scatteredthoughts2

[scatteredthoughts2]

THE SOUL COLLECTOR.

The Soul Collector is doing his rounds,

And he does not care if you weep and whine,

He has a qouta that he has to fill,

And he will fill it, come rain or shine.

He will come for your soul in the dead of night,

And try to catch you unawares,

He does not care who you leave behind,

He has no thoughts for your loves or fears.

And if he's qouta, he can not fill,

He will not hesitate to spill some blood,

You see, he has to make a living,

And he likes to make it good.

With bags of souls beneath his wings,

He sits, and sorts them out to sell,

The highest bidder will get to choose,

Who goes to heaven, and who goes to hell.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

TED DOOLEY'S GOATS

When we were in fifth class in school, our teacher gave us all projects to do at home, during the Easter break. I had always been fascinated with snakes and reptiles and so decided to use this as the basis for my project. Our teacher, Mr Quinnlin, told us, that if we wanted, we could double up, two to a project. This suited me fine and I doubled up with Mick O'Connell, who was seated next to me in school.         Mick lived in a cool house about two miles outside of town on the Irishtown road. Behind the house was a big barn, piled high with stacks of bales of hay and we would spend hours in here climbing and messing about, building forts and hideouts with the countless bales. The barn was also home to hundreds of chickens ( well it seemed like hundreds to me at the time) and we would collect eggs and crouch behind hedgerows beside the main road and fling them at passing cars. (No, we were not aware of the carnage we could have caused.)          The flinging of the eggs did not last for long, as a disgruntled motorist with scrambled eggs covering his windscreen, rang the Gardai  and complained. That might have been the end of it, we might never have been caught, but the Garda who answered the phone that day was non other than Mick’s father. I can tell you, the shit fairly hit the fan and I was barred from Mick’s house for a month. Mick was not so lucky and he had to carry a cushion to school for him to sit on, for a week.         Anyway, I digress. Back to the story. Myself and Mick doubled up to do this project and we decided to keep it solely about snakes, as reptiles, as a whole, was a very broad subject and it would take us forever to complete the project and we only had two weeks. So for every weekday  of our Easter break, we met on the steps of the public library and would spend one or two hours studying and reading up about snakes. ( A few weeks after the project was handed in to our teacher, and we had collected second prize for our efforts, we were called into the principles office and asked to explain how pictures that had been torn from library property had ended up in our scrapbook.) We also spent a good deal of time out in the fields behind Mick’s house ( my months barring order was finally served) turning over rocks, looking for any snakes that might have decided to hibernate there for the winter ( we were not convinced that Saint Patrick had been successful in ridding Ireland of all the snakes, and there was a good chance a few of them were still in residence and sleeping under rocks in Mick’s field).         It was on one of these snake hunting expeditions that we met Ted Dooley. At first we didn’t see him, he was squatting down in the reeds that surrounded the duck pond at the lower end of the O'Connell property. And it was us that spotted him before he saw us, (even though we were out in the open and he was half hidden) and it was obvious to us, even at this distance, that he was about some personal business, squatting the way he was. So we ignored him, pretended we hadn’t seen him, waited till he had wiped his butt with docket leaves and was clean( well as clean as it were possible for him to get out here), before we approached him.        Now Ted wasn’t the brightest shilling in the classroom, but for all that, he was a crafty git, and could wriggle his way out of any situation. On one occasion he had been caught smoking in the bicycle shed and, instead of letting the teacher march him into the principles office, he had bolted. Out across the football pitch and across the church grounds next door, in through Paradise ( that was what we called the small park that separated the church from the Nun’s Convent) and away to freedom on the canal line. He stayed away from school for three or four days and then came back, strolled in as if nothing had happened. Of course, the teachers knew it was best to leave him be. It was a waste of time to go to his parents about him. He paid as much attention to them as he did to the teachers: none! And his parents paid even less attention to him, or so we had been told. Ted was left to his own devices!          So, when Ted had finished his business at the duck pond, we hailed him and started walking towards him across the mushy field. He was delighted to see us. One thing about Ted, he always had a big, welcoming smile, no matter what. We asked him what he was at and he wanted to know if we had any sweets or apples or crisps, anything edible in our pockets. I had nothing, but Mick had a Pixie Toffee bar  and he gave it to him. Ted told us he had not been home in two days and had slept in the old abandoned cottage in the corner of the field for the past two nights. He said his parents had thrown him out, wanted nothing more to do with him. This was hard to swallow! I mean, at thirteen, Ted was about two years older than myself and Mick and we two had gotten into loads of trouble at home, ( in fact, trouble was our middle name) but Jasus, the thought of being tossed out head over heels, that was unthinkable, preposterous. At eleven years old, I was almost afraid to sleep with the lights off, never mind sleeping in a dilapidated, cold damp cottage in the country with not even a street light in sight. The thoughts of it sent shivers down my spine!          As I’ve already said, Ted was not the brightest fish in the pond and he had been held back in at least two classes at school, making him the biggest lad in our class. No, make that the biggest lad in the school.As far as I could see, if they kept him in school for the next twenty years, he would still be the same. Now, what would happen here was that, as soon as Ted turned fourteen, he would be cut loose. No longer a problem for the Department of Education. Off with ye boy! Find yourself a job walking greyhounds or running errands for  bookies down at the dog track!          Now Mick lived in a fine big house, with larders well stocked with all types of food. If I was to take food out of my house, it would have been missed in a flash and there would have been hell to pay. But not so with Mick’s place, his was a different kettle of fish altogether. He had larders there you could feed all the black babies in Africa out of. So while I sat on a hollowed out log with Ted, Mick went foraging. And he wasn’t long away. He arrived back in no time with a bag of goodies slung over his shoulder and a sleeping bag tucked under one arm. I tell you, Dooley was delighted. We went back to the old cottage with him and sorted out his stuff, tidied up as much as was possible to in this godforsaken place.Mick had not disappointed with his bag of goodies, packets of Kimberly biscuits,chocolate gold grain,packets of Perri crisps, bars of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut and T.K. lemonade, a virtual feast. The bag also had six candles, matches and a flashlight. If this amount of stuff had gone missing from my house, the Guards would have been called straight away. We spent the best part of the day there with Ted. We got a fire going in the corner of one of the cottages two rooms. The chimney had caved in many years ago so it was impossible to use the fire place. It wasn’t long till the cottage was full of smoke and we had to retreat to the duck pond, where we stood around, throwing stones at the squabbling birds.         All too soon the light was fading from the bleak, late March sky and it was time for us to make our way back across the fields and home. I have to say, neither Mick nor myself gave anymore thought to Ted until school reconvened after the Easter break. There we were, all seated in the classroom, getting settled in, when the door opens and in walks Ted, late, as usual, big wide grin, slicing  his face in two.           This would be Teds last term, as soon as the summer break came he was home free! No secondary education for Ted!        When we started back after the Easter holidays, we were given two days to put the finishing touches to our projects and hand them in. Mick and myself were happy with our work, ( even if a lot of its content had been plagiarized from books in the local library, not to mention the many volumes that were being taken out on loan with  missing pages. We would pay for that later.) quietly confident of lifting one of the three prizes on offer, and maybe, if we were lucky, scooping the first prize of a full week with no home work.           Ted had been giving a project about goats. Mr Quinnlin had asked Ted what he would like to do for his project and he had come up with goats. I think Quinnlin was happy with this as he did not want Ted to take on something that would be too taxing on the brain. We had been given an hour of class time on Tuesday and Wednesday to add the finishing touches and the deadline for the finished product to be handed up was Thursday morning ( in case any us wanted to make some final changes after class). Everyone in class was taking this project thing very serious, I mean a week free of homework was not to be scoffed at. But, while we were all huddled over our desks working furiously, Ted just sat there, twiddling his thumbs, not a book or a scrap of paper in sight.          Thursday morning dawned, misty and overcast. I have never seen the class answer the call of the school bell as quickly as they did on this occasion; one minute the playground was jammed, the next it was empty, bits of paper drifting slowly to the ground, no sign of the hands that had held them just moments before.          