Snowy Silence
Snowy Silence Snow thick on the ground No sound comes from the forest Are the birds alive?
Snow
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses
The Night Before Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And
Waiting For The Storm
Waiting For The Storm Old snow in the field Winter’s lull sharpens my ears Soon the sky will speak
Coaching Session
Coaching Session A good many years ago I was a member of a television comedy troupe called The Henway Company (what’s a Henway? About four pounds. Cue rim shot, da dum bah!) It was the brain-child of a witty guy named Ray Edelstein, and it was openly based on the sketch comedy of NBC’s “Saturday
The Cruel Mother
The Cruel Mother A minister’s daughter i’ the north, Hey, the rose and the linsey, O, Has fallen in love wi’ her feyther’s clerk, Doun by the greenwood sidey, O! He’s courted her for a year and a day, Hey, the rose and the linsey, O! At last she’s proved wi’ child by him. Doun
A Jazzbo Night Before Christmas
A Jazzbo Night Before Christmas ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the pad Not a hepcat was swinging, and that’s nowhere, dad. The stove was hung up in the stocking routine In hopes that the fat man would soon make the scene. The kids had all had it, so they hit their sacks,
The Willow Tree Carol
As it befell on a high holiday, Small rain from the sky did fall, Our saviour asked his mother Mary If he might go play at ball. “At ball, at ball, my own dear son, It’s time that you were gone! And don’t let me hear of any mischief At night when you come home.”
After Betrayal
After Betrayal Nobody knows exactly how it works, The spasm in the heart that makes one face particular. Nobody knows why it hurts when singular passion falls from grace. If the heart is a garden, nobody hoes, or cultivates, or even pulls the weeds. Lovers can never quite master the tools of their own gardening.
Winter Is Icumen In
Winter is icumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Freezeth river, turneth liver, Damm you; Sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, ’tis why I am, Goddamm, So ‘gainst the winter’s balm. Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,