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 The Crucifixion of Jesus Christ, portrayed in a 13th century stone carving at the ancient Abbey of Holycross near Thurles, Co. Tipperary. The Missioners
Courtesy Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©
In a town, in my memory now,
Strong men nourished their courage for months
For the Mission.
In the Rosary month of October,
Oh pity the pint drinker now
And he of the lusty thoughts
That travelled no further than desire,
Or to a body or mind of frustration.
I was a boy then, fit for anything,
Sure as grass will grow and water runs,
Yet feared before heaven, retribution,
For the kiss of a convent girl
In Dulanty’s cinema the night before.
The sainted ‘ould wans’,
With a fickle fierce flick of their shawls,
Told their beads for us all,
But little understood
The Missioners’ roaring renunciation
Of word, devil and flesh.
We shuffled the cards for 25
There in a chapel corner,
Cowboys, brave and defiant
In our ignorance and innocence then.
I loved the brown and silky scapulars I bought
In the little painted commercial grottos,
In the evenings, lit by the paraffin oil,
With a million wonders of rosary beads
And medals miraculous
To pray our way to Heaven.
Homeward bound by the river bank,
And rapping the occasional bell and door,
Bold, brave and thirteen,
We flew in the face of everything
But the dread of the ma and da.
End
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
 Love’s Old Routine
By Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©
Early this morning, half in slumber,
Smarting from the emptiness of a pillow undisturbed,
I set two cups, two plates on the kitchen table,
As always all the years.
Sliced the bread and buttered,
Just so for her and so for me,
As always all the days.
The kettle steaming
Put in three spoons of tea,
We’re both on that agreed.
Later, working away, I’m talking freely,
Forgetting yet again that she’s not here.
It’s crazy, really, love’s old routine,
With not a thought for time nor yet for space.
Though for a while she’s many miles away,
My heart and soul’s quite certain
That she’s here….
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
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.
 “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
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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