Long Brendan Poems
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Just a poetic (souper) side note courtesy chief
wordsmith brother unaware ye experienced grief
diagnosed as walking pneumonia please bull lief
yours me, he doth care and breathes sigh of relief.
Gratis the miracle of modern medicine wife
of Richard McGeehan, he offered succor
during serious bout when ye suffered strife
lovingly tendering lifelong counterpart
spelling finis regarding any galavanting nightlife
nurturing mother of their grown son (Brendan),
who immersed her whole self as housewife.
How aware ill luck of the draw
found thee inexplicably stricken
with serious malady against the law
nearly necessitating travois
(maneuvered by Kit Carson)
to transport thee to medical center.
The above stanza unbeknownst to you
analogous to current reading material
myopic eyes of mine view
historical fiction titled
"A Most Desperate Situation"
authored by Walter Cooper,
I just might maintain as keepsake
among various and sundry other books
lined up like soldiers upon shelved queue.
Courtesy perusing selective material
not so much to become boastful
self pedagogical ace,
but merely to expand knowledge base,
whereby latest erudition
preoccupies mindscape with displace
called realm of imagination
allowing, enabling, and providing me
to travel into hyperspace
only welcoming family members
like thee dear sister into myspace
a beloved sibling
thirteen plus months older
glad ye got begat December 1st, 1959
whereby ye got fifty two plus weeks headstart
to join (chance throw of genetic dice)
entrance into human race.
Though Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan born
more than three score and three years ago
if series of unfortunate events would befall thee,
this sole brother would certainly mourn
and with futility emasculate and scorn
himself until... his own plaque
designating his buried cremains
in lieu of tombstone worn.
Killing occurs in front of kids on crowded streets
When every conflict ends in senseless violence
And fear takes stage as death becomes routine
Looking for a meaning where one does not exist
It spreads far and wide jolting every corner of life
Inside churches, schools, and spaces in between
Where unthinkable happens attacking humanity
Probing each time why guns are sold like candy
Hearing their cries, tears reign saddened eyes
Those who didn't die asking why they survived
As the nation drowns in grief one more time
Immobilized, witnessing end of innocent lives
Friends they saw that day left without goodbye
Conversations interrupted filling in the blanks
Words unsaid cower listening to heart demur
Repulsed by ugliness, clinging to solemn faith
Protests mount louder in the halls of Congress
Students deploy eloquence to confront inaction
Hearing again falsity nation has heard before
Fear gets replaced by a resolve to find answers
Millions have been counted as vocal protesters
Speaking intelligently to challenge lawmakers
Awakening goodness of freedom loving angels
Looking for our voice, to hear how much we care
Every movement relies on the goodwill of citizens
Its success originates in a rational conversation
Decipher again the words of second amendment
Nothing there envisions a bullet ridden nation
April 1, 2018
Social justice contest by John Hamilton
Societal discontent by Brendan Simons
Another Brick in the Wall
I went to St Peters School in Cambridge
The first time I ever heard Pink Floyd
Was at my friends house during lunch break
His name was Brendan
And was kicked out of school for being disruptive
Because he used to continually question teachers
He was a member of Mensa and had an IQ of 127 at age 16
During lunch break we used to go to his house and hangout
The only possession he had was a record player
And a set of Pink Floyd records
We were so obsessed with them
We even went to see Syd Barret who was institutionalizes
In a sanatorium in Cambridge
We loved the album the Wall
And one thing I learnt later was that
Roger Waters Mum was a teacher
Which when you hear the lyrics
Hey teacher leave those kids alone
Made me realize
Never judge a book by its cover
Don't just take words on face value
Look to understand the context
All in all we are all just another brick in the wall
If we simply listen to a wall
And never wonder how it was built
A poem by Frank Daub
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The sea is just down there.
I am anxious for the sight
of stone turned to bread by the wash
of foam and the jetting of the salt water.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The spiraling gulls
are sun lighted bright in their play
above the sand,
their startling dive
toward the sea is brief
in time and sight.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The freedom of the coast
was eight hundred years
at taking.
One bold county man’s toast
to the awakening water
baptizes the youth
who have forgotten Eire for other lovers.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
I haven’t heard the all
of every song
or the rise and fall
and rise of every story
that set a mother’s son
free to calculate a career.
I stand for stopping; Brendan says, “too late.”
I want to stay
where the past has gone,
old rebel cries and songs.
Yet,
it’s Brendan through the gate,
and gone
and done
and through with old.
