Home » Poems » Best » Terry Ireland » Best Terry Ireland Poems

Best Poems Written by Terry Ireland

Below are the all-time best Terry Ireland poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

And the Dog Laughed Too

He stood on the street corner
Having a much needed smoke
Somehow we got chatting
And he told me a joke 
And i started laughing
The way that you do
He looked at me smiling
And started laughing too
And his dog laughed too.

It became a habit
Ever after that
Every morning I’d stop
For a little chat
And listen to any joke
That he would tell
His supply seemed endless 
And he told them so well
And his dog laughed too.

One day I saw the dog
Out with another guy
So I said hello to him
And I asked him why.
He said he was standing in
His dad had had a stroke
So I sent my best wishes
And I really missed his joke 
And his dog just looked sad.

I asked about him every day
Was told he was improving
Was chafing at the bit to
Get his recovery moving.
I was so pleased to hear
Of progress like that
For I really missed 
His joke and our chat
And his dog looked optimistic.

Then one day I saw him back
Standing there having a smoke
I bid him a good to see you
I’ve missed your daily joke.
We both laughed uproariously
As he told me his latest one
And the dog wagged his tail 
All signs of sadness gone
And his dog laughed too.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Goodbye and Thanks

Goodbye fellow Poetry Soupers
It’s time to change my ways,
Time to adjust my life for the
Coming longer, milder days.
There are weeds to be pulled,
Seeds to be sown,
Hedges to be clipped,
Grass to be mown, 

Walks to be walked, 
Friends to be seen,
Places to be revisited,
New places I’ve not been.
Winter sloth is over 
Time for life to get back underway
Time again to start achieving
My ten thousand steps a day. 

Time to get back more
To the way things have been
Time to spend less hours 
Before an Apple monitor screen.
So, goodbye fellow , Soupers,
I've really enjoyed my stay
But all things in time must end.
It's time for me to be on my way.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

A Yuletide Prayer

God rest ye merry gentleman
Thank the Lord that you are able
By devious manipulation to
Keep the turkey on the table;

All praise to those good bankers 
Who in spite of committed fraud
Maintained the Status Quo
For which we thank thee Lord;

All hail to the Establishment
Who in spite of envious stricture
Have made it more possible
For the rich to get much richer;

Our blessing on the poor
At this blessed time of Yule
Long delayed may be the time 
They cease being so easy to fool.

In humble display of
How sincere are our thanks
We’ll donate our table scraps
To a couple of food banks;

All hail the Brexit process
For nothing is more surer
The rich may not get much richer
But the poor will sure get poorer;

God Rest ye Merry Businessman 
Vast profits may you display
All hail the secularisation 
Of this Modern Christmas Day.
Amen

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

The Real Me

I’m sitting at my keyboard
Just ranting and abusing
Which my long suffering wife
No longer finds amusing.
I’m both dyslexic and dyspraxic
Which is why I swear and curse
Because for a creative person that 
Combination  couldn’t be worse.

To make matters harder I Have 
a keyboard that judy can’t spell
And predictive text just
Can Make my life hell.
I bought a dictation programme,
Money very badly spent.
It just can’t cope with
My East Yorkshire accent.

So if my rambling is at time
More than usually absurd
Full of errors and  typos
And the odd little non word
Please be a little forgiving 
For what you are getting to see,
With all those helpers switched off
The unaided uncorrected real me.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Withernwick - Trees

In the village where I was born
There was always lots of trees.
Especially those in the church yard,
Gently swaying in the slightest breeze.
I suppose there must have been times
When those branches were storm thrashed
And there must have been times 
When those  branches split and smashed
But, overhanging our cottage,
Those giants to my child’s eyes
Sent me to sleep 
With their whispers and sighs.
Murmured to me all night long
And woke me in the morning 
As they accompanied the chorus
Of dawn bird song.

I sheltered under those trees.
Some carried my name 
Carved with my first knife,
All boys had one then,
Just a part of country life.
I clung to those trunks as tightly 
As I would later cling to any lover
As I scrambled up to try to look over 
The village, my world spread below
I scrambled as high up as I dared go.

Most of those trees like my family 
Are now dead and gone
Those that are left shelter the graves
So I can move on.
I rarely go back now,
I feel so alone,
So I keep the village in my memories
And let the village keep the bones.
But, over the years
It keeps calling to me
My magical village of singing trees.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Sex After Seventy

Oh, you can’t have sex after seventy
Your children just wouldn’t approve
And if your neighbours found out 
You’d probably have to move

No, you can’t have sex after seventy
You’ve got to be young and fit
And every succeding generation
All seem think they invented it.