I don’t know what why we were all so eager to get in so early as the results would not be announced until after lunch break, a teacher from another class had been given the job of adjudicator, no names on the projects, just numbers, so that all could be assured of a fair play, no teachers pet scooping the prize ( God, we were so green you could have pinned us to your best coat and  used us as shamrock on Saint Patrick’s day).         Ted wasn’t missed until the door burst open ( He was always late, or absent for days at a time) and three goats erupted into the class room, tethered together with a frayed rope and pulling Ted, on his arse, across the floor behind them. All hell broke loose! Desks and chairs went flying, the room became a blizzard of papers and copy books. Inkwells were over turned, painting the wooden floorboards a navy blue. Pencils and pens, sticks of chalk and crayons were rolling about, making it difficult to keep your footing. Mr Quinnlin was arse butted by one of the young bucks and ended up with his head in the litter bin. The whole place was in uproar.          But worse was to come.          Sitting quietly at the back of the class during all this commotion, were two Itinerant children, who were allowed to come to classes when their families were camping in the area. Well, to cut a long story short, the goats belonged to them, and they were not one bit pleased to see them puling Ted Dooley around the class room. Nor were the rest of the teaching staff , who, having heard the ructions, were all now gathered at door of our classroom, looking on open-mouthed. By this time, the two Itinerant children had got their hands on Ted and were raining punches down on him hell for leather. Ted had let go of the rope and rolled himself into a ball,his hands up,covering his head, trying to protect himself from the volley of punches that were landing on him. Meanwhile,  the three goats had had enough of being cooped up in the classroom ( cant say I blame them ) and made a lunge for the door, scattering teachers before them. The two Itinerant children hopped off Ted and scampered out, after the goats.            A stunned silence settled on the class room. It looked like a war zone, two bodies down on the floor, one of them looking as if it had been decapitated ( the head was still stuck in the litter bin), the paper that littered the ground was turning the color of drying blood, soaking up the spilled ink. This day would go down in the annals as one of the blackest ( and funniest) days in the schools history. This day would be talked about for long time to come.           Well, you know the rest, how the results of the competition went and  the subsequent stewards inquiry.Myself and Mick in the shit again. Nothing new there!          That was Teds last day at school, he never came back and no one went looking for him. Occasionally, we would run into him around town, doing odd jobs for people who were willing to put a bit of work his way, and he always had that big grin on his face. Nothing seemed to get him down, no matter what life threw at him. And life seemed to through a lot at him, none of it good. He was still living in the old abandoned  cottage,no electricity or running water, but there was an old well at the back from which he could draw water. The last we had heard, he had made one of the rooms livable, fixed up the front door and put plastic over the window to keep the winters biting breeze out.But it was all to no avail.        It was on Christmas eve, just a few weeks ago, Mick and myself were out shopping for presents for our respective girlfriends and we decided to take a time out, popping into a warm local bar, brushing the snow from our shoulders and blowing into our hands, getting the circulation flowing. We ordered two pints and made ourselves comfortable in the brightly decorated bar, soaking up the Christmas atmosphere. The man sitting at the end of the bar looked familiar, and it was  niggling at me  that I could not put a name to the face. Then he turned and walked towards us and I could see straight off that it was Mr Quinnlin, our old teacher. As soon as I recognized him, it brought to my mind the classic class room scene, him on the floor, half in and half out of the litter basket.         He came over and shook hands and settled himself beside us at the bar. I could see by his face that all was not right with him, he looked like a man who had just received bad news. But what he told us left us dumbfounded.  Ted had not been seen around town for over a week and that morning the Gardai had paid a visit to the old cottage and found Teds body. Frozen solid.        Well, that put a damper on our Christmas cheer, I can tell you.Poor Ted. All the trouble he had caused at school, all the situations he had found himself in, but through all this, he had never put a finger on anyone in anger, never as much as harmed a fly. And he was the same throughout his short adult life. He never had any run ins with the law, just minded his own business and interfered with no one. What a sad, lonely way to go! Poor Ted!        Later, as I crunched my way home, snow starting to spiral down from a grey, heavy sky, all I could think of  was Ted Dooley and his goats.  Ambrose Harte 29/7/‘13

