shafted (feelin kinda fearful part 2)

-What the hell is that rap crap? Is that on the telly?- I walk in on my son who is spread out on
the floor with his face a foot from the screen.
-Some satellite channel I found accidentally-, he replies, changing over immediately.
-Don’t you have to finish your book report for tomorrow ?- I flick at but deliberately miss his miked-up ear.
-Yes-em-, he back-passes a Simpsons reference , - but I have to sort of find a life first, can’t face another Whinge In His Striped Pyjamas-.
So I tick off my twelve-year -old-and advise,
-Before you kick back,
being mindful of what you want for your Birthday, that it’s after ten,
pizza ready all of which I could eat myself, Goal of the Month coming up,
future social harmony at risk, fragrant teachers and stuff,
possible man-on-man peck at the school gate next week,
smiley face in lunchbox stuck to fluffy coconut cream-
He expertly races through the keys of the tv control, squeals past x factors culchie camper
pretty in pink denial for half a century, hears the oven bell call, catches my eye,
yums and rubs his belly, whines past News At Ten,  brakes at MOTD, nods me towards the kitchen.
So I check teams.
-How would you vote in a referendum? What if you had no vote?
What if you had two dads? Page-boyed track suited jeeped-up mum with weird checked apron ? Leg warmers for goalposts, not to mention the pharmacy bills and blunted razors-.
 -Yes-em!- He’s Cletus again from The Simpsons. -Dang, old timer! How twentieth century are you? My friend Blank Mc Blank’s Dad had a manicure on hols. Referendum is promised--So what-, I step on the ball, -there’s no referendums in the Bible. Only stones-.
-Really, haw haw-.
MOTD theme tune begins to boom in and I press him again, but he turns up the volume now,
suddenly impatient.
 -Daad!. Have a day off-, he blows up.
-My teacher says testosterone busted the country. She says boom boom my backside-.
-Come on now, boom out to the kitchen and get that pizza-, I threaten to substitute.
-Can’t-, he says. -Not old enough to cook. Have to finish that book report somehow written
fifty years late by an Irish man about a concentration camp-.
Jesus would have wept, but he’s surfing again.
QI tells us it’s illegal to wee in public, but not illegal to poo. Figure that one out, I kind of ole. But he’s in the jungle now.
A nineties celebrity ex model who looks a bit of a horse is eating a bit of a kangaroo.
So I go for feckin’ pizza myself .
As the door swings closed behind me the rap dude is back on.
Sometimes I think I would go back to The Rugrats on a loop.

Same sex marriage referendum will make Ireland 'a beacon of light'
Referendum on Same Sex Marriage to be held in 2015

©Noel Loftus
Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

shafted (feelin kinda fearful part1)

sometin for de weakened 

raspberry con

dom ok

you loud

you scream

it big for you

you mix 

wit de boy in de city

maybe swing wit de country lady too shhh

but you good chick so you go

a prayin sunday and it be ok agin

u too boy u go prayin now

better shut de mout

cant say notin now bout anytin

not show respek

gots me a place for you

i do it wit de aksent you know

dis is where it at

u all mixed in de head now

i knows dat since u all rektumised

y’all not feelin too good

but u gots to know it aint your doin

see you is hung over cos las nite you face

wit de cocktail mos charmin

but com de morning it so alarmin

here is where it at

u trash

when you don got born no sooner

u got de pulse de polis dey got you on de pulse

special iffen u travellin dude

so dey know where u at an how much u worth

rest u mortal life

git in de shower n wash u ass good now

cos soon u pay so much for de water

u be smellin like racoon man

u trash

u go stralia or maybe merica 

aint no place for u here

radio man he get de big note

he know how to feel sad for u sorry ass an u piss poor

know how to skunk down to please u ears  

even de newspaper preachin you all day

TBC

©Noel Loftus

Same sex marriage referendum will make Ireland 'a beacon of light'
http://www.irishtimes.com/news/politics/referendum-on-same-sex-marriage-to-be-held-in-2015-1.1584350

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.  

