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Back On The Rock

~ Settled back in Jersey, heart still in Ireland….

Back On The Rock

Category Archives: Poetry

Ballad of Easy Runner

30 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

(Apologies to Glenn Frey)

I’m running down the road feeling overshadowed
Got sixty runners on my mind
Most of them are faster
And those I’ll never master
But there are still a few behind

Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy
Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy

I’m running round the corner I’m a long way down the order
But what a fine sight to see
A water stop my Lord which I can afford
And that’s because it’s absolutely free

Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy
Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy

Come on baby legs don’t fail me
I wanna know if I can do it when I’m eighty
I may lose I may win
But I will never be here again
And that’s the day I might slow down and
Take it easy

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Chasing a Girl

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Running, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

The sun’s going down and I have her in sight
She glances back and realises her plight
Will she resist and put up a fight

She knows that no one will come to her aid
Is she worried or unafraid
Her reputation disarrayed

Ten metres now we both breathe hard
All other matters disregard
She should have brought a bodyguard

Looks back again and with a smile
Knows now that I’m nothing worthwhile
And speeds up for the final mile

For road racing throws up these duels
Just one can win the others fools
But it’s our race too it’s in the rules

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Joseph Hudson – a Paean

12 Tuesday Jul 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Back in the days when football was new
The players were honest and blackguards were few
The captains decided the rules which were best
Third parties weren’t needed they’d just cause unrest

But as time went on the game took a turn
Now winning was foremost a living to earn
The disputes were many and fretful and long
Now umpires were needed to tell right from wrong

So two umpires were chosen the game it began
The fouls multiplied upsetting the plan
The umpires tried hard as they waved their flags
No notice was taken by the player scallywags

The bosses sat down and said what will we do
The umpires aren’t working we haven’t a clue
Our game is in danger the players run amok
Without law and order the game is a crock

Then up spake a quiet man, they listened to him
He said there’s a man down in old Birmingham
He’ll possibly come up with a great invention
That will answer our call and relieve all the tension

Joe Hudson he sat there in Brummagem Town
The troubles of football he read with a frown
And then it came to him like an epistle
I know he said, I’ll invent the whistle

Football was eventually saved at the death
By a whistle blown by the referee’s breath
The play is now stopped and is brought to a halt
And when told the players accept who’s at fault

All hail to Hudson for his invention
Is worth more than a mere passing mention
Without a whistle to compete
Football would be obsolete

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Around the Corner

08 Wednesday Jun 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Upon a dreary Sunday morning
May be June but hard to tell
A chilly wind blows in the drizzle
The hour tolled by the mournful bell
But we know the skies will brighten
If not today tomorrow sure
We can allow our hearts to lighten
Expectation is the cure

Day 4 at Lords the people gather
An England win they hope to cheer
But this England team is fragile
Talented but plagued by fear
Too many times our expectations
Turn to dust leave us forlorn
The previous night our hopes assemble
Resignation come the morn

The farmyard pig is loved by children
Playing in its muddy hole
The next day they will gaily chatter
Eating up their bacon roll
And when too soon the van approaches
Unsmiling men with kicks and blows
Transport the animal to the chamber
And as that animal goes it knows

The young man’s sure to get there early
Wait at the bus stop as arranged
For his date agreed to meet him
At eight o’clock and nothing’s changed
The eight o’clock bus isn’t stopping
The lad’s dismayed but not for long
For sure nine was the time agreed on
And so he waits his hopes still strong

Us Blues fans sing a merry ditty
Of lots of joys and sorrows too
For many years we’ve seen the sorrows
The joys are very far and few
The ghosts of previous generations
Sit on the roof and watch the games
Though we in turn grow old and weary
Our optimism never wanes

The wife stays with her drunkard husband
The more he hits the more she stays
You have to leave him say the neighbours
He’ll go too far one of these days
But she remembers those sweet evenings
When he was loving full of care
She prays that soon he too will recall
And things will become as they were

And as the years march quickly forward
It seems that they accelerate
We turn to thinking of our passing
For hopes and dreams it is too late
Will it come easy in the night time
Or will our end of days come hard
There’s only doubts as to the timing
The fact we cannot disregard

But in our world of war and famine
Of climate change catastrophe
Can our children halt the passage
Of things which we have failed to see
Or at least have failed to conquer
We’ve given up without a fight
Our selfish hopes inconsequential
The knowing clock soon strikes midnight


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Walled Garden

11 Wednesday May 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

These eighty years the garden’s stayed unchanged
No, as the seasons turn they fade or bloom
The colours, textures somewhat rearranged
This time next year familiar scents assume

The gravel paths, the cared and tended beds
The birds that visit daily reassured
There is no predator that softly treads
Their safety at their grazing is ensured

But should the writer seek to fly away
To seek excitement, danger, far and wide
To seek out wond’rous places, for they say
We will regret our chances if denied

But here surrounded by wisteria
One cannot claim that it’s inferior

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Ode to Alexa

12 Tuesday Apr 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 29 Comments

*Might have been inspired by The Zombies*

Now I know I’m old and single
Maybe prone to a silly thought
There’s a woman called Alexa
Who is driving me distraught
Though she’ll turn the volume lower
And tell jokