Resistance Poetry 2016
Co-archived Lewis Kenny
End Homeless in Ireland - Parliament Gates a poem by Alan Cooke
Co-archived wildirishpoet
Apollo house
Is now Home Sweet Home
No longer on the street
Will the homeless roam.
Once owned by NAMA
And then private hands
Now activists rule
Retaking the lands.
Dempsey, Hansard
And mattress Mick
All helping out
It was all so slick.
Six years of government
Have made no difference
They have no clue
Just showing their ignorance.
It just shows
What can be done
Doesn’t take a lot
It all starts with one.
The homeless sleep
So soundly tonight
We must keep going
With this important fight.
DC
Is now Home Sweet Home
No longer on the street
Will the homeless roam.
Once owned by NAMA
And then private hands
Now activists rule
Retaking the lands.
Dempsey, Hansard
And mattress Mick
All helping out
It was all so slick.
Six years of government
Have made no difference
They have no clue
Just showing their ignorance.
It just shows
What can be done
Doesn’t take a lot
It all starts with one.
The homeless sleep
So soundly tonight
We must keep going
With this important fight.
DC
Co-archived Verses Of Life
Homeless
Even the squaking herons have homes,
Nested in taxless trees that suited men cannot find.
Joe, Anto and others arrive, the nameless names.
Their age a deception, their belly's empty their stories begin to flow.
Hot cup of scald and some freshly cooked coddle.
Prepared that day by selfless people that bleed for strangers they don't know.
An hour is a lifetime, so sore my heart is when I leave.
Fathers, brothers, mothers and sisters quietly congregate for conversation, coddle and care.
Some things will never leave me, some things forever touch my beating heart.
Rolled tobacco from filthy pouches and battered souls.
I often wonder why, why have they no home, nobody to tell them everything will be OK.
But life moves fast and gods good grace forever an enigma.
There is always good in bad, from broken homes come countless carers with soft hands.
Proud, strong with hearts of lions they arrive to help.
1916 and the hopes of our rebel dead still flickers in our volunteers actions.
To really care when you don't have to, the neglected path of life chosen by steely souls.
Beards, banter and broken hearts as the Herons keep watch, I'm sure I hear them laugh.
How pathetic are people they ask, towering from tree tops tall.
How pathetic indeed.
Even the squaking herons have homes,
Nested in taxless trees that suited men cannot find.
Joe, Anto and others arrive, the nameless names.
Their age a deception, their belly's empty their stories begin to flow.
Hot cup of scald and some freshly cooked coddle.
Prepared that day by selfless people that bleed for strangers they don't know.
An hour is a lifetime, so sore my heart is when I leave.
Fathers, brothers, mothers and sisters quietly congregate for conversation, coddle and care.
Some things will never leave me, some things forever touch my beating heart.
Rolled tobacco from filthy pouches and battered souls.
I often wonder why, why have they no home, nobody to tell them everything will be OK.
But life moves fast and gods good grace forever an enigma.
There is always good in bad, from broken homes come countless carers with soft hands.
Proud, strong with hearts of lions they arrive to help.
1916 and the hopes of our rebel dead still flickers in our volunteers actions.
To really care when you don't have to, the neglected path of life chosen by steely souls.
Beards, banter and broken hearts as the Herons keep watch, I'm sure I hear them laugh.
How pathetic are people they ask, towering from tree tops tall.
How pathetic indeed.
Co-archived Conor Lynams writing
We wait as a nation to hear the game played,
On radio to paper the clowns run parade.
Negotiated talks from closed wooden doors
Lay maps of a future for babes still to borne.
The hotel children hidden in Aistear cloaks,
Know no reason their ambitions will choke.
They word to letter form their homework to be done
For work if faster, harder a mother’s path may be resung.
The added pencil numbers of ones, twos and threes
All now becomes a telling of personal achieve.
Small hope eyes glow fierce to ignore,
The cold hunger of learning their young minds us implore.
For striving to thriving no teacher now claims
Is a child’s personal vendetta in a state’s CSO claim.
And no one but no one except you is too blame
For the race we all started saw equality named.
In a flat green field of true Irish grain
the feet of their childhood taught poverties pain.
A gunshot began and little legs race
Though the grass they pound down on is bought with their shame.
If a family left homeless through a fault they must own
Finds a lost vote still floating could they board it for home.
A land evergreen now torn into two
By the greed of cold penny that belongs to so few.
The masses come pouring to remind this small nation
Each voice that is standing talks for a people’s salvation.
So remember each vote that was ticked to be counted
Is a name not a chip to be hoarded and mounted.
In a jovial game of cards on Eireanns last table
So deliberate the hands dealt when cronies are able.
On radio to paper the clowns run parade.
Negotiated talks from closed wooden doors
Lay maps of a future for babes still to borne.
The hotel children hidden in Aistear cloaks,
Know no reason their ambitions will choke.
They word to letter form their homework to be done
For work if faster, harder a mother’s path may be resung.
The added pencil numbers of ones, twos and threes
All now becomes a telling of personal achieve.
Small hope eyes glow fierce to ignore,
The cold hunger of learning their young minds us implore.
For striving to thriving no teacher now claims
Is a child’s personal vendetta in a state’s CSO claim.
And no one but no one except you is too blame
For the race we all started saw equality named.
In a flat green field of true Irish grain
the feet of their childhood taught poverties pain.
A gunshot began and little legs race
Though the grass they pound down on is bought with their shame.
If a family left homeless through a fault they must own
Finds a lost vote still floating could they board it for home.
A land evergreen now torn into two
By the greed of cold penny that belongs to so few.
The masses come pouring to remind this small nation
Each voice that is standing talks for a people’s salvation.
So remember each vote that was ticked to be counted
Is a name not a chip to be hoarded and mounted.
In a jovial game of cards on Eireanns last table
So deliberate the hands dealt when cronies are able.
Co-archived Rachael O’Sullivan