My spirit’s faint, of joy and beauty starved,

Of late, this grieving heart has known but gloom,

So, prayers I’ll say on ancient Anglezarke,

And dance with Gaia, to a brighter tune,

Where soars my soul, between earth sea and sky:

Fear’s put to flight, in nature is true strength.

A lark’s song celebrates up there on high

The beauty of our vast horizon’s length,

The grandeur o...

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Flag-shaggers claim The Silence is their own:

one such, in ignorance, presumed my guilt,

and sneered: “he is alone”, but knew not why;

“He’s running free”, sez he, “why’s that allowed?”

 

I say to him: “Mate, you know bugger-all:

five comrades, blown to bits of blood and bone,

must keep their silence now, that of the grave;

the silence that I keep has been dear bought,

...

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Notes on Remembrance? Forget It!

 

My use of the word Pogrom in my poem is deliberate, not flippant. I used it to draw attention to its use by lying news / propaganda outlets with reference to the recent situation in Amsterdam, a deliberately emotive and offensive trivialisation of the horrific reality of pogroms in Russia, and of events such as Kristallnacht. Its use there, was a cynical...

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Dear God, help the people

of Clacton-on-Sea,

who, thinking that things

were as bad as could be,

imagined their saviour,

that frog with a gob,

with a laugh and a smoke,

and a pint in his hand,

the working-man’s bloke,

might change his behaviour,

might just do his job,

keeping shit from their rivers

and shit from their shores?

but his amour now is orange,

s...

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Thought I'd get it in early, as I'll be out tommorrow.

A greeting in Irish

Beannacht i nGaeilge

 

Oíche Shamhna Shona Daibh!

/Ee-ha How-na hunna ghweev/ (In Phonetics)

Happy Halloween!

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Many a pint,

many a laugh,

many a smile,

and many the tears

over the months

and over the years.

Where now, though’s, love,

amongst these not-so-young lads,

and not-so-young girls?

Distant now,

perhaps a year ago?

the memory persists,

it’s vivid still,

the time yon mon,

distraught and close to tears,

burst through those welcoming

double doors,

...

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Acknowledment to Branwell -

his poem on cliches bump-started my grey matter into action:

"just get something on page - anything, I thought...."

 

Poor Anne of the Thousand Days,

wouldn’t stick to King Henry like glue,

the second of eight old clichés,

that fat git she just would not woo,

to his will, feisty Anne wouldn’t bend,

well, all the world’s a stage,

cut a long ...

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The starver hears but must ignore,

being answerable, not to the many,

but the few’s blood-lusting roar,

strings pulled with many a pretty penny.

lover he, of fascist shores,

solution final, they’ve demanded,

in hock to genocidal boors,

with filthy lucre he’s red-handed.

is there no arse he will not lick?

needs must that he stand by his man;

no conscience has that stan...

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A chap wanted less of Wokeness,

Being nice there, caused him lots of stress,

So he moved to Seattle,

Which tested his mettle,

‘Cos then, he was truly Sleepless.

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The title of my sonnet is inspired by that of the excellent 1995 film, Land and Freedom, directed by eminent film director, Ken Loach, persecuted in the UK and elsewhere for his compassionate socialist views.

With reference to my last six lines: the terrorist murder in 1946 of British soldiers, of Jews and others should not be forgotten in the rush to attempt to justify the seven-decades-long ...

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It’s time to say NO!

It’s time to turn left,

To staunch the blood flow,

Of truth they’re bereft,

 

It’s time for the many,

To stand up to the few,

To liars ten-a-penny,

To red ties turned blue,

 

You’re a friend of apartheid

You’ve just lied to this nation,

You enabler of genocide,

And illegal occupation,

 

The targets weren’t civilian,

Your pants ar...

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I’m late, I’m late,

For a very important date,

Yesterday has bin n’ gonee,

Poetry Day went up the Swanee,

Did it float up?…or float right down?

Yes, I was in my favourite pub, in town,

I ducked into the Dog n’ Duck,

(Where t’ pavements are not full o’ muck)

Memory on a great meander,

Leakin’ like a collander,

But at least I’ve read that poem about doggy do,

Thanks...

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Twittering twattery

Katey-Click-Baitery

Pissed up on winery

Our Hatey Katery,

Twittering blithely,

is Hatey-Katery,

Twattering, spluttering,

Katey-hate-mongering,

Twattering splattering,

Odiously shittering,

Hatefully mongering,

Twattering blithely,

Is that chap gaytery?

