Cloudy Judgement
A conveyor belt of clouds passed overhead,
One thought he recognized the scene below,
'It's possible we're lost, ' he softly said
'We floated by this place some time ago.'
'I feel this sudden urge to spill some rain,
'But can't be sure this is the spot we'd planned, '
His fellow clouds did not a dropp retain,
'Of course' he mouthed, 'it's clearly Ireland.'
poem by Greg Costello
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Don't Get Your O' Logists Mixed Up
My name is Dermat O' Logist,
An Irishman expert on skin.
My Dad goes by Herb O' Logist,
No slouch at Chinese medicine.
Once as we practised in tandem,
A terrible mix up took place,
A hapless patient at random,
Caused egg to appear on my face.
Cure-wise what he sought was herbal,
But wrongly arrived in with me,
Out came a whole load of verbal,
When implying I'd seen worse acne.
poem by Greg Costello
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An Oasis
I basked in the ordinariness of the day, where it demanded nothing of me, nor I of it
An afternoon unfolding in it's own shapeless way, a temporary truce, that did my mood befit.
This signalled a change and sought a cycle to break, for days of late have drained like a temperamental child,
Came this day to cherish where so little seemed at stake, a sereneness tethering thoughts that have run wild.
poem by Greg Costello
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Let Children Be
With eyes of lapis lazuli,
And laughter soaked with unbound joy,
And spirit bold and thoughts carefree,
My role is just to let her be.
To play and act and float and flounce,
But nurture her with every ounce, .
Without control but steadfastly,
Avow anew to let her be.
So that one day she may decree,
She lived with childhood liberty,
To roar aloud 'hey look at me'
My parents chose to let me be.
poem by Greg Costello
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Graveside Reflections
A black trickle of mourners were sucked reluctantly towards the clayless plug-hole,
A ninety-one year old life, about to be consumed by the ground.
I prayed her spirit was soaring above in a heavenly orbit,
I recoiled at the notion of her lingering at some lost and found.
I embraced many tearful by-standers, looking to reassure but as much to seek reassurance,
That at my journey's end, my soul too, shall find safekeeping.
poem by Greg Costello
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A Great Character
The sturdy armchair squatted,
Totally untaxed beneath her frail frame.
Her hands that had yielded all opacity,
Dangled loosely from cardiganed wrists,
The gauze-like skin revealing a road map of veins,
Still transporting their vintage claret.
Her heart yet harboured reserves of joy,
Which leaked girlishly in titters,
For though Alzheimer's had done it's utmost
To blunt the senses,
Her humour remained sharp and defiant.
So too did her compulsion to rebuke parental slipshodiness.
Now it's angels who fear straying from best practise.
poem by Greg Costello
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Fair Is Not Always Fair
'That's a Stormtrooper there, but with ginger hair, '
I heard the kid say to the man.
'Is he really that white, ' the lad said in fright,
Questioning a complete lack of tan.
I knew just what he meant, for two weeks had I spent,
With the palest being in all of mankind,
In this holiday town, he made Casper look brown,
Himself to four-digit factor he'd confined.
See the moral here, is evidently clear,
If you're Irish, red-haired and fair,
Your skin just wasn't made, in the sun to be laid,
But they say Pluto's cheap once you're there.
poem by Greg Costello
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Paddling My Own Canoe
I need somebody to pick up the phone,
I'm in such pain and suffering alone,
It's an s.o.s. from across the pond,
Don't think about answering, just respond.
I feel cast adrift with no sign of land,
'Neath ripcurls of sadness, at their command,
So launch the lifeboat with skipper and crew,
For in such a tempest, armbands won't do.
I've tried my damnest to weather this storm,
Pursuing this dream in it's contorted form,
Hauling around some dutibound anchor,
Swallowing whole my internal rancor.
But rescue's not llikely, it's sink or swim,
Sorry to tell you, the forecast is grim.
poem by Greg Costello
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The 'Ession' Session
A symptom of a national recession,
Is widespread and collective depression,
Employees from every profession,
Just surviving, but at what concession.
There's a justified wave of aggression,
At the immoral bankworld transgression,
The piecemeal government intercession,
But nothing in the way of confession.
So with continuing fiscal compression,
And an upsurge in house repossession,
The country since Brian Cowan's accession,
Has suffered a quite seismic regression.
Now the Celtic Tiger's dispossession,
Has stemmed the money-making obsession,
But those in charge don't give the impression,
They're in touch with our poorest's oppression.
poem by Greg Costello
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Growing Older
This laboured Labrador went waddling by,
His awkward gait the legacy of time,
The tragic loss of youth's vitality,
What once were walks now mountains he must climb.
Did he explore and roam and wander free,
And rest fireside when day was almost done,
Then rage along with endless energy,
When lead would slacken giving way to fun.
And did he chase and fetch and froth at mouth,
But on occasion disobey his call,
His senses drowned by freedom all about,
Fun being so fulfilling after all.
Could it be now his age fills him with dread,
Or does he simply just ignore the fact,
His path's bound for his fellow canine dead,
No need to contemplate the final act.
poem by Greg Costello
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