No Parole Boards Please July 18th,2012
NO PAROLE BOARDS PLEASE July 18th,2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
The Parole Boards claim that our prisons are overcrowded,
They use this in their release decisions that are shrouded,
So vicious murderers and rapists can walk the streets once more,
And strut their stuff and show off to their victims how they have scored.
And the politically correct Parole Board folk think that this is great,
Though not very democratic and never up for debate,
And our isolated party politicians stay far away,
Doing absolutely nothing for us except maybe, betray.
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Canadian Supreme Court Aug 24th,2012
CANADIAN SUPREME COURT Aug 24th,2012
By
James Bredin
Appointees from a very secret list who are up there near the gods,
Dressed like Santa Clause or bishops - they got the official nods,
The Canadian Supreme Court hangs out in big fancy places,
They are very important so you better recognize their faces.
They allowed a drug-addict Insite clinic in Vancouver town,
Despite the Federal Government's attempts to close it down,
Who runs this country - the government or the Supreme Court?
Elected politicians or appointees - who should we support?
They told very sick, facing death, Sue Rodriguez, where to go,
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Forbidden Death with Dignity July 28th,2012
FORBIDDEN DEATH WITH DIGNITY July 28th 2012
By
James Bredin
Death with dignity should not be too difficult to impose,
No need for a referendum and just see how it goes,
And those who oppose it will just have to shut up and learn,
Like now; those of us who want it have to shut up and yearn.
Because our politicians will not arrange this anytime soon,
From binding referendums and mandatory voting, we're immune,
All party politicians have been told by their party bosses,
You can't like these things or it might be your political losses.
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McTaggart
A real horse of a man McTaggart
Called him nineteen hands high,
With shoulders like a barn door,
Town lands champion, miser and horse doctor.
Focus of all the neighborhood shallow gossip,
Uncle Eddy strode Brucha’s rushy aches alone
for eighty years to outlive them all,
Unschooled and illerate, a product of lean times,
He could guide a team of Clydesdales at twelve,
At fifteen a man.
He bought his first suit with rabbits snared on the loch shore.
Rebuffed a sullen parish admired his feats from a safe distance,
Fearing the hard honesty, the cold stare.
As when he mowed all night in the wet meadow,
lifted a trap across his bare shoulders,
broke stallions or drove a herd of bullocks to the Moy Fair alone.
Well able for pestering clergy,
Friendless and womanless all his life,
He christened the great bays, Tom and Ned
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Counter Quebec Referendum Aug 18th,2012
COUNTER QUEBEC REFERENDUM AUG 18TH 2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
The Quebec referendum is really our opportunity too,
Our chance to show them that our democracy can break through,
To counter the Quebec separatist movement; we need to change,
Binding referendums and mandatory votes should not be strange.
But how do we get our Ottawa politicians to pay attention?
Get the lead out and counteract all this apprehension,
Ottawa should come around and down to earth to help us all,
Our referendums in Quebec might get the separatists to forestall.
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Ennis
Ennis will forever be enshrined in my mind,
A small mark on the map from another place and time.
Memories dimmed by many years as though cut with a knife,
First seventeen years of love and laughter in my life.
In a town bowed down by poverty struggling to survive,
Back lanes of half-door houses waiting someone to arrive.
Narrow winding streets full of friends and farmers’ horses,
Pompous priests dressed in black who always walked on water,
And girls in long green dresses that came down below their knees,
Moving past on bicycles; boys waiting for a breeze,
And cows moving slowly herded down towards the water,
Where their blood will fill the Fergus from the houses of slaughter.
And the Christian Brothers School where Brother Brien taught,
No such thing as freedom especially freedom of thought.
We learned everything in Gaelic in the very ancient script,
Letters from the Book of Kells or some ancient warrior’s crypt.
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Ennis July 8th,2012
Ennis will forever be enshrined in my mind,
A small mark on the map from another place and time,
Memories dimmed by many years as though cut with a knife,
First seventeen years of love and laughter in my life,
In a town bowed down by poverty struggling to survive,
Back lanes of half-door houses waiting someone to arrive.
Narrow winding streets full of friends and farmers' horses,
Pompous priests dressed in black who always walked on water,
And girls in long green dresses that came down below their knees,
Moving past on bicycles; boys waiting for a breeze,
And cows moving slowly herded down towards the water,
Where their blood will fill the Fergus from the houses of slaughter.
And the Christian Brothers School where Brother Brien taught,
No such thing as freedom, especially freedom of thought,
We learned everything in Gaelic in the very ancient script,
Letters from the Book of Kells or some ancient warrior's crypt,
Where are the guys I knew so well; stole by emigration?
Or shied from skirts that only hurt and joined some congregation.
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We Cut Turf At Lisycasey
We cut turf at Lisycasey when I was a boy,
Wore heavy woolen sweaters and short pants of corduroy,
We left the turf soft and wet in the sun to get hard as a rock,
Came back a week later to foot it up in a circular block,
To catch additional wind and dry and harden even more,
Never had or wore gloves and our hands were always quite sore.
We hitched a ride in a lorry going out the Kilrush Road,
And then walked the winding bog road for miles with our load,
We used a heavy spade with one side called a 'shlawn' by the Gaels,
Backbreaking work but we needed turf to stay warm and prevail,
Because in those rough war times, coal could not be had or bought,
Not for heating houses but ironworks where a war was being fought.
The bog was a swampy quiet place with no trees and few birds,
Fewer people far away working wearily alone without words,
But the quiet tranquility of the bog was sometimes broken,
By flying Constilations heading out for the Atlantic Ocean,
From Rinanna to Gander they had enough fuel for one hop,
Then onto New York for their final destination stop.
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Ennis Once Upon A Time
ENNIS ONCE UPON A TIME
BY
JAMES BREDIN
Ennis will forever be enshrined in my mind,
A small mark on the map from another place and time.
Memories dimmed by many years as though cut with a knife,
First seventeen years of love and laughter in my life.
In a town bowed down by poverty struggling to survive,
Back lanes of half-door houses waiting someone to arrive.
Narrow winding streets full of friends and farmers' horses,
Pompous priests dressed in black who always walked on water,
And girls in long green dresses that came down below their knees,
Moving past on bicycles; boys waiting for a breeze,
And cows moving slowly herded down towards the water,
Where their blood will fill the Fergus from the houses of slaughter.
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poem by James Bredin
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The Boaster
I met Setanta in the seventies when we worked digging graves,
At the Mount Pleasant Cemetery we used shovels and spades.
We worked day and night year in year out in cold and heat and dust,
But each time we sat to drink our tea, I listened in disgust.
As he boasted ‘bout the house he bought which I did not begrudge,
And the girl he wed and the things she said - she even knew a judge.
I heard about her jewelry and her expensive leather coat,
With sheepskin lining down to her knees, he would gloat and gloat and gloat.
I heard about the trips they made to Mexico or somewhere else down south,
And how the weather was so hot when they tried to walk about.
I head all about the cruise ships too like some ancient Greek fables,
When they got that special invitation to eat at the captain’s tables.
I heard about his furniture, all wicker and imported,
From jungle places far away, especially picked and sorted.
I heard about the car he drove with those shiny chrome wheels,
And how they ate in restaurants and all those fancy meals.
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