BRENDAN AND BOBBY
Brendan joined the Provos in the spring of seventy eight
The local pub was bombed and killed his brother and his mate
Bobby joined the UDR when he was seventeen
His uncle had been murdered, in the colours of the Queen
Brendan had his first kill and he got the taste for more
He shot a local soldier, in the family’s grocery store
Bobby got his hatred from the Catholics he would meet
He was kicked and spat at, out patrolling on the street
Brendan made his first bomb, in the basement of a bar
It killed a Prison Officer, when it blew apart his car
Bobby lost a colleague in an ambush late one night
He took a bullet to the throat, just to Bobby’s right
Brendan placed explosives, in an old abandoned shop
He fell as he was leaving and he heard his ankle pop
Bobby manned a checkpoint, when he heard the painful yelp
He thought he’d check the building, just to see if he could help
Brendan gazed at Bobby, as the sweat ran down his face
He knew they’d take their last breath in that old abandoned place
A blinding flash and thud, both men tossed into the air
The whole place collapsed on top of them and crushed the dying pair
A Mother sits in Chapel and she sheds a painful tear
Some people watch the funeral of a young dead volunteer
A Mother sits in Church with a medal on her chest
A piper plays a slow lament and Soldiers laid to rest
Brendan ain’t ‘Able’
The teacher preached that we are all ‘different but similar and
love should prevail’ as the ruler came down in seven lashes
on the bare bottom in mathematical precision and so the pattern
was formed in bright red strikes and strides for creativity shelled
Two canes plus three canes had equalled one cane for Brendan lost in
the world of artistry fantasy mild mellowed dreams anticipation of
cruelty abandoned for a more equal world of compassion and kindness
Diversity does not mean we all have to die by the hand of the sword
But the ground rules were laid the nucleus centred the core enshrined
on the altar of learning of fear and conditioning the human condition
Surely Cain had been forgiven while Brendan was not just so able
What a premise to believe all need to be governed by rules and by fear
Brendan himself became governor received medals and glory on the
killing fields of purple hearts while his rainbow receded smouldered
in ashes and blood scripted the fiction that wars must be waged on
others infidels and the weak and the meek who simply don’t learn
Anarchy has been misunderstood for the chaos projected bedevilled
by the teachers and soldiers whose bayonet is the ruler the wooden
spoon for the worst form of governance inflicted by the concept that
we as the people and People could never know best are derided as sheep
Who says it is utopia that we cannot govern ourselves one step at the time
inch by inch like the face on the weapon that had patterned his cheeks
‘Rule thyself not thy neighbour’ let us stand up and rebel oppose the
dominion of dominant forces overthrow the rule and the ruler and live
10th March 2017
Oh, the folly of words, false!
Lies, rumors, hate, jealousy ...
Anyone who utters or listens to gossip,
Or takes it to heart as the truth, (forsooth),
Is doomed to be the fodder for such themselves ...
For by accepting its laurels and consequences,
They are condoning the perpetuation of hearsay and falsehoods,
And letting others know that they're of questionable motivation,
And highly questionable character.
Those who believe bad things about you,
Simply on the word of a third party,
(Even those things, arrows and slings, that are in opposition
To the kind of person they KNOW you to be),
Shall be reserved their own special place of judgment.
No mistake, the Universe is in perfect balance ...
Chaos is simply a disguise for all that is unknown,
So the "friends" who smile to your face,
But spread deceit and hatefulness behind you,
Are not only no friends at all ...
But are the kind of people that grease the gates of Hell ...
The kind who shall someday find their sorry selves
On the tip of their own vicious, spiteful spear,
Twisting in the wind of dire consequence,
Their lies and evil intent bleeding out ...
Into a pool of karma ... cold.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Karma" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Societal Discontent" Poetry Contest, Brendan J. Simons, Sponsor.
Two vagabonds
With a dozen of dogs
Around the half eaten bread
A boy and a girl
With the school bag and pink smile
The beggar boy and the pigeons look blank
Her boyfriend Collin
Has sent a letter that she
Cannot read with her darkness of illiteracy
Along with the letters
Send some light too in the envelope
Shabnam says
The hunger for the alphabet
The thirst for the sounds of music
All in the sparkling snow beyond their closed window
Through the window
In the thatch roof of the shanty
the moon laughs at and the rains soak the bed
The life remains a tattered shirt
The hungry stomach and empty mind keep filling
The multiple holes
We seek the buds of democracy
We stoke the fires of the wars alongside
The persona at the core of the personality
With the two hands you
Loot our flowers and the carrots
The hunger of the fists never satiates
Still we wait for the morning
Some Che Guevara will come and say
Come with me for the pigeons in the blue sky
We will recognise the wall
We will demolish the deliberate divide
A black boy will hold the hands of a white girl
The blue pigeons in every courtyard
The yellow roses without discrimination
The dreams of reading together the poetry book
__________________________________________________
April 2, 2018
For Societal Discontent - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brendan J. Simons
Cameras snap the last actions as tourists flash
Bullets fly by at respective velocities in streets
As dark humor goes out the window in Bruges
Some one falls from the high church tower
Assisted by gravity, a force of nature works well
A push from a stranger works even better
To bring him to his senses, obsequious to that end
A splat, a stain on the pavement below, where else
On the square, over a glass, a sampling of fresh brew
A hit man, this time, does not miss his mark
The story, like the beer, is delicious this time of year
Authors Note: The film named “In Bruges” (Who would do such a thing?) is a gem of a movie.
Colin Farrell, (eye brows and all), stars with Brendan Gleeson and Ralph Fiennes. A must see.
"Ralphie, Big Yellow. Ralphie, get up here it's Big Yellow!"
"I'm not as excited about Big Yellow as you are. I've made this quite clear."
"But the STOP! The STOP, Ralphie! We made a bet!"
"Brendan, I'm not gonna sit here and bet over people's lives."
"Holy hazelnuts, Ralphie! It's nearly here. One stop away!"
"I refuse to participate. These are human children."
"Last night you bet me no one would ever run the STOP."
"That was the walnut liqueur talking."
"Did you see that?"
"What?"
"That car went right past the STOP!"
Breaking ranks through the branches
They jumped across rows of trees.
There maple brown fuzz now rejoined,
Brushing against each other in the
Early angling sunlight.
Squad car sirens took to the air.
"Ya see that, Ralphie! Someone DID run the STOP!"
"With all those children."
"With all those children."
"But Ole Blue took care of it.
"Yes they did."
"I'm going back to sleep."
"The city bus comes thru in couple minutes."
"Good-night."
"It's MORNING TIME!.....
...
...
sorry for yelling."