The Past Remains In Us

Wherever we go to our past goes along
It lives in our minds like the words of a favorite song
For as long as the gift of memory we retain
Good and bad memories of the what was in us will remain
The happy memories of the good years
And the sad memories of past sadness that still moves us to tears
The past in your memory is bound to stay
Until you breathe your last on your life's final day
From memories of what was life's experience we gain
Though you cannot physically live in the past again
Our thoughts often dwell on the what used to be
Thanks to our marvellous gift known as memory
Eventually time becomes everyone's foe
But that the past remains in us happens to be so

Is Not True

That everybody is equal in the eyes of the law is not true
Though a fair go to everyone should be their due
That money is power only true for to say
And it speaks every language in the World of today
Speaking your mind should never be a crime
For this in some Countries people serving prison time
That everyone is equal in the eyes of the law is only for the few
And this is not saying anything that is new
Even the law does not treat everyone as the same
Of this so many cases far too many to name
For those doing it tough in life there is no equality
This is how it is and how it always will be
That everybody is equal is based on a lie
Though we all become equal on the day we do die

Of The Lesser God

The unwashed, ignored and the socially down-trod
Born to life as the children of the lesser god
The homeless the stateless and the refugees
As is said of poverty it does come of varying degrees
The people that few wish to know of or of care
And sadly their sort in the World are not rare
It is a sad thought of for to be aware
That there are millions of poor people for every millionaire
Poor people by autocratic juntas oppressed
The victims of famines and the dispossessed
And those born to life on the poor side of the town
For them such a hard climb to wealth and renown
The children of the lesser god are not of the few
And this is not saying anything that is new.

Blackwater

Bank high in the fields of Duhallow in flood waters of brown
The Blackwater River flows towards Mallow Town
As onwards towards saltwater it babbles on it's way
Swollen by heavy rainfall from late yesterday

Flowing in north east Cork in the gray morning light
The Blackwater in flood quite an amazing sight
From the hills of Sliabh Luachra it travels on it's way
In the flat rushy fields towards the ocean far away

The rivers that are so very old in time
Have inspired the writers of song, story and rhyme
For to write about them and on how to rivers they do grow
Of Nature and her ways so much to learn of and know

To equal the noise of the fans of a large sporting crowd
The Blackwater in flood has a babble that is loud
From the hills of Sliabh Luachra to the ocean near Youghal Town
Bank high in Duhallow in flood waters of brown.

A Never Do Well

Without any story of personal success to others to tell
So few wish to know of the never do well
Yet on his side of the town than him none as brave
A few years ago the life of a year old baby girl in a house fire he did save
For which he took no credit though credit should have been his due
The never do well to his higher self remains true
One not known to many even on his home street
For attention and success with others he never does compete
His own praises one never does hear him sing
Quietly spoken and humble he does his own thing
One who never daydreams of great wealth and renown
A never do well of his side of the town.

Literary Critics Will Tell You

Literary critics will tell you that the days of the rhymers are gone
But the rhymers exist and the rhymers rhyme on
Worldwide there are rhymers in every village and city and town
Among those who write for enjoyment not for wealth and renown
Rhyme may be a literary form of a long by gone day
But there are no shortage of rhymers in the World of today
It is just that rhyme is no longer seen as a fashionable literary thing
And only the praises of modern poets the literary critics do sing
But there will always be rhymers those who love to write rhyme
Though they may be seen as of another time
Though there was a time when rhymers had the title of poetess or poet
But nowadays they are not seen as worthy of literary note
The literary critics and the uni dons Worldwide
Who is worthy to be called a writer decide.

Far Away

The sweet scent of grass mowed for silage or hay
Is wafting in the breeze of a sunny June day
And dark swallows are chirping in sky blue and gray
Above sunlit meadows from her far away
A poet of such beauty surely would write
A poem for lovers of Nature's beauty to read and recite
Where white butterflies seemingly dance in the breeze
And young birds do chirp on the bushes and trees
The distinctive voice of the migratory cuckoo so pleasant to hear
In the leafy wood on a beautiful time of year
And on lush grass cattle gaining weight by the day
In the shade of the trees chewing their cuds lay
And wherever you turn to look there is beauty to see
A natural beauty that to view is free.

Take Care Of My Wife

If i die tomorrow take care of my wife
She is a good person and deserves a good end to her life
Gave birth to and raised five children none of them biologically mine
They are quite good people though not of my genetic line
I do feel proud of Janice she has a heart of gold
She is near her eighties time has left her old
In her life she has helped many she is compassionate and kind
I love her for the woman she is one of a brilliant mind
I will take care of Janice for as long as i can
She is such a good person and a beautiful woman
She has helped many people of her i feel proud
I always feel happy for to sing her praises loud
Some of the love she has in her with others she does share
If i die tomorrow of her take good care.

He Is Of The Place

He is of the place of the gray kangaroo
And the pied currawong and the dark brown weerloo
Tall and handsome in his early twenties with hair of light brown
Homesick for the high wooded country far from the industrial town

In his dreams the laughter of the kookaburra he often hear
And the whistling of the gray shrike thrush in the wood to his home near
But he is in the big town for the long stay
No job opportunities in the countryside by the woods far away

Since coming to the town six months ago he met a young woman who will become his wife
And they plan for to bring a child or two to life
But the nostalgia in him for awhile will remain
And fond memories of what used to be he will retain

A young man from the country near his physical prime
To the big town way of life he will settle in time
He is from the place of the koala and emu
And long billed corella and white cockatoo.