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Thurles
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8°C
real feel: 7°C
wind speed: 2 m/s WSW
sunrise: 7:17 am
sunset: 7:30 pm
 

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Thurles: Just Yesterday

Thurles: Just Yesterday

By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

In the multi-coloured buses waiting there,
Clad in blue and white and wine and grey,
The students in the swimming pool car park,
Leaves and leaves of learning on their backs,
Climb the metal stairs
To freedom and to home.
The glistening, indolent waters of the Suir
With the upward shooting spray of white
By the old and parapeted stony bridge,
Adventure by Butler’s Island to the sea,
Like a boy in a long lost summer hayfield,
Under the summer blue sky,
Voices,
Singing or strident or whispering
Of youth and possibility.
And I hear a woman’s voice, my mother’s,
A bright child happy eternity ago
Oh, hurry now or I’ll be late
By the path by the riverside wall of stone,
Mind your lunch now,
Hurry on, Tom!
To the Presentation and the nuns.
Isn’t life a moment after all
Oh, but sudden as a tear
For the sweet and nigh forgotten joys
Of yestermorn.
Oh, beautiful as a child,
Heart- fluttering, bound for a bus
(Oh,wait for me now,Mary, wait)
For that journey to
The great uncertain romance of the world.

(Ends)

Tom Ryan ,”Iona” Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.

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The Mist’s On The Mountains

“The winter is coming”, I hear the birds pine.

The Mist’s On The Mountains

By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

The mist’s on the mountains, the skies are all grey.
The shadows of night fall fast on the day.
The sentinels of summer prepare to change guard,
And saluting the winter, she retires from the yard.
The school books and jotters in windows are seen.
Make way for an gheimhreadh1, goodbye to the green.

The barley is cut, is baled and away,
And empty the look on the acres today.
And the strolls by the stream or the bridge down below
Must surrender to fires that are high and aglow.
“The winter is coming”, I hear the birds pine.
“Winter, cold winter and all things are dying”.

All things of the earth and the sky coloured lead,
And poor folks regarding ‘The Christmas’ with dread.
The Postie is eyeing the tea that is hot,
And cupping his cold hands: “Tis rainin’ a lot.”
Apples and ripe fruit mouthwatering, mature,
Are stored for the winter till Spring, to endure.

And children change hurleys for sitting-room games,
And cuddle to books by warm turf-fire flames.
Coughing and sneezing and wheezing et al,
Disregarded by Doc, who puts up with it all.
It’s time to remember the harvest is done.
Time to think fondly of some distant one.

In foggy cold cities, in far away climes,
Time to remember far happier times.
The town’s news reporter in courtroom and chambers,
Wearies of damp talk and longs for the embers.
The curate is preaching of crimes and of sin,
Maybe secretly longing for a brandy or gin.

Winter, cold winter, tis Nature’s own law,
Jack Frost is in session now wait for the thaw.
All natural happenings are merely like life.
You can savour hay sweet like a newly got wife.
But when the hay’s saved, you must forage anew,
In the everyday way of a love that is true.

And there’s joy in the winter if only we look,
Just listen in bed, to the rain, with that book.
Awaiting the light and the warm hope of spring,
We pause before flames and summer songs sing.
And so goes the cycle of all things that live.
You laugh in the summer, in winter you grieve.

All the while hoping and dreaming the best,
As the snow from the heavens comes softly to rest.
So, too is life, of snow and of sun.
You may weep all you like, but tis how things are done.
So, I laugh at the winter and keep up the heart,
And the snows of today will tomorrow depart.
Winter, cold winter and all things are dying.
Winter cold winter, I hear the birds sighing.
That’s how goes the universe and all that’s of earth,
Darkness and starkness and sunshine and mirth.

End.

[“an gheimhreadh” 1 – Irish language translation – “the winter”.

Tom Ryan, “Iona,” Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary

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Autumn In Thurles

Autumn In Thurles

By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

How lovely sweet autumn everywhere
In the beet leaved acres,
Under the yellow-leaved light,
Of the wistful October sun,
Engolding now the time.
Enriching the red and black and berried colours
By coloured roadside hedges all around.

The mellow mist is on the mountains,
The shadows fall fast on the declining day,
And life’s declining years.
The red and brown and golden leaves,
Kissed by the yellowing sun,
Adorn the roads and pathways of our lives,
A carpet for the guest of winter
To tread upon anon.
Now we wonder, in the Autumn-witching hour
Whom would we wish to be with us.

Shouting children down the Mall
Chase secret shadows of their dreams.
In the night, lit by the yellow hue
Of street lights in river reflected,
The perennial ghosts of Halloween
Whisper a magic in their ears,
Cast spells for a lifetime long.

Oh, who would we require to be with us,
As we gambol down the riverside path again,
Fists raised at the laughing moon
And the mocking mysterious shadows
Of all the days of youth.
Now we wonder in the Autumn witching hour
Who would we wish to follow
By secret paths under the stars
Of childhood long ago.

END

Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary

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Soul Mates

Soul Mates

By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

In a quiet moment
Thinking of nothing,
In a quiet place
Where I hear my heart beat,
My soul aches
For one who is absent,
And I,
Oh I
Am so lonely for you.

END

Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary

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Omagh One August

Almost twenty years ago this month; on Wednesday 15th August 1998, an act of terrorism known as the ‘Omagh Car Bombing’ took place, in Omagh town, [ Irish Óghmaighan or Ómaigh meaning “The virgin plain” ], in Co. Tyrone, Northern Ireland. The bombing was carried out by a group calling themselves the Real Irish Republican Army, (IRA), latter a Provisional IRA break away splinter group, who totally opposed the IRA’s ceasefire and the Good Friday Agreement or Belfast Agreement. Latter had been agreed on 10th April 1998, and overwhelmingly further approved in two referendums in both the North and South of Ireland, in May 1998.

The Good Friday Agreement gives prominence to the ‘principle of consent’, which affirmed the legitimacy of an aspiration to a United Ireland, while recognising a current wish for the majority of people living in Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom (UK).

The bombing, on that day, killed 29 people (including a woman pregnant with twins) and injured 220 others. This death toll was higher than any other, one, single incident of terrorism during the period that history records as ‘The Troubles’, (1968-1998).

Omagh One August

By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

On the eve of the Sabbath in August, they crucified Jesus again,
Bombing the good and the gentle, the women, the children, the men.
Our people are weeping forever, their blood on the streets of shame,
As history and history makers mock with the old refrain.

Oh, more than our tears for the trouble, oh, more than mere words for the dead.
Oh, heaven and pity embrace us and gentleness rule us instead.
What now for the Gentle Seer?  What now for life’s joyful song?
And I long, how I long for the music that is neither right nor wrong.

On the eve of the Sabbath in August, when we the people have died
Innocence bombed to oblivion on the altar of dubious pride.
On the eve of the Sabbath in August, forever in time to be,
The good, the innocent, the gentle will praise humanity.

Will triumph, as triumph they must, when sad, shameful history is done,
When hearts, now fashioned in metal, are loving in unison.
On the eve of the Sabbath in August, whoever, whatever to blame,
Oh, love now where is your grandeur? Oh, history where is your shame?

End

Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.

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