Sunday Review

Noel Loftus' poem 'Wedding, funeral and incidental song from an old man I met in a pub mirror last Sunday'  was Monday's poem. A poem about the the passing of time and the flood of revelations on past abuse that we are undergoing.
'A Star in the Sky' by Vala Hafstad on Tuesday gave a refreshingly biting look at some the details involved with a trip to Mars.
Mari Maxwell's 'Daddy's Legacy' is a searing look at incest. Told with compassion it treats a very hard to talk about subject with honesty and is a very hard hitting poem.
Luigi Pagano's 'NHS 111' gave an insight into the current state of UK health services which can only leave one with grave concerns. Perhaps best some up by the lines
" though more is promised/
we get less and less."
Which have a familiarity to us in New Zealand.
Philip Johnson's "2am (Universal Credit Begins)"  looked at the welfare reform programme in the UK and found it somewhat wanting as it seemed to be very hard on the most vulnerable. There is a nice bit of black humour in the lines
"with that Ian Duncan Smith stealing all the string
from my straight jacket …there may not be a cord with which to hang"
'Missing' by Carolyn Cornthwaite finished the week with a very nicely done poem that showed the irony of ordinary forgetfulness if applied to nuclear materials.

Wedding, funeral and incidental song from an old man I met in a pub mirror last Sunday

There are some days such a chore- that you wish you’d studied more,
Gained a middle-class rapport- and a part-time job as teacher. 

There are others that restore- your belief there’s something more,
Find the will to go explore- that essential inner creature.

She flies blindly, all aflutter- through a head so full of clutter,
Pauses now and then to mutter-that it’s all just so unfair.

He will ignorantly stutter- stagger into every gutter,
Well aware just what an utter- bitch it is without a prayer.

There’s that song that leaves you dreaming- of a first love, once was steaming,
But you found your love left, scheming- left you desolate once more.

But some seconds have such feeling- that your head itself leaps, wheeling
From that glass until you’re reeling- yet demand a little more.

Find those moments that go sealing-every sore that begs for healing,
Leave behind the less appealing- get back where you were before.

I sucked bullseyes and chewed grass-while a bastard probed my arse.
We’re all old and tired and crass-so fuck off with your lies.

Now I’m talking in a mime-my tired body is a crime,
And my head just will not rhyme-kiss my lips and close my eyes.

© Noel Loftus

BBC broadcaster Stuart Hall pleads guilty to sex charges

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work. 

Sundowning

Blah Blah was twelve again.

He kissed goodbye to Mammy but

Didn’t go to school today.

Went to the railway bridge instead.

Saluted the driver who looked like a lego.

Spat over the bridge onto the train.

Thought of his mothers’ stories

With tenses for the dark people

Whose faces you never saw but who dropped through the road, turning away,

When you dared speak to them, because they were dead, and distant.

So he ate his sandwich and two crab apples which made his belly a bit sore.

Saw a dead fox half in the well and felt a bit sick.

Wow is a girl in a vague and startled face

Smelling nice and only slightly,

With an uncle who buckled his belt near his tie. Turf tomorrow.

Later Blah Blah lost a ball in a game in a town

While playing with some fork-tongued children.

Greyed with some wife.

Laid with himself.

His ears grew hair.

So he blessed himself with mellow and mass.

Later Blah Blah went a little blind, spat politically, vomited religiously.

Recalled old headbutts.    

Put in his tongue and put out his palm and his tongue again.

Might have met a stroke, or two.

Might have met a whore, or two.

Might have met a smile, or two.

He wouldn’t tell you.

Because you see his face was kind and tricky.

Had a really good rosary and wore it well.

Dropped his head to the side.

Wet himself with eloquence.  

Or mixed them all up with the Ukrainian nurse

Who helped him to sleep sometimes.

Finally Blah Blah couldn’t be sure which part dropped off first.

Because when he looked down his belly looked back.

Eventually Blah Blah pulled up his pants and screamed

All the way home to Mammy.

Blah Blah was twelve again.

©Noel Loftus

Ireland cuts elderly care

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Miss Plath’s Father Calls Sylvia For School

Let us not try to rhyme this right through!

Your Mammy’s not morning, like you!

But be a good girl, and be true.

No, Bell Jar’s not needed for class.

I’ve opened your curtains. Your brother

Is eating his breakfast. And yours.

