and find, I am still that little girl,
with glistening brown hair, and pink ballet dress, once
and forevever, an accomplished ballerina, who needs no
reason!
The young days of pink tulle and net have never, from ny
soul, drifted very far away.
And, if only you were here, you would see me now,
fingerdancing, across the walnut, shining table in
every which conceivable, patterned way!
9/13/2021
Some are born by paupers
Their struggle starts at infancy;
With dried-up bottoms
And washed-out concertina ribs,
Yet their rust-colored teeth find solace
On their mother’s shriveled breasts.
Others are born with silver spoon,
I mean the fat-bellied children of fate;
Yet still suck their podgy fingers,
And one-nippled bottle
Instead of their mother’s juicy breasts.
For those whose story
Has been written with PEN
In the pages of colorful memoirs
Life is a bed of roses
Dressed in ornate regalia.
For those whose story
Has been written with PAIN
Each scar on their body
Is a lesson taught by life
To bring them into limelight.
Nevertheless, in both cases
Nativity is an unarguable scenario,
The beginning is already written
How the story ends is up to you.
The ‘classics’ section is not small.
Ranks of tightly printed editions
squeeze a concertina of time.
The glossy acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose,
I dodge a graphic array of explosive masterpieces.
Movies have usurped many of these books
Wikipedia factoids précis lengthy sagas,
Hearsay, and word of mouth
account for whole aisles of masterpieces.
There are just a few left,
books that keep their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf –
speed-read my way through,
or maybe just read the blurb and the last chapter
just in case I am ever asked.
UDELNAYA MARKET 6:30 PM
6 30 and not yet all gone -
Shadows lengthening,
Suns light in eyes, still
Difficult to see the end .
Flowers of the day now dried petals,
Empty boxes, blowing papers.
Basket-seller struggles
With armfuls of wickerwork;
Cigarette butt ends burn out;
Concertina man collects up
His small coins to leave.
Day-blankets spread on ground
And covered with junketry
Leave their prints in the dust.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Note.
This is the day’s end when the busy Udelnaya flower market is closing.
SE PROMENER
Down by the River Seine, where light abounds
come take a walk with me, a sheer delight,
just listen to the distant flowing sounds
of Paris coming to another night;
to hear a distant concertina play
is magic to mine ears, c'est magnifique,
and only Paris lives, in such a way
that brings the love of which the poets speak;
to see this city shroud itself in glow
from all the love, of which we are a part,
is seeing birth that few in life can know
and all this love of Paris, is its' heart.
Je vais me promener--come join my walk
forgetting life a while, let's idle talk.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Tonight, I miss God, though I doubt he IS;
All sense of Providence stripped away
Like my wife’s gray smock last time I saw her
Walking naked and welted to showers
From whence the sole cleansing is soul release
From this chamber of horrors which now is
Our life. Dirty Jood they now call me,
Spitting, and striking my dignity down.
The world around me seems strange viewed through
Coiled concertina razor wire,
Cut-off, as it were, from all engagement
With beauty, birds, billowing clouds, blessings.
O God, departed One, return delight’s
Remembrance in Redemption, if You care!
© 2016 David W. Palmer
I am at your side - a faithful dog.
You are my master - my ship in dock.
You care for me, a god besides...
If you left me, I'd be rudderless.
Don't leave...
I am at your side, in this, a well
of unimaginably harsh sound.
Noise is the bending of ears
that do not want to know...
and you should never leave.
Do not leave me, your dog,
in troubled times
with wailing sounds
or concertina, or whatever.
Believe me... Stay.
----------------------------------------------
Julia Ward,
8/8/2015
Contest - Your best poem with metaphors
Sponsor - Silent One
7th place win
The sea breathes
Gently in and out,
It seems to sigh upon the breeze.
Waves sparkle
Like liquid silver,
Dappled diamonds on restless swell;
Advancing
Gently up the shore,
Relentless, driven by the moon.
Aromas
Of rich dark seaweed,
Distinctive halogenic nose.
White egret
In rock pool dipping
While oystercatchers scream on by.
Eternal tide,
Pumping in and out
Like measured concertina strokes.
Mesmeric.
I could watch for hours,
Lost in timeless fascination.
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