You just can’t have sex after seventy
Though it’s not quite against the law
You should be watching the tele
Or maybe doing the odd jigsaw

No, you can’t have sex after seventy
If you get such an unnatural urge
Drink some hot Epsom Salts
And give your bowels a purge.

You just can’t make love after seventy
Just accept it with good grace
No you can’t have sex after seventy
And wipe that smirk off your face

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Alienation

I am a stranger in an alien land,
Always searching  for eternal youth,
Controlled by an aristocracy with
Little time for honesty and truth.
The food banks are booming
Hardly a state of joy and glory
As the world prepares to celebrate
That  age old Nativity Story.

A season of conspicuous Consumption, 
A time of reflection and celebration
Or a time of struggles to survive for
A growing proportion of our nation.
Being black, unemployed or sick
Nowadays  the modern day sin
As the homeless sleep rough and 
Scavenge from the waste food bin.

The privileged will celebrate 
The Holy Virgin Birth
And turn a blind eye to
The fast warming earth
The sick will die untreated in
The growing A and E queue
Only the thickness of a payslip
Stops that being me or you.
All over this rich  nation
The comfortable will give thanks
And turn a seasonal blind eye 
To queues at the  food banks.
The Sovereign from the palace
Will give the annual address
Closely watched and monitored
By the billionaire owned free press.

The Sally Army Christmas, kitchen
Will feed some of the  masses
And so another year of repression,
With false bonhomie, slowly passes.
I become more and more an alien
In this my own native born land
My world has changed completely
To one I can no longer understand.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Viet Nam

He dreams day dreams of horror.
He could be anywhere,
But in his mind he’s instantly
Back inside that village there.
He hears those jungle sounds
Again and again and again,
Just one of that platoon of
Tired and frightened men.

He smells again that smell;
Napalm that kisses and clings,
Turning living feeling bodies
Into writhing screaming things.
He senses again the movement
At the very edge of his sight
That sends his reflex fire out
Into the dawn’s breaking light.

He sees once again the shock
And pain on that child’s face
And then his mind in horror
Drags him back from that place,
And he awaits his next visit
With anguish and despair.
He can’t run from daydreams
Trapped in his invalid’s chair

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Fantastic Journey

It was a quaint little shop
Looking strangely out of place
And the owner was a hermit
With a crinkled young old face.

He was a man of distinction
Of health hearty and hale,
Had looked a Haggis in the 
Eye and lived to tell the tale.
He had lived with a mermaid
Having found her in distress
Nursed her back to health 
To become his new mistress.
He had sailed the seven seas,
Served with a Samurai band,
Been a leading Ronin before
Sailing away for Samarkand

He had awoken the Kraken
Then, before it was too late
Quietly swum away to avoid
A somewhat gruesome fate.
He had hunted with Vampires
But only on those darkest nights
For they'd had to be recoffined
Before any sign of daylight.
The werewolves of Carpathia
Had taught him transfiguration
A secret he'd long discarded
Once he'd left that roving nation.

Bareback ridden a unicorn
Learned all its Pan Pipe skill;
Sometimes early on cold dark 
Mornings he would play it still.
He didn't believe in Faeries.
Didn't like to fantasise,
Only believed in those things
He'd seen with his naked eyes.
I left him making a Herbal tea
Said I didn't quite know when
But the very next time I passed 
I'd pop in and see him again.

I shouted my goodbyes
As he worked away inside
And I eagerly continued on
My Magic Carpet ride.

Details | Terry Ireland Poem

Nightmare In Abstract

She stood in thrall to the Magyar
As, one hand cupped to a breast,
The other picked careful notes 
From the guitar against his chest,
So they made a living figure
Sensuous and statuesque
Yet in in its way 
Both comic and grotesque.
His foot tapped the rhythm
As he sang words of passion,
The stroking of his fingers 
Near driving her to distraction.

An elegant Corps de Ballet pirouetted, 
Here and there across the stage
And the blind percussionist thrashed 
A kettle drum in state of frenzied rage.
The watcher watched from his dream
As the spotlight lowered to dim
Then swung slowly around to
Focus its harsh beam on him.
It was almost all too much  
For any mortal man to take
So, screaming with despair,
He was rudely thrust awake.
 
Both woman and Magyar seared
To the very depths of his brain
His heart beating wildly to
Near bursting from the strain.
Images slowly fading
Until no longer there
He slipped back to sleep free
From any trace of his nightmare.
The puppet master eased the strings,
Let his marionettes hang limp and slack
Before  packing them away 
In their carrier on his back.

It was all a strange happening
In the name and cause of Art
Into which each participant 
Unconsciously took his part.
The stage disappeared
The theatre was gone
The World of Abstract Dreams
Slowly shivered and moved on.
To allow no repeat 
Of this macabre joke
The mirror resonated wildly 
Until, shattering, it broke.