Did you pack off your best hockey stick?

I thought you were fourteen. Still do.

Daughter, for the love of St. Jude!

We called you on time. It’s true.

I don’t know what Project Maths means.

How many more showers do you need?

And none touched the cold tap. It’s true.

He was never Colossus, or true.

How many black tights do you have?

Now I know Ariel wasn’t you.

Porridge! And orange juice too!

Oh child, you were certainly not

Born with cheeks of that metal. That hue.

Braces always melt into a smile.

© Noel Loftus

The beast is out of the pen

Are our kids growing up too fast?

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Fell Asleep at Noon

Now there is a melancholy,
now there is a chill,
now some addled trip reveals
teacher took our babies years.

Redressed the chosen few.
Washing cycles to its end,
wakes us to hang out.
This silence is resounding, pounding.

Fridge looms into view.
Forehead rests on freezing things.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.

Age made work superfluous.
What a useless word.
A curious collision scythed
through a humbled mind,
saw a cruet in the thin hands of a boy. 
This house is creaking cold and old and
floorboards smell of dust.
Oil has work to do.
Teacher took our babies years.

Three pm on Monday, they have will to run
and run and bless them on their way.
And we would do that too if we had will.
Hid. Safe. Spouse has life beyond us,
is soothing mental friend
whose partner, they said, leaped (hunting sanity once craved).

Decades slipped away when asses
bray was eight miles loud
across two thousand years.
Teacher took our children,
left back a mighty task.

A mirror in the hallway
is the stranger who resides here.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.
How are you our brother, sister, how are you, yourself.

Washing cycles to its end.
This silence is  resounding, pounding.
Could we begin again.

© Noel Loftus

Quinn 'spent €327,000 in year'

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Sky Burial

They being Buddhist,
the body an empty vessel when worn
and that vessel cold
because He has taken you from your shelf now,
and having no taste for wakes or sleeps,
or tears, or what a decent man he was,
or what a proud mother she was,
and such nonsense,
and having little wood to burn you,
no soil to hide you,
no lies to embroider you,
no basket to solicit your last few coins,
no prayers to appease you,
no child to love you, poor cadaver,
the Tibetans will bear you to a plateau on a mountain,
shadowed by wild dogs barking your song.

That song will be discordant now
because the wind is cold
and the tripping monk with stiff fingers will lay you
on the bed of rock.
Denying the worms their banquet,
denying the fire its fury,
grinning down his whiskey,
he will rend your flesh with a cleaver,
scatter your bits aside
for the griffons who come first.
He will crush your bones with a sledge
to be mixed with flour for the hawks
and the crows who come last,
who will pick the bed of rock, and your shroud, clean.

If you were meagre you become bird faeces falling
from the sky to fuse with the pungent guano of those who had station.
Together you will feed the bitter grass to feed the yak to feed the people.
Later a boy will take your shroud and wash it in the stream.
Later he will lay it on the roof of the world to dry.

©Noel Loftus, 2013

Belgian child-killer applies for release 

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

I Think I Was Nine

I think I was nine and a bit but not ten
‘cos the hay was down when the vet came
to the barn that smelt of bleach
that inside would soon be limed again
my calf was not sucking and the harm of the year
and his ribs were actually in real life outside his belly
and I felt between my thumb and fingers
the curl on his head and I smelt his coat
and heard the adults shouting
and the vet said a word I never heard before
and he smelled porter or sweat or maybe smoke
and he shouted into the Cortina boot

bastard leaves me a gun but no cartridge
I was nudged towards the door but sneaked back inside
so soon I would understand
the laughing demand for a substitute
the grunt and the spit as he stood over
my calf and brought down the pickaxe so fast
on his curl and the blow was just excellent
for my calf had slept all morning
only his nose twitched now

soft whores like ye would lave him suffer
I heard the sound of the axe again in my ears which
made me bite my cheek to make it go away so hard that I
tasted blood and wet one welly but no one saw
and ran up to the fort on the hill
licked the rain on my lip
and heard my uncle say very loud to the vet

you’ll not get paid for that
and looked down as the car drove off
and looked down as two tall men dragged
two shovels and my calf across the yard towards the small field
(where there was no river to poison
and which wasn’t suited to turnips
and hadn’t many stones that would slow the job
‘cos we had picked them summers before
only a place for dead animals)
and begin to dig
so I took off my wet sock and squeezed it hard
and hid it in my pocket
and after that I was dizzy and spitted only a tiny sick


© Noel Loftus

Terminally ill woman tells High Court she wants to die with dignity

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Fell fast asleep at noon

Now there is a melancholy,
now there is a chill,
now some addled trip reveals
teacher took our babies years,
returned a wasted task.