[scatteredthoughts2]

...... jealousy........

-----------------------

The days are getting shorter,

and the nights are growing longer,

And with every day that passes,

my loneliness grows stronger.

---------------------------

It seems I'm always writing,

of a love that's lost it's spark,

Of dying in the daylight,

and living in the dark.

-------------------------

If you are reading through my letters,

the ones I left for you to see,

Then you'll know what I am feeling,

what lives inside of me.

---------------------------

I understand why you went away,

why you had to find your space,

Because I never gave you room to breathe,

I was always in your face.

----------------------------

I could tell you I can change,

but I'd be telling you a lie,

And even though it hurts me so,

I must hear you say goodbye.

-----------------------------

So I'll live my life in darkness,

for the darkness is my friend,

Of the darkness, I'm not jealous,

for the darkness will not end.

-------------------------------

Ambrose Harte

Scattered Thoughts

------------------------

[scatteredthoughts2]

The Poem She'll Never Hear

She asked me what my poem was about,

But I said I could not say,

It was either that or tell her lies,

But my thoughts got in my way.

I said it's something special,

And I'll share it with you soon,

And I hid the pages from her eyes,

As the moon lit up our room.

She asked me why not share it now,

Whilst the night is all our own,

For who knows what tomorrow brings,

And maybe I'll be gone.

I said you're talking silly,

We've got our whole life still to live,

And I'm trying to put on paper,

What my lips could never give.

So bear with me a little while,

And trust me when I say,

The poems for someone special,

And I live with her each day.

But she never got to hear her poem,

For tomorrow, she was gone,

And now I read it to myself,

As the lonely nights go on.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

The Poem She'll Never Hear

She asked me what my poem was about,

But I said I could not say,

It was either that or tell her lies,

But my thoughts got in my way.

I said it's something special,

And I'll share it with you soon,

And I hid the pages from her eyes,

As the moon lit up our room.

She asked me why not share it now,

Whilst the night is all our own,

For who knows what tomorrow brings,

And maybe I'll be gone.

I said you're talking silly,

We've got our whole life still to live,

And I'm trying to put on paper,

What my lips could never give.

So bear with me a little while,

And trust me when I say,

The poems for someone special,

And I live with her each day.

But she never got to hear her poem,

For tomorrow, she was gone,

And now I read it to myself,

As the lonely nights go on.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

[scatteredthoughts2]

A CHRISTMAS WALK.

It's 3am and all is quiet;

A peaceful, holy, silent night,

All the kids tucked up in their beds,

With dreams of Santa in their little heads.

A star shines bright on our little town,

As wisps of snow come swirling down,

A Christmas scene to make you glad,

And yet your thoughts are a little sad.

You walk the streets, so empty now,

As soft snow melts upon your brow,

You breathe it in, you pause and hear,

A lonely bell ,on the Christmas air.

You think how lucky we really are,

You think of countries destroyed by war,

You pray for children, so hungry and lost,

And for all of those who need it most.

You have walked the town, now it's time to go,

You walk back home in the swirling snow,

It's time for Santa Clause, you see,

To leave the presents beneath your tree.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

It is snowing!

And a beautiful silence caresses the land,

A cold wind is blowing,

Telling me something I don't understand.

[scatteredthoughts2]

A MULLINGAR CHRISTMAS.

Snow is falling on Mullingar,

And the station is so quiet,

I'm almost home, I've come so far;

I have travelled through the night.

There is no one here to meet me,

I told no one I'd be here,

But I know they all will greet me,

And will cry a happy tear.

From the Green Bridge I look down,

And Dominick Street's aglow,

Such a lively, bustling town,

Like a Christmas card with snow.

