Tommy Collins Poetry

It doesn’t get much better than what we had, My friend. Perfection cannot be manufactured, But when we were all put together The combination was perfect. Together we made music. Music, the food of the soul. Together we made that. We did with so little effort What has evaded so many Great people throughout the years: We made people, many people, happy. Whatever may happen, Always remember that we were great. We were great friends. We were great entertainers. We had our own little great escapes. We won our own great little victories. Neither of us really got the girl, But we (for a while) were on top of the world. Never forget those three weeks. Never forget the things we did. Because, My friend, It doesn’t get much better than what we had.

Above them all he sat, A special part of the group, but at the same time Completely separate, standing out. They were his, he was theirs. He could, literally, make them sing to his tune As he sat up high On his very own seat And played the music he enjoyed so much Because he knew they loved it too. He was at once both king and minstrel. He looked down over them and the island, His people and his island, From his high seat. They, comfortable together as one audience, Looked up to him and They saw him as their entertainer, And he entertained with majesty. All smiled. All sang. All were enraptured, Under his spell just as he was under theirs. All doubts, all fears, all cares Were melted by the June sun And carried away on the soft sweet summer’s sea breeze. And then he sang too, from up on His little perch, his piece of rock, his high throne. He gave them words, and they gave him back a chorus. They were united by the music, the magic, As the breeze glided along the un-cut grass And th

I have nobody to whom I can send Messages, or whom I can ask to meet With me for a few hours at the weekend. I have no secret, hidden or discreet Relationships with any local girls, Or a long-distance lover somewhere else. Just solitary games, musings with words, Working on poetry, testing myself. Reading and writing are no substitute For the companionship of a lover, This fact I’m sure one cannot refute. Although, from some I am yet to recover. So while I’m (for the time being) alone, I know that love will always come and go.

Hidden by the fence and grass, The boys began to smoke and drink. Upon their fun no-one would trespass. Only of fun did they think. The sky was still blue and clear, The August evening still young. Each had a drink of his favourite beer And waited for more to come… Walking from the local shop Were three more boys with bags in hand. Beside them a car came to a stop: Driving was the youngest’s dad. The older pair walked away, Leaving him with the drink to fend For himself. He thought of what to say, And decided: “Blame a friend.” * * * The dad knocks at a front door And his son’s friend’s mother answers. He tells her the tale that his son swore. Angry, her heart beats faster… Six miles away, unbeknownst, A young prodigy is training. He kicks the football wide of the posts, But hears no-one complaining. … Back at his door, in panic, His mother searches for car-keys. His brother cycles through the traffic Searching the locality. The grass and fence now hide none, The circle of trees v

His frozen corpse lay still in the white snow outside the school, his tackies, his t-shirt and his hoodie confiscated. The ice has taken over outside, just as the icy witch has taken over everything inside the school. Temperature at minus two that day, too cold to go out in just a jumper and shirt. He had been sent home barefoot, but locked out. “He deliberately took no notice of basic school policy.” His bracelets and wristbands and ‘cellular telephone’ on her desk, his friends in detention after “breaking acceptable computer user policy.” She cannot be challenged. She is omnipotent. She is omniscient. She is omnipresent. Do not break her rules. Even on a very cold day.

Solitary souls in a speeding tin can, Together but alone at the mercy of a man Who sits at the front with a wheel in his hand And drives from town to town with every day a different band Of wanderers and strangers and people seeking friends Who look to the time when their journeys will end. Most of them go alone in this moving box to spend Their time and money in different towns, before leaving again. Each has a different mission or a purpose in their mind Or even just some place they must escape or leave behind For a day or a few hours, any little while. A rolling ship on wheels is for these ones a place to hide. In the corner at the back, with his phone between his knees, Sits a young man on his own texting the girl of his dreams. His fingers slip and shoulders shake as he realises she Can never really be his own, in spite of subtle pleas Hidden in his messages and disguised by his skill With words. He solemnly accepts that this girl never will (or probably ever did) feel the same w

They were just two little words, significant only for a moment to my friend, who uttered them. But such honest appreciation, such gratitude was in his voice that I am still struck deeply in times when I remember, reminisce about how close we were as a team in games, in battle, in action. Never before had I felt emotion so strong in a team-mate’s response to my shouting. Momentarily there was a peace, a calmness on the field. The ball was cleared to safety. My friend, the team’s full-back, had overcome a great challenge. He had had to push beyond what he thought he could do. Only he could have done it. But for an instant, both of us, we knew he did not do it alone. I had shouted, encouraged. He had fallen away, lost faith in his own abilities. He had given up, trailing his opponent by yards. “Go on, you can do it!” He heard my call, and then he did do it. He actually did it. For half a moment he could feel like a Hero. When he said “Thank you”, I felt like one too.

