Published Poems

And have you felt that way too,
That someone was in love with you
And was afraid to speak?

Beauty at the Beauty Ball
Lose you [sic] silver slipper where
Some man passing may recall
A virtuous woman's prudent care.

It was not Virgil I thought of last Friday at the Rotunda,
Or his verse which tells of huge-muscled fighters
In the Roman arena as they exhibited their bodies to the first-nighters -
I was thinking of what I would say on Monday:
Something that all readers would understand - a
Hint of Tunney's lefts and Dempsey's righters
In the Soldier's Field… Cole swings, Mulcahy sidesteps,
The fight is on and the audience roars like thunder.

Sing of the Childhood
That renews in our eyes
Beauty grown tired.
To-night is inspired,
Land, sea and skies,
With a Childhood surprise.

The New Year's unwritten page we view
As a lea field to plough and sow;
The memory of weeds from the last-turned page comes through,
But only matters what this year we grow.

She has harboured in the Unknown
That we all sail unto
And send no message back
No more than this ship's crew.

He found the secret love of Ireland hiding
Among the stones of Connaught's potato-patches,
And led her forth as eternally delighting
As ever love in Campion, Ford or Nashe is.

Next Sunday is Saint Valentine's Day
And it is my design
To bring you to a cheap café - 
I'll be your Valentine
If you don't use sugar in your tay
But leave it all for mine.

Some think he might have worn the crown
That now to brown Joe's head seems glued.

"I killed a verse-speaker," said the Playboy.
"Through my radio he attacked me with that cry
So banshee-like.