From the street where I once dwelt,

I hear the music from Clarke's bar,

Where a welcome 's always felt,

For the craic and for a jar.

I look up Mary Street,

To the Church of Christ The King,

And through the snow and sleet,

I can hear the choir sing.

Joe Dolan's in the Market Square,

With his microphone in hand,

And happy families clap and cheer,

For the Mullingar Town Band.

Into the Greville Arms I go,

With its old world charm and style,

And the first one that I see I know,

Is my old friend " Nodger " Boyle .

He fills me in on what's been going on,

In the years I've been away,

On all the people who have gone;

All my friends who've passed away.

Bitter sweet are the memories,

As we relive the old times,

Our discord's and our harmonies,

Our days of summer wines.

So many changes have taken place,

Yet the town still feels like home,

A welcome smile, a warm embrace,

And I need never feel alone.

Now it's time to meet my family,

For Christmas in Mullingar,

I have sailed across the Irish Sea,

To the Midlands brightest star.

I will meet old friends I've missed,

And make new ones whilst I'm here,

Under mistletoe be kissed,

And be blessed by Christmas cheer.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

The Homecoming.

The train pulls into Mullingar,

And I wipe away a tear,

It's my first time home in many years,

And no one knows I'm here.

The station looks the same,

But it's still a lonesome place:

It brings back a stab of pain,

Of when I last kissed your sweet face.

I walk up to the Green Bridge,

And look up towards Patrick Street,

I see Clarke's Bar on the left,

Where our family used to meet.

I look down on Dominick Street,

Through the blowing, swirling snow,

And though I know the town so well,

I don't know which way to go.

I go into Days Bazaar,

For a coffee and a scone,

It was the book shop that I loved,

The last time I was home.

And from my table by the window,

I watch the crowds go by,

Searching every face,

Hoping some will catch my eye.

But who's that in the Market Square?

With microphone in hand,

Joe Dolan sings out loud,

With his ghostly Drifters Band.

The Greville Arms I enter,

And my heart lifts up with joy,

For the first one there to greet me,

Is my old friend " Nodger Boyle ".

Nodger fills me in on the lost years,

When last I was at home,

We share a laugh and we share some tears,

And, when he leaves , I'm all alone.

All alone with just my thoughts,

All alone; there's only me,

All that's left for me are ghosts;

All my loved ones in the cemetery.

I leave and walk back to the station,

Wondering why I came back home,

Was I dreaming someone would be waiting,

That I would not be on my own.

The train pulls in and I take a seat,

And I leave Mullingar behind,

It was only ghosts that I came to meet;

Only ghosts that I could find.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

Time.

Time on my wrist,

And time in my pocket,

Operated by battery,

Or plugged into a socket.

Time on a clock,

And time on a phone,

Time to go working,

And time to go home.

Time to eat up,

And time to be sleeping,

Time to be happy,

And time to be weeping.

Time kept to love,

And time left to hate,

Time to be early,

And time to be late.

Time on a dial,

As told by the sun,

Time on a spring,

All set to be sprung.

Time on a church,

High up on a spire,

A time to be living,

And a time to expire.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

WE'RE ALL HAVING BLOODY FUN.

My house is never silent,

And in the dead of night,

I see images so violent,

That fill my head with fright

Reenactments from the past,

Are played out in my home,

I am scared, my minds aghast,

And they chill me to the bone.

In the lounge when I nod off,

With a book upon my knees,

I hear footsteps in the loft,

And my blood begins to freeze.

Then there's creaking on the stairs;

The footsteps, coming down,

Then this ghastly face appears,

All painted like a clown,

And now I'm wide awake,

I see his mask is streaks of blood,

And the footprints in his wake,

Leave a trail of graveyard mud.

His grin is vile and heinous,

And his teeth, a bloody mess,

I pray to God to come between us,

And all my sins, I do confess.

And huddling on the ground,

Cowering, cringing by the wall,

His bloodshot eyes have found,

The reason for his call.