So many preying letters writ, and sweet,
and more to come.
Was with some kind of geisha girl.
Couch is not so soft and.
someone stole our wallets.

Redressed the chosen few.
Washing cycles to its end,
wakes us to hang out.
This silence is resounding, pounding.
Grab the tumbling can but find

last drop flat and tastes old sweat.
Fridge looms into view.
Forehead rests on freezing things.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.

And age made work superfluous.
Now what a useless word.
A curious collision scythed
through a humbled mind,
saw a cruet in the thin hands of a boy. 

his house is creaking cold and old and
floorboards smell and creak.
Oil has work to do.
Teacher took our babies years
and um de dum de dee.

Three pm on Monday, they have will to run
and run and  bless them on their way.
And we would do that too if we had will.
Hid. Safe. Spouse has life beyond us,
is soothing mental friend

whose partner, they said, leaped (hunting sanity once craved).
He licked his cracking lips.
She checked his pulse and hips.
Cat has fireside bed,
puss puss.

Decades slipped away when asses
bray was eight miles loud
a cross two thousand years.
Teacher took our children,
left back a mighty task.

A mirror in the hallway
is the  stranger who resides here.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.
How are you our brother, sister, how are you, yourself.

Washing cycles to its end.
This silence is  resounding, pounding.
Could we begin again.

© Noel Loftus


Brian Cowen’s former running mate avoids jail for stealing €18,000

Author's note:  'This is a ... rant at the increasing disconnect in Irish society.'

Hamsters do the conga!

Hamsters do the conga!
Now there’s a dish served cold.
And though, day one, it wasn’t  true,
Let’s watch what will unfold.

Some glitter’s growing gold.
And some develop ticks.
Some are passing parcels.
And some are passing bricks.

Whistle if you will
My cloudy, rustic hick.
The bag has freed the cat too late
For Him to ever fix.

Tabloids, for their kicks,
Spit headlines uncontrolled.
But when the house just can not fall-
Rectitude untold.

© Noel Loftus

Freddie Starr arrested in Jimmy Savile abuse inquiry

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company.

Always A Baby

Her warm fragrant head sings fluent babble

Through a smacking soother.

Ten tiny nailed fingers fervently mine a pulse

At the elbow.

Vein throbs, hand is numbed .

Pray for Hypnos, bearing slumber.

Pray he comes soon.

Next door slams to work at six a.m.

Baby body shudders, hands claw.

Khronos, stay away.

© Noel Loftus

Search for April Jones becomes murder inquiry

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company. 

Nothing Nouveau

Now every photo’s long since framed
Every song is sung
All love poems with lust inflamed
Every canvas hung
Now all great architects are dead
But some find subjects new
Half a calf! Bejeweled head!
A talent known to few

Arrange some debris in a heap
Hail it far and wide
Modern art’s a butchered sheep
In formaldehyde
Celebrity’s the newest grail
Talent incidental
Tone-deaf children whine and wail
Their hubris monumental

Now every great work has been famed
Every note is played
So cows and songs are gladly maimed
Entrails then displayed

© Noel Loftus

Damien Hirst is a national disgrace

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company. 

Sell By 19 16

A lush called Hennessy who owns a pistol
Once told me discreetly
That if you piss hard enough through your ears
You will die.
Defecating through the teeth, though gag-inducing,
Brings no such balm.

The pundits predicted the outcome,
Their brass balls shone, epaulets stiff,
Upper lips bared, diverse accents amplified,
Each gorged with opinion, each perfectly,
Perfectly wrong.
Every time.

