tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281317902024-02-20T15:44:58.081-05:00LimriksterShort stories and poetry about growing up in Limerick, Ireland written by Lelia Street native Michael C. Daly now living in New Yorktheresa dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00405026420597628761noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-18605295762683001412009-02-01T11:30:00.001-05:002009-02-01T11:39:53.924-05:00Too Late My Love, Too Late<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Too Late My Love, Too Late<br /><br /><br />You know you left me dreaming on the boreen by the bog,<br />my mind was neither here nor there enveloped by the fog.<br />It was still early in the morning when you said goodbye,<br />and I sat all alone in a fog and a mist, I just had to cry.<br /><br />You too had tears welling in your eyes, as you turned and ran away.<br />my calls through the mist went unanswered, on that dreadful day.<br />I pulled myself together at the thought of never seeing you again,<br />I just had to make you understand before you took that train.<br /><br />I took off my boots and left them, running barefoot along the way,<br />hoping to get one last chance, to ask my love to stay.<br />I could hear the train’s shrill whistle, as it pulled into the station,<br />I was just a hop and step away, blistered feet caused my hesitation.<br /><br />The engine revved up and the train doors slammed quite loud,<br />as I reached the platform, I began pushing through the crowd.<br />I reached the end of the station and I knelt down on the ground,<br />looking at every window for a familiar face or sound.<br /><br />Too late my love too late, the train was on the its way<br />down to Limerick then on to Shannon Airport and America<br />I could feel the hurt, I heard myself cry and I wanted her to be my wife,<br />I looked a mess and I must confess, I knew this was the end of my life.<br /><br />Suddenly, on the very last car I saw you through the window pane,<br />I threw up my arms and touched my heart praying to stop that train.<br />Too late my love, too late, I am only talking to the tracks,<br />you had to go, I had to stay and we were falling through one of life’s cracks.<br /><br />The train blew its last signal as it had now cleared the railway station<br />I hit the corner of the ticket window and cut my hand in frustration.<br />You were no longer in sight and we were drifting further apart<br />you had to go and you will never know, about my broken heart.<br /><br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Jan 23rd, 2009<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-5323426607995710672008-12-31T09:05:00.002-05:002008-12-31T09:07:58.085-05:00An Emotion<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">An Emotion<br /><br />I’m strolling along the Canal Bank,<br />by the River of my memories.<br />There is nobody here to see me,<br />as I go back to early nineteen fifties.<br /><br />Many changes have taken place,<br />since the time that I’m recalling.<br />And the width of the river has narrowed,<br />ever since the tugs stopped hauling.<br /><br />I want to be here by myself, <br />all alone, with no detractions.<br />Mother Nature can surround me,<br />with all her mystical attractions.<br /><br />It is here I found the scent in the air,<br />to be at it’s very sweetest.<br />It is here the birds sing a happy refrain<br />while building their nest the neatest<br /><br />It is here, beneath quiet waters,<br />the fish play hide and seek.<br />It is here the boys and girls meet,<br />it is a place in loves technique.<br /><br />The river Shannon has many canals,<br />as she makes her way to the ocean.<br />But this one here in Limericks City,<br />has earned all of my emotion.<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Dec.25, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-47282886905299996762008-12-31T09:05:00.001-05:002008-12-31T09:05:35.811-05:00It's Never Too LateSnow at Christmas Time<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Snow at Christmas Time<br /><br /><br />Snow at Christmas time just ends the season right<br />Looking out the window is just a wonderful sight<br />The Christmas tree stretches up to its greatest height<br />And a fire in the hearth, adds warmth throughout the night<br /><br />Outside, the snow flakes trickle their way down<br />Trying to find a resting place, somewhere in town<br />They bring a smile to ones face, while ridding a frown<br />And magically clings on, like a glowing gown<br /><br />One must watch in silence, what is happening outside<br />Pull the children around you, with their eyes opened wide<br />Looking up toward the heavens for Santa’s sleigh ride<br />Hoping he is bringing presents to where they abide<br /><br />Nearly everything is perfect at this time of the year<br />Yet remembering friends who passed on with a tear<br />They come into our thoughts without bringing a fear<br />And a smile and a prayer to those we hold dear<br /><br />The blanket of white is now spread all around<br />Anyone out there is mostly homebound<br />Love is everywhere just waiting to be found<br />Like the snow it has arrived without making a sound.<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Dec.20, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-9997700418095258292008-12-31T09:00:00.001-05:002008-12-31T09:03:15.487-05:00Snow At ChristmasSnow at Christmas Time<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Snow at Christmas Time<br /><br /><br />Snow at Christmas time just ends the season right<br />Looking out the window is just a wonderful sight<br />The Christmas tree stretches up to its greatest height<br />And a fire in the hearth, adds warmth throughout the night<br /><br />Outside, the snow flakes trickle their way down<br />Trying to find a resting place, somewhere in town<br />They bring a smile to ones face, while ridding a frown<br />And magically clings on, like a glowing gown<br /><br />One must watch in silence, what is happening outside<br />Pull the children around you, with their eyes opened wide<br />Looking up toward the heavens for Santa’s sleigh ride<br />Hoping he is bringing presents to where they abide<br /><br />Nearly everything is perfect at this time of the year<br />Yet remembering friends who passed on with a tear<br />They come into our thoughts without bringing a fear<br />And a smile and a prayer to those we hold dear<br /><br />The blanket of white is now spread all around<br />Anyone out there is mostly homebound<br />Love is everywhere just waiting to be found<br />Like the snow it has arrived without making a sound.<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Dec.20, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-82836210357817291522008-12-31T08:59:00.001-05:002008-12-31T09:00:28.348-05:00The Car Mor<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">The Car Mor<br /><br />The nineteen fifties saw me arriving In New York<br />the Car Mor was my savior after work<br />On 207th street in the Inwood part of the City<br />lay this Irish bar that was never really pretty<br />It didn’t need to be as it was strictly a mans bar<br />a little rough and tumble if you went too far<br />But for most, it helped to get rid of ups and downs<br />and changed heavy problems to just nagging frowns<br /><br />There were characters galore, mostly from the auld sod<br />one sticks out in my memory and deserves my head nod<br />His name was Mike Carmody, a carpenter by trade<br />he didn’t get along with work, he preferred to read in the shade<br />During sing song times he would close his eyes<br />and push his head back as if looking at the skies<br />The songs he chose were sad and quite long<br />so one night we all left the bar in the middle of his song<br /><br />He was given it his all as we stole out the front door<br />it was something that could happen, only in the Car Mor<br />From the street outside we looked in at Carmody<br />holding our sides laughing at this wonderful comedy<br />As his song came toward the end with his arms stretched high<br />we roared with more laughter as he opened one eye<br />Realizing what had happened he began to rage and shout<br />he quickly closed the front door and locked us all out<br /><br />Next he went inside the counter and from the top shelf<br />took a bottle of Jamison’s and poured for himself<br />We could not get back in, as he held the key<br />while pouring from the bottle looking at us with glee<br />The bartenders red face and the language from is mouth<br />could be heard for miles through the north and south<br />The police arrived, someone gave them a call<br />they thought it was murder, until they heard it all<br /><br />They got through a window in the back of the bar<br />and carried out Carmody to their police car<br />The crowd took the blame as Mike slumped on the seat<br />they carried him home and he fell asleep<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Dec.13, 2008<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-2996293732105530302008-12-31T08:52:00.002-05:002008-12-31T08:56:35.146-05:00We Must Tell Her<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">We Must Tell Her<br /><br />Take me through your lovely meadows<br />Take me through your fields of corn<br />Let me rest awhile, upon your haystacks<br />Let me taste and greet your morn<br /><br />Let me see your ocean waters<br />Let me hear them lap, on your sandy shore,<br />Let the sun break through night’s darkness<br />Bringing morning to us once more<br /><br />Truth is we take it all for granted<br />We expect to see it when we awake<br />And if it rains instead of sunshine<br />We blame her for the mistake<br /><br />Time keeps flashing by so quickly<br />There is so little time to share<br />We must thank old Mother Nature<br />We must tell her that we care<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Dec. 9, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-82705497090210825712008-11-29T15:05:00.003-05:002008-11-29T15:12:04.035-05:00Let Me Feel It Again<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Let Me Feel It Again<br /><br /><br />Oh, take me back to where it all began<br />Down the road from St Johns Tower<br />Where Sarsfield sits atop his mount<br />One can feel his elegant power<br />St Johns school around the corner<br />Where the nuns demanded attention<br />They were just as tough as the brothers<br />And they loved to dish out detention<br /><br />St. Johns Cathedral was majestic<br />And every seat was taken<br />Even down each isle and at the back<br />The rosary beads were shaken<br />It was hard to believe as you looked around<br />At some of the people you see there<br />Some were there to be seen by all<br />And many had their minds elsewhere<br /><br />Outside the church door were collectors<br />Seated at the table to welcome you in<br />And you dropped your pennies or a little more<br />If you didn’t, it would be a sin<br />There was also a collection inside<br />They pushed the basket under your nose<br />For the weekly envelope they sent you<br />That’s how one side of life goes<br /><br />The parishioners all around the town<br />Were poor but they didn’t show it<br />They managed to get along on what they had<br />Helping each other out, when they could do it<br />Then the good times came as technology grew<br />When the business world came into the towns<br />Now here am I, an ocean away,<br />With memories, of our ups and downs<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Nov, 27, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-49475289789749173102008-11-29T15:02:00.001-05:002008-11-29T15:05:41.894-05:00And I love you too<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">We were after playing a Rugby match<br />Against Glaswegians in Galway bay<br />It was back in the early fifties<br />On a bright and windy day<br />We won by twenty points to twelve<br />And stayed late admiring the Bay<br />I had rented a car with my old friend<br />My scrum-half Nutty O’Dea<br /><br />We enjoyed our walk along the sand<br />Having fun with some of the girls<br />Two of then came from Limerick<br />With smiles that envied pearls<br />We had asked them how they got here<br />They said on a bus to attend a dance<br />We agreed t drive them home<br />As we would stay on and go to the dance<br /><br />Sea Point was the name of the dance hall<br />Where all the best bands played<br />And Mick Delahunty was playing that night<br />And we were delighted that we stayed<br />We danced and talked until midnight<br />Never asking each others last name<br />Susan hooked up with me<br />And Nutty with Mary Jane<br /><br />Susan’s parents were away for the weekend<br />So she invited us to have something to eat<br />I knocked over a glass off water<br />On my shirt and allover my feet<br />Susan helped to me take off my shirt<br />And hung it close to the fire in the living room<br />We sat on the couch and began to smooch<br /> Nutty and Mary Jane, in the other room<br /><br />Suddenly a key to the front door clicked<br />And the lights were turned on<br />Susan’s parents shouted in alarm<br />Wanting to know what was going on<br />There was I with their daughter on the couch<br />Without shoe’s or even a shirt<br />My head bent down, eyes to the floor,<br />And I was feeling, awfully hurt<br />To top it all, when I saw her father<br />With his eyes popping out of his head<br />He had been my math teacher in school<br />And I just sat there, wishing I was dead<br />I was the wise guy in his class<br />And there had been no love between us<br />Mary Jane came in from the other room<br />And it seemed to lessen all the fuss<br /><br />She asked me if my shirt had dried<br />So I could take her home<br /> And told a story of how helpful I was<br />When they missed the bus, I drove them home<br />Nutty O’Dea got out the back door<br />And sneaked away down the street<br />And waited there for Mary Jane and me<br />To take him off his feet<br /><br />I never met Susan or Mary Jane<br />Since that Memorable day<br /> For certain Susan was warned by her father<br />From me, to stay away<br />He certainly never liked the way<br />That I used to carry on<br />Sure it was only a time of Innocence<br />One day in a lifetime’s song<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Nov. 29, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-63049496130665442352008-11-29T14:57:00.001-05:002008-11-29T15:01:58.244-05:00Innocence<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">We were after playing a Rugby match<br />Against Glaswegians in Galway bay<br />It was back in the early fifties<br />On a bright and windy day<br />We won by twenty points to twelve<br />And stayed late admiring the Bay<br />I had rented a car with my old friend<br />My scrum-half Nutty O’Dea<br /><br />We enjoyed our walk along the sand<br />Having fun with some of the girls<br />Two of then came from Limerick<br />With smiles that envied pearls<br />We had asked them how they got here<br />They said on a bus to attend a dance<br />We agreed t drive them home<br />As we would stay on and go to the dance<br /><br />Sea Point was the name of the dance hall<br />Where all the best bands played<br />And Mick Delahunty was playing that night<br />And we were delighted that we stayed<br />We danced and talked until midnight<br />Never asking each others last name<br />Susan hooked up with me<br />And Nutty with Mary Jane<br /><br />Susan’s parents were away for the weekend<br />So she invited us to have something to eat<br />I knocked over a glass off water<br />On my shirt and allover my feet<br />Susan helped to me take off my shirt<br />And hung it close to the fire in the living room<br />We sat on the couch and began to smooch<br /> Nutty and Mary Jane, in the other room<br /><br />Suddenly a key to the front door clicked<br />And the lights were turned on<br />Susan’s parents shouted in alarm<br />Wanting to know what was going on<br />There was I with their daughter on the couch<br />Without shoe’s or even a shirt<br />My head bent down, eyes to the floor,<br />And I was feeling, awfully hurt<br />To top it all, when I saw her father<br />With his eyes popping out of his head<br />He had been my math teacher in school<br />And I just sat there, wishing I was dead<br />I was the wise guy in his class<br />And there had been no love between us<br />Mary Jane came in from the other room<br />And it seemed to lessen all the fuss<br /><br />She asked me if my shirt had dried<br />So I could take her home<br /> And told a story of how helpful I was<br />When they missed the bus, I drove them home<br />Nutty O’Dea got out the back door<br />And sneaked away down the street<br />And waited there for Mary Jane and me<br />To take him off his feet<br /><br />I never met Susan or Mary Jane<br />Since that Memorable day<br /> For certain Susan was warned by her father<br />From me, to stay away<br />He certainly never liked the way<br />That I used to carry on<br />Sure it was only a time of Innocence<br />One day in a lifetime’s song<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />Nov. 29, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-90349985499703585982008-05-18T18:29:00.002-04:002008-05-18T18:50:05.136-04:00Just A Second<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">There's that sound again<br />And I think it is a crime<br />It reminds me of our life span<br />Just ticking all the time<br /><br />We also have minutes and hours<br />but they don't make a sound<br />Passing along through day and night<br />just looking to be found<br /><br />And what about weeks and months<br />that adds up to the years<br />When I think of all of this<br />It brings me down to tears<br /><br />A second a minute, an hour a day<br />A week a month a year<br />It all begins with a second<br />That ticking sound we hear<br /><br />Our lives stop at a certain time<br />No matter how we've reckoned<br />And the ticking sound will stop for us<br />When we don't have another second<br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-60465857011024720612008-04-25T08:51:00.001-04:002008-04-25T08:53:28.693-04:00"THE BROGUES"<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Once upon a time in the green, green land of Rogues<br />There lived a clan of little people, called Brogues<br />Brogue was a lilting language that enhanced the spoken word<br />And brought a smile to ones face, whenever it was heard<br /><br />They lived within the forests, inside a ring of trees<br />Quite content to stay that way, in a life of perfect ease<br />They dressed in colors of the land, of course that was green<br />Which in itself was security, they were never really seen<br /><br />On the toe of their shoe, hung a little bell, that only they could hear<br />And when they heard that little tinkle, they would totally disappear<br />Inside the ring of trees, they lived with crocks of gold<br />They found it all beneath the earth, at least that’s what I was told<br /><br />A Brogue went astray one day, as he woke up from a long sleep<br />His surroundings were unfamiliar to him and he began to weep<br />He shook his leg in a call for help; he thought he would be found<br />He was too far away, from the ring of trees, for them to hear his sound<br /><br />He was also outside the forest, unprotected from being seen<br />That is how I met him, so tiny and clothed in green<br />I didn’t want to scare him; I whispered and said “Hello”<br />He looked up at me with teary eyes that seemed to say, ”Please Go”<br /><br />Instead I sat beside him, totally amazed at what I was seeing<br />And I told him I wanted to help him, just like another human being<br />He asked if I could get him back, to where you don’t grow old<br />In return he would reward me with, one big crock of gold<br /><br />We rambled on through the forest, until we found the ring of trees<br />Once he stepped inside, everything was green and I was on my knees<br />I was all alone, he was gone and this part I have never told<br />There in front of me just beneath a tree, was a sparkling crock of gold<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 20,2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-15024822102865740832008-04-21T16:14:00.002-04:002008-04-21T16:38:42.854-04:00WHY?<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote id="72b30b1d"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">I just sat there staring<br />In the fox hole that we shared<br />We dug it out last night<br />In the dark with vision impaired<br /><br />Mike, Joe and I wondered<br />If the enemy was anywhere near<br />We had lost our way in the mountains<br />After being cut off from the rear<br /><br />I decided to scout around<br />They told me to watch out for my head<br />And when I squirmed back to the Hole<br />Only to find my two friends dead<br /><br />I had not heard a sound<br />And I must say I was scared<br />But to think that my scouting venture<br />Had to do with my life being spared<br /><br />I began to lift their heads<br />While holding back a tear<br />Only to see their heads fall back<br />Necks cut from ear to ear<br /><br />Then the morning exploded around me<br />As I stayed with my friends on the ground<br />I listened to the bombs that were falling<br />And I recognized their familiar sound<br /><br />After two more hours in the foxhole<br />I was pulled out and still stared<br />Trying to understand this happening<br />And Why was it I that was spared.