Two young children and their mother,

Crying, begging out for aid,

Holding on to one another;

Eyes wide and so afraid.

But I'm frozen in my chair,

I can barely move my head,

I can only sit and stare,

At the carnage of the dead.

As the evil clown bears down,

And his axe he wields on high,

But his smile becomes a frown,

As one little boy runs by.

But for the mother and one child;

They have no place to run,

The clown is screaming, swinging wild,

And he's having bloody fun.

And when he's dealt out death,

He comes and pats me on the head,

And my face he won't forget;

For I'm the little boy who fled.

Yes, my father killed my mother,

In this house in which I dwell,

And he slaughtered my kid brother,

In a night from out of hell.

And I know he's waiting for me,

And the night will surely come,

When he finally catches up with me,

Then he'll have more bloody fun.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

Watching the Clock.

It is evening time, at a quarter to seven,

And just the sound of your voice will send me to heaven,

It has been so long, it's been such a long while,

And I'm making sure to charge my mobile.

An hour has passed, it's a quarter to eight,

But I'm not at all worried, you are just a bit late,

I am sitting here calm; I know you'll call soon,

And then your sweet voice will fill up the room.

The moon has now risen, it's a quarter to nine,

And I'm telling myself everything will be fine,

You probably got caught, in the traffic in town,

And I'm not feeling sad, no I'm not feeling down.

I look at the clock, it's a quarter to ten,

And I'm starting to think that you've done it again;

You have left me here waiting for the sound of your voice,

And the thoughts in my head are not a bit nice.

Another hour has passed, it is ten forty-five,

And I'm starting to wonder if you're still alive,

How could you hurt me and keep me waiting here,

The way that you treat me is not a bit fair.

Twelve forty-five, it is almost midnight,

And I sit in the dark, in the eerie moonlight,

My phone, it is silent, there is no word from you,

And I'm wracking my head, I don't know what to do.

A quarter to one, there's no more to be done,

The waiting is over, there's a text on my phone,

You said you are sorry, that you're finished with me,

That you want your life back, that you want to be free.

It's a quarter to two, and I'm lying in bed,

My phone is all smashed, all broken and dead,

I know I won't sleep, I'll just lie here and weep,

I loved you so much, but your love , I can't keep.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

THE HAVE ALL ESCAPED.

I thought I had them locked away;

Safely under lock and key,

Never again to see the light of day,

Never more to torture me.

But somehow, they have broken out,

Somehow, they have all returned

Now inside my head, they scream and shout,

Crossing bridges I thought I'd burned.

I had them buried, oh so deep,

I had them hidden where no light could shine,

But they all escaped whilst I was asleep,

Telling me, they would e'er be mine.

I knew this day was bound to come,

Yet I told myself it would be alright,

It's easy whilst you're in the sun,

To forget about the dark of night.

And now they're here, they are here to stay,

Whispering, screaming, reminding me,

All the memories I had locked away,

My memories have been all set free.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

PHOTOS.

An album of photos,

an album of pain,

Wounds that I open,

again and again,

Laughter and smiles,

all there from the past,

Friendship and love,

that was not meant to last.

Photos of sunshine,

and playtime and games,

Photos of people,

without any names,

Photos of strangers,

on a vast human sea,

And photos of you,

smiling sweetly at me.

Photos to look at,

again and again,

On a dull afternoon,

when the clouds threaten rain,

Photos that hurt me,

with sad memories of you,

Photos with echoes,

of the dreams we once knew.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts

[scatteredthoughts2]

Time.

Time on my wrist,

And time in my pocket,

Operated by battery,

Or plugged into a socket.

Time on a clock,

And time on a phone,

Time to go working,

And time to go home.

Time to eat up,

And time to be sleeping,

Time to be happy,

And time to be weeping.

Time kept to love,

And time left to hate,

Time to be early,

And time to be late.

Time on a dial,

As told by the sun,

Time on a spring,

All set to be sprung.

Time on a church,

High up on a spire,

A time to be living,

And a time to expire.

©Ambrose Harte

©Scattered Thoughts