Cupboards full of skeletons, Words potentially too painful to put on paper, The things I know have been both the cause of great pain in the past and the fuel for what will be more great pain when the time comes to pass whereby I cannot keep them to myself, or those upon whom my knowledge is based eventually shatter and fall apart. From histories, to the mysteries of my peers’ Saturday nights and evenings behind fences with cans and bottles and papers and lighters, or what they did in shops (in vain) to save money for more cans and bottles, I know damning and damaging things. I am not alone in all of this knowledge, but I alone have been enlightened as to the dangers of what they do, and the tragedy of what others have done before. Some say that ignorance is bliss, but I say that knowledge is power. With great power comes great responsibility. Am I responsible in my way of hiding knowledge? The boys behind bushes and bars are irresponsible in their ignorance. O I have stories to be

Tired red curtains, Long passed their ‘best-before’ date, and Grubby yellow walls, In need of a new coat of paint. Rickety old tables, Covered in graffiti of hilarious intent, and Unsteady chairs, With uncomfortable seats and legs bent. Cracked grey ceilings, grimy windows, Empty orange cans, half-full bottles, Faded brown floors, bent coat-hangers, Grubby white-boards, chipped skirting boards, Pockmarked green notice boards, torn information sheets, Overflowing blue bin, broken light bulbs. Sixty grey-clad boys, one school study hall.

I’m the guy with the empty seat beside Me. I wear black while ev’ryone else wears Blue, or yellow, or sometimes green and white. I think about the problems of the years Gone by, when standing out in (and out of) The crowd made it hard to find happiness. Solitary, dressed in black, sporting gloves, Or in a uniform amongst the rest Of my peers. I am one of them but I Am also different, a goalkeeper. A little mad, I shout and dive and try To stop speeding balls. Would it be cheaper To relax, sit down, read and write instead, And forget about being talented?

The time of our return is drawing nigh. Many of the preparations are made. Each day the sun is lower in the sky, But goodbye the hol’days I’ve not yet bade. There are still things to do, people to see. Although so many plans never bore fruit. With all my loving friends I long to be, Their company will all my fears up-root. These next two years will be of great pressure, The foundations of the rest of my life. But, wisely using my time of leisure, I shall ease the strain and lessen the strife. For be it at school or sport I’m with friends, I must value each moment spent with them.

And so I reach the end, But, of course, doubt finally slips in. Is it really good enough? I try to think back on poetry I've read throughout the year. Is this actually acceptable? My conscience wants to make itself heard: “Yes, you put the effort in. Yes, it is good work. But you are capable of bigger, Better, more impressive things. Even this, with more planning, Could have been a true work of art. You are lucky to have a gift of quick thinking. But remember: all good things must come to an end!” I pause to think again. Why must my conscience always be right?

Tables rattle and scrape on the floor. Somebody drops a pen. Another bangs his ruler on his desk. “Is that a mobile phone in your pocket?” somebody jokes. A collective shout as a young woman appears on the TV. At times the noise is deafening. Tinfoil balls cross the room, Back and forth for several seconds. Crude graffiti written discreetly offers a glimpse Of somebody’s personal opinions of a friend They want to make the centre of a joke. We truly are the elite.

Just one month to go ’Til I’m off on my own With a busload of people I don’t even know. I look forward with joy To the weeks before July When I’ll leave Limerick City For Coláiste ’05. Three weeks of fun, Of rain and wind, sand and sun, Of learning and singing, Games and the Island Run. No distractions of TV Or friends from the city, Just craic, and new cáirde To keep me company.

White clouds on a sky of blue, Green leaves against walls of grey, A bird singing in a nearby tree on a perfect spring day, A bright sun shining above the roofs, And a light breeze in the air, as seven hundred boys in grey return to sit and stare at walls of yellow and boards of white, chairs and desks of brown. Some work hard while others think, and others act the clown. Not one admits that they’re glad to be back, but their laughter proves otherwise. Even as huge black clouds bring hailstones and rain it’s great to be back with the boys.

“Tell the manager I can’t play tomorrow. I’ve got to work. No, I can’t get out of it! It’s my shift, there’s nobody else available. Why don’t you play left back? We’d probably do better with you there than in goals! Ha ha! Anybody would do a better job than you. Anyway, tell him I’ll be at the match next week. Bye!” I don’t think I like him any more. The money has gone to his head.

The Goalkeeper Six foot tall the young man stood, And was built like a wall of stone, And when he stood between the posts Compared he could be to none. His shout was loud, his throws were long, His grip was firm and his kicks were strong. To any length on height he’d leap In a bid for his clean sheet to keep. But times would come when he’d screw up, Like missing the ball or letting it drop. And his team would look at him with disdain, Adding inner hurt to his physical pain. So he would turn, pick the ball from the net, And try to learn from mistakes that he’d never forget. This process of learning was a constant thing, Adding more hope to his ‘ridiculous’ dream. Harder he’d try, week after week, To ignore all the put-downs and instead try to think; “What can I learn from this? What’s going wrong?” His burning ambition was still there, still strong. The put-downs persisted but had less effect, And gradually the team showed their boy some respect. Despite disappointment and losing, his