<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 18, 2008<br /><br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-89835948721000337182008-04-18T18:00:00.001-04:002008-04-18T18:03:36.466-04:00Stardom<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Stardom, Recognition, goes together<br />Yet, are distant in every way<br />In years gone by, you needed talent<br />And a life style without going astray<br /><br />Stardom is not a given right<br />It is earned in the profession one chooses<br />Through dedication and hard work<br />They become winners and seldom losers<br /><br />The stars were put on pedestals<br />Helped us forget our strife<br />While all the time just acting<br />Trying to portray real life<br /><br />That’s the way it was<br />So many long years ago<br />When we fell in love with them<br />Before and after each show<br /><br />But today they reach Stardom<br />Doing whatever they please<br />While writers and producers<br />Issue scripts so full of sleaze<br /><br />Many have found Recognition<br />Through booze and drugs as well<br />When they are pulled over<br />They tell authority to “Go To Hell”<br /><br />We certainly deserve better<br />To pass on to our youth<br />We need those old time ethics<br />To stand along with truth<br /><br />But we the fans are also at fault<br />We pay to see their every move<br />Maybe we should hold back somewhat<br />Until their lives improve<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 18, 2008<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-44785412011718651042008-04-16T11:58:00.001-04:002008-04-16T12:00:29.655-04:00Sacred Ground<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Back Clare Street is where it stands today, the Wild Geese is the name of the bar<br />Where good people get together at night, for entertainment and a good old jar<br />It was one of my few visits home and old friends shaking hands all night<br />With stories galore being told, until the dimming of the lights<br /><br />It was then that I remembered, what was here before they sold beer<br />When I was really a youngster, we played snooker and billiards, right here<br />I went outside to look and confirm, that my memory was still quite sound<br />Then faces and names took over my head, I was standing on sacred ground<br /><br />There was many a prank, set up in there and it was always done in a funny way<br />But one prank I recall, outside this door, when Jer Sarsfield was caught in disarray<br />There was an argument at the billiard table and Jer was in the midst of the brawl<br />Until three of the guys he was arguing with, pulled him out into the hall<br /><br />They pulled off his shoes and socks, as well as his Sunday’s long pants<br />Then pushed him outside the door, he answered with self thought rants<br />Boys didn’t wear briefs or shorts, we didn’t know about things like that<br /> What do you do when your pants is gone and your shirt wouldn’t reach your lap<br /><br />It just happened in early afternoon, when workers came home for lunch<br />Girls on bikes trying to get a good look, crashed into each other in a bunch<br />Now to end this bit about the Sacred Ground, something that I never knew<br />This was the site of a learning place, remembered by a very few<br /><br />I became quite attached to this site; I wouldn’t normally, as a rule<br />This Bar was once called Broderick’s, where my dad had attended school.<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April15, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-13823217579021617292008-04-12T14:51:00.001-04:002008-04-12T14:53:04.960-04:00The Brothers of Sexton Street<div align="left">Innocent times growing up, when the bird was on the wing<br />I always thought that wrong because the wing was on the bird<br />School was all about learning, they pounded it in every day<br />Those Christian Brothers on Sexton Street, believed it was the only way<br /><br />They wore the cleric outfit with the pockets down to their knees<br />In there they kept thick leather straps and it wasn’t for swatting bees<br />Those leather straps were shaped at the top, to easily fit in their hand<br />Two leather pieces sewn together, they really should have been banned<br /><br />I do not know if our parents were aware, the brothers had this learning tool<br />And they used it without hesitation, apparently approved by the school<br />Now the brothers had problems of their own and at times were angry men<br />They got rid of their rage and anger, while using their straps on us, Amen<br /><br />During the early to mid forties, us young ones let our sideburns grow<br />It was just a youthful rebellious thing, a way for us to crow<br />We knew it annoyed the brothers; our parents didn’t seem to mind<br />So we continued to flaunt it, without any thoughts of being unkind<br /><br />It felt good going into class, knowing we had found redemption<br />Until one particular brother, found a way to get our attention<br />He would sneak up behind your bench, grab hold of that growing hair<br />Then yank you out of your seat, as the pain had nothing to compare<br /><br />Today they have better methods, leather straps are gone as a tool<br />Students and teachers get together, helping each other through school<br />Well, I certainly remember their teaching, back when the leather was in<br />It is a part of my life’s foundation, though I didn’t think so back then<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 2, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-91550977247743908942008-04-11T09:16:00.001-04:002008-04-11T09:21:08.987-04:00Many Years Ago<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Many years ago, in the Celtic land of Ireland<br />Limerick was my City and I called it My Land<br />Alive was what we were in every sport we played<br />They kept us fit and busy, not many of us strayed<br /><br />It was parish against parish and the lines were drawn<br />On the day of a game, fans were ready at dawn<br />Songs about the parish, could be heard for miles around<br />And those that had passed on could feel the shaking ground<br /><br />There were plenty of characters, who told their stories well<br />But kept them clean and funny, not wanting to go to hell<br />With a lot of wait to game time, they would meet for a jar<br />In the home away from home, in the local public bar<br /><br /> Hurling and Gaelic football were the recognized national games<br />Rugby and Soccer were foreign and had the GAA in flames<br />But to the fans, all was right and they loved all sports indeed<br />Each game was discussed in the bar, no matter what the creed<br /><br />There was a Rugby match played one day, held in Thomond Park<br />A team from Limerick was pitted against, a team from down in Cork<br />It was a hard fought battle, as the fans kept up their cheer<br />One player from the Cork side left the field, with only one ear<br /><br />Bandaged up quite nicely, He went looking for the telegram place<br /> To let the home town know who won, he didn’t want to loose face<br />He formed the worded message, so they would understand the ravage<br />So he penned: “We won the match, but I was eaten by a savage”<br /><br />So the home team lost, but the bars were still open<br />They became filled up again with many signs of emotion<br />Closing time at the bar, just created that extra strife<br /> Married fans homeward bound, must now meet the wife<br /><br />There was Mary Ann’s store, on Old Clare Street<br /> Where lots of pig’s heads were sold and also pig’s feet<br /> Many a marriage was saved, by the sign on her window aglow<br />With a few simple words that read: “Take Her Home a Toe”<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 10th,2008<br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-53146845566355691582008-04-08T00:03:00.002-04:002008-04-08T00:12:22.551-04:00The Ice Creram Carts<div align="left">The Ice Cream Carts <br /><br />“Oh,” to be that young again, especially in the spring<br />When the bee’s awakened early, ready to test their sting<br />The world seemed so happy and the sun began to shine<br />Greetings were offered all around and that was just fine<br /><br />The ice cream carts were ready and we began to race<br />To where jingled bells were heard in their parking space<br />We crowded round the cart, with the white clad man inside<br />We ogled at all he had to offer and we wouldn’t be denied<br /><br />Young voices could be heard, shouting up into the air<br />Calling to their mothers, for whatever they could spare<br />The mothers searched the coffee cans for enough to fill a cone<br />It was a time long ago when dad worked and mom stayed at home<br /><br />We savored each lick around the cone and up its ice cream hill<br />Trying to prolong the tasty feast with all of our youthful skill<br />We spoke very little to one another as our taste buds were on high<br />We tried to shelter our precious gift from the sun up in the sky<br /><br />“Oh,” to be that young again, especially in the spring<br />When the bee’s awakened early, ready to test their sting<br />Yes, mom was always only a shout away, when we played in the street<br />And seemed to be able to have the scents to give us this ice cream treat<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 7th, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-43741232569813382972008-04-05T11:32:00.001-04:002008-04-05T11:36:16.057-04:00An Invitation<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Come visit me by the ocean<br />Enjoy the sounds that belong there<br />With the sun on guard o’er the waters<br />And the birds whistling songs in the air<br /><br />It is here that you cannot be moody<br />Your troubles are best left behind<br />Our faces are mapped by our smiles<br />And our friendship is easy to find<br /><br />You don’t have to be rich to enjoy it<br />All you need is the time it requires<br />To stretch out underneath an umbrella<br />Relax and review your desires<br /><br />It is then that you will hear the sounds<br />As it ebbs and recedes in its motion<br />Orchestrated by the Maestro’s hand<br />The music that belongs to the Ocean<br /><br />Come visit with me by the Ocean<br />Obtain the cures for the mind<br />You, will be amazed at the outcome<br />Going home in a refreshed state of mind<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 4th, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-71952300891313732752008-04-03T14:03:00.001-04:002008-04-03T14:06:35.058-04:00An Ode To The Feet<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div align="left">It appears that we needed more speed<br />As we wanted to get everywhere real fast<br />I never could understand the reasoning<br />Except maybe nobody wanted to be last<br /><br />There were few cars on the road back then<br />Bicycles were the mode of transportation<br />The horse and cart was also