Asks Hatey Katery

He must be gay-ery!

Says Hatey Katery,

Yes he seems gay-ery,

...

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He’s fine with the murder of babies,

All hail to that regime from Hades,

His morals are urinal,

His solution is final,

That’s made him as popular as rabies.

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Thus spake the left cheek of le grand derrière,

“Every child, every person, deserves to be respected”;

No respect though was shown to a fearless dissenter,

With scorn, every word from that cheek was inflected,

When questioned about killing those children in Gaza,

Their gallant defender was manhandled, ejected,

Then slammed in a van by democracy’s rozzers,

That, fellow citizens...

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Belated thanks to John Gilbert Ellis for the last line.

https://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/johngilbertellis

 

Who needs rhetorical devices!

asked the philosopher from Devizes,

as his latest theory crystalises!

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She’s persona non grata

to the two-tier mob,

she just doesn’t matter;

yes, “She should be shot”,

is what that man said,

but that’s mighty fine

in Two-Tier’s head;

no, justice ain’t blind

for those two-tier racists,

see, she’s the wrong colour,

her face just ain’t English;

and her friendship with that fellow

called J.C, a socialist,

is quite beyond the pale,

...

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That’s what makes us human,

that we tell our stories;

we tell not just theirs,

not those of the powerful,

but those of the women

and those of the men,

who all but survive,

in our stinking back-alleys;

so out I now venture,

I, who have been sheltered,

who am warm and well-fed,

to collect from the shop

poems written by many,

for you and for you,

for the muc...

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Disappeared poets,

Disappeared poems,

Disappeared talents,

Disapproved of poets,

Disapproved of poems,

Disapproved of opinions,

Disapproved of words,

Jumped?

Pushed?

Fucked off in disgust?

Who cares?

Do you?

Why?

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There’s a saying around here: “Them uz ‘ave, will ‘ave,” meaning: Those who have, will have. It’s always been true, and is  moreso these days.

 

Them uz ‘ave, will ‘ave, ‘cos thi’ve got cleawt’,

Bur if th’art cowd n’ ‘ungry, on’ gets blotto,

Tha’ll get cawed neawt bu’ feckless workshy leawts,

‘Cos “Aw’m aw reet Jack” ‘s allus bin their motto.

 

Aye, them uz ‘ave, will ‘ave, ‘c...

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This is the first stanza of a sonnet from my collection "Total Testicles" now available from Gutter Publishing; all proceeds from the sale thereof will be donated to my favourite charity, The Budgie Smugglers Foundation.

Dit dah, dit dah, dah dit dit lah di dah ?

Di dum, di dum, a rumpy pumpy pum,

Dah diddly dee, di dum doh ray mi fah;

Tarah rah boom de ay, reet lot o’ fun!

Uilleam ...

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Spectator, from your ivory tower you peer,

Through sneers and smears, your wishes are revealed:

That poetry penned by plebs remain concealed,

Of Daffodils, irrational is your fear!

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 4th September 2024

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The gobshite bullies came for me,

When I, at ten years old or so,

Was forced to admit we’d no TV,

The haunted fish-tank being despised

As nothing but a frippery,

So I couldn’t discuss Four Feather Falls,

And I had nowt to say about Sunset Strip.

When they tried to throw me over a wall,

I fought off five or six of them,

With a “bloody” this and a “bloody” that,

I elbow...

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…and did those boots in World War time,

Stamp around England’s pleasant land:

And were those Blackshirt fascist sods,

From Cable Street off-seen!

 

Never did we countenance a time,

When journalists would see th’ Old Bill!

At dawn, a-knocking on their doors,

For telling truth, with fear instilled!

 

We must not cease Evil to Fight,,

Nor must my pen sleep in my hand...

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There’s something quite rotten in Britain,

Rights Human are now being rewritten,

A journos wrong question,

Brings fascist attention,

He’s arrested and, with prison smitten.

So much then, for pride and remembrance,

Behold now, their hopes in sad embers;

The lobby has paid,

Our forbears betrayed,

Hate thrives now, and it fears no hindrance.

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 28th Augu...

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Mis-Match of the Day

 

Tories-Compassion-the Truth

 

Abuser-Knighthood

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