Barely five seconds into the post-battle commentary
The presenter evacuated
A terminal platitude. Or laxative.
Aah! Good old 19 16 exposed again.
Know how to win/battle of the hill/blanket defense.
Two point game/of two halves/died a death/hunting in packs.

A lush called Hennessy who owns a pistol,
Seeking unlicensed repeaters,
Will probe the door of your darkened room where
He will peacefully invite you join with
Your panels’ carcass in
Hari-kiri.

© Noel Loftus

Author's note: The context here is that Mayo beat Dublin 19 16 on Sunday and one commentator could not resist the dodgy connection ... Easter Rising etc. All newspapers/commentators got it wrong and backed Dublin.

This is a comment on how platitudes have saturated sports punditry and commentary, panels are old and tired, and I hereby invite one particular Irish GAA panel, to a party with a difference.

Tribal passion rocks the stands as Mayo set up All-Ireland final clash with Donegal

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company. 

Wild About Harry!

The First Manifestation Of Harlotry
(It Taketh Two To Tango)

A blissful couple, young and fair
Once lazed among some apple trees.
And she was dressed with nought to wear
And he was scarcely dressed to please.

She stood upright! Then bent so low.
Divorced a flower from its earth.
She plucked the petals for her beau
While he affected slothful mirth.

And then came words! “He loves me true…”
And held him in her gaze.
And when a kiss she sweetly blew
He coined a universal phrase.

She nodded toward forbidden limb
To ripened fruit remote on high.
And when he stalled, reminded him
“Did He not say ‘Go, Multiply?”

Adamant Eve@Genesis Ch. 3 Verses  4-7

© Noel Loftus

Prince Harry is just being an ordinary young man – and it's good for the monarchy that he is

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company.

Princes, emperors and a decided lack of clothes

Poor prince prime beef!
A buffoon in the buff!
Sin City to the Sun!
What a laugh! Fair enough!
Press freedom!
Playboy privacy!
the teacup-storming chatter;
And butt-naked birthright?
Look away! It doesn't matter.

© Gwen Seabourne

Sun's Prince Harry pictures: watchdog receives hundreds of complaints

Gwen Seabourne is an academic specialising in medieval legal history, who has also published poems and stories in magazines and books, and on the radio, and has read at events including the Bristol International Poetry Festival. 

Passport Photo

(Leaving Cert. Class Photo Of Twenty Twelve)

Gracelessly, gluttonous years stole away
Euro by euro
Legislate lightly
Do this in memory, pioneer for life
Prayer by prayer
Pontificate proudly
Robbed by degrees and by thieves armed with letters
Empty houses by houses
School prefabs are fine
See the next class prepped now for release
One little white face
Barely in frame
Tells a tale
That hope was frozen here
That this little bird must fly

To make space

© Noel Loftus

Irish emigration at highest point since Famine -- 3,000 leaving per month

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company.

A Vision In Twenty Twenty

Where borders are straight
Imagined by kings
Eretz elders dictate
Levant youth take to slings
Too many seduced
Some take the stage
Range now reduced
Some will engage

Many horrors were preached
By cloth left immune
‘Til Aswan was breached
Then Zion’s balloon 
Boundaries burned
Re-invented again
Crusader returned
Purred kosher hymn

© Noel Loftus

Syria gears up for Aleppo assault

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company. 

Single Brothers

Now toddling child, where is your toy? Your playmate’s latest hoodwink?
Golden ringlet was the ploy, plundered when you would blink.
Now schoolboy once with sharp new pen, why scribe with blunted stub?
The girl who begged you share it then delivered quite the rub.
Now acned youth, now money crutch, I see you were deluded.
Hackneyed promise was go Dutch, yet still you are extruded.
Now man of means, why must you pair? Because you’re at that age.
In you hop to the dainty lair. Your vigour must assuage.
Now two score ten, there’s little jest. Your credit cards’ desired.
Legal missives soon suggest these nuptials be retired.
You’ll pay your due, though you may wail. Fly nest so they won’t smother.
Jurisprudence will prevail. Fledglings stay with mother.
Now toddling lad, now where’s your toy? Hid safe deep in your pocket.
Pull those ringlets, whipping boy! Then run like a f***ing rocket!

© Noel Loftus

Required birth registration will not boost fathers' rights

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company.