there<br />And could get you to your destination<br /><br />But most of us didn’t have these things<br />And we really didn’t need all that speed<br />Our legs were our cheapest transportation<br />They cost nothing and fulfilled our need<br /><br />They carried us through all kinds of weather<br />Walking over mountains and streams<br />Only asking that we sit down for a few moments<br />And let the mind take their place in our dreams<br /><br />They came in many different shapes<br />That helped us walk in all different ways<br />And in the night their only request<br />Was to rest them for the following day<br /><br />So now the reason for a poem like this<br />To make us think well, of our feet<br />To be kind to them that carries our weight<br />And stop stamping them out on the street<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />April 3rd, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-456533338078857192008-03-31T09:24:00.001-04:002008-03-31T09:29:13.561-04:00Do Not Forget Him<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div align="left">How dare I ask for God to help me<br />I who has forgotten him in life<br />I who has lost the road toward his house<br />Now looking for help in my strife<br /><br />Where else can one turn to<br />When all their friends are gone<br />When all life’s music has stopped<br />And all the songs went along<br /><br />Alone is where one is<br />Left with a struggling mind<br />With memories popping in and out<br />And the good ones pretty hard to find<br /><br />How dare I ask God to help me<br />When I remember all the promises I made<br />For all the good things he gave me<br />And he asked for nothing in trade<br /><br />The knife is still in my hand<br />It appears to be the best thing to do<br />And I hope that you can forgive me<br />If ever I get the chance to see you<br /><br />A sudden shock hits my body<br />I awake filled with sweat and steam<br />I see in the mirror I’m still alive<br />I have survived this terrible dream<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />March 30, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-14905683378801106842008-03-19T13:27:00.003-04:002008-03-26T14:10:24.394-04:00MEMORY OF A FRIENDSHIP<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div align="left"><strong>The morning had that fresh crisp feeling; the eyelids forced open the eyes</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>I just didn't know where I was and the birds sang without any noise</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>There was peace all around, which kept me from rising too fast</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>It was a calm that covered the body, which was perfect to recall the past</strong></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><strong>My mind hurtled back in time, when I went on an Irish vacation</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>It had been ten years since the last one and twenty since my Emigration</strong></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><strong>There had been many modern changes, for the better it was easy to see</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>But no changes could be seen here, In Gods haven, the town called "KillKee"</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>I am fully awakened at last after driving here the day before</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>To find my old childhood friend, to hang around with once more</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>We walked the Strand that morning, Cyril Downes and I by the sea</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>Recalling so many old friends, who used to come here, "Killkee"</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>Last night we went to his pub, t'was after a swim in the ocean</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>We left footprints on the sand along with some tears of emotion</strong></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><strong>We were welcomed by the crowd, Cyril sang </strong><strong>" An Old Cowpoke"and "Raw Hide"</strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>He became the MC for the evening and I went along for the ride</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>I had to leave the next day; our time together had run out</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>As we waved at each other in silence, that's what friendship is all about</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>Times like this, are etched in my memory; I look back on them with glee</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>Thank God for giving me this one, My friend Cyril, Killkee and Me</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-11995774433694568502008-03-11T14:13:00.001-04:002008-03-26T14:11:15.984-04:00"I Will Never Count Sheep"<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">Last night I lay in bed and had difficulty trying to sleep<br />I allowed my mind to wonder, I would not count sheep<br />I felt myself floating in the air in a time machine<br />And memories of long ago came back, Oh So Pristine<br /><br />The beginning was lightning fast and I could hardly breathe<br />Faces and places shot by, with names that I could not read<br />Then I felt a slow down, through the window I saw a sign<br />The machine had glided to a stop, as my feelings became benign<br /><br />A flashing number caught my eye, that number was sixteen<br />Above the door of a house I knew, where I had many a dream<br />Why was I back here, at the house where I was born?<br />On Lelia Street, in Limerick on this dewy refreshing morn<br /><br />There wasn’t a soul in sight and no sounds that one could hear<br />So I let the beautiful memories interact, before I shed a tear<br />I see myself in bed upstairs, near the window to Lelia Street<br />I listened to the strangest sounds of peoples walking feet<br /><br />I heard a sneeze brought on by a breeze, with the sound of a walking cane<br />Sure it had to be, Bob McConkey who lived next door to the lane<br />Again a sound, metal striking the ground from a boot with a metal heel <br />That was the Doyle’s from Powleen; their boots had heels made of steel<br /><br />There was old Mrs. Shinners from Moore’s lane, just shuffling along her way<br />And the strong beat of Sgt. Byrnes feet, coming home from a very long day<br />Once again I’m inside that time machine and everything is flashing by<br />Thoughts of things forgotten will stay with me, until the day I die<br /><br />It is amazing what the mind can do, how it can take you back in time<br />And I’m thankful to have had this moment to put it into rhyme<br />I never had to go to the window; these sounds always put me to sleep<br />And as long as people wear shoes, I will never, no never count sheep<br /><br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />March 11, 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-37771768720612625592008-03-02T11:24:00.002-05:002008-03-26T14:11:15.986-04:00St. Patricks Day (Limerick)<div align="left"><strong>St Patrick was extremely bright</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>Came to Ireland to teach what was right</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>To show he's no fake</strong></div><div align="left"><strong>He got rid of the snake</strong></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><strong>Now we all sleep much better at night</strong> </div><div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-46690466442269145472008-03-01T15:11:00.002-05:002008-03-26T14:11:15.988-04:00Blessings<div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="left" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off">While it’s older I am getting<br />My mind is still quite young<br />It is there I hope to keep it<br />Fresh and alive, not stung<br /><br />I have no conception of age<br />Though sometimes, the body gets rattled<br />But that’s a part of life<br />Get it settled and on with the battle<br /><br />I have never been on a diet<br />I have worked out so very little<br />I have eaten everything on my plate<br />And I am anything but brittle<br /><br />Yes, I’ve had a few setbacks<br />But not enough to break the rock<br />Thank God for all his blessings<br />And I come from great auld stock<br /><br />Then what keeps it all together<br />When attacked from around the bends<br />It’s the strength and love of family<br />And connection with dear old friends<br /><br />Michael Christopher Daly<br />March 1, 2008<br /></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28131790.post-58946930476450748012008-02-28T10:37:00.002-05:002008-03-26T14:11:15.989-04:00"ALL SOULS NIGHT"<div align="center">T’was “All Souls Night in Limerick City long ago<br /> When Franklin and myself, decided where we’d go<br /> As Catholics, we would visit all the churches we could find<br /> Say a prayer in all of them, for the souls we had in mind<br /> As the evening passed to night, St. Mary’s our last Church<br /> We said some extra prayers, leaving no one in the lurch<br /><br /> We walked on out to Corbally, from there we’d turn back home<br /> Knowing we had done our bit, for the souls that were forlorn<br /> Beyond ‘Dago O’Driscolls, so well famous for the jar<br /> We stopped at Corbally Bridge, happy we had walked this far<br /> The road back to town, was well lit at for all to see<br /> But halfway over the bridge all lights ceased to be<br /><br /> Just then we heard a baby’s cry, from under the bridge it felt<br /> We both jumped down the steps to offer the baby our help<br /> The crying stopped, we looked around and silence met our ears<br /> So back we climbed to the bridge, in each of us a little fear<br /> I looked across the span, saw a man walking in alone<br /> Franklin saw him too, just then the baby’s moan<br /><br /> We hit the steps again, running faster this time<br /> The moaning stopped, so did we, then began our second climb<br /> A look across the bridge, the man had left no trace <br /> He didn’t pass; he didn’t go back, just disappeared in space<br /> The moaning came and away we ran, all aglow with fright<br /> With a memory, we have rarely told about our “All Souls Night <br /> <br /> Michael Christopher Daly<br /> Sept 10th, 2005<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /> <table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" align="center" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" width="100%" unselectable="on"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div align="left"></div></td></tr><tr hb_tag="1" unselectable="on"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>mikorahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10024913905434707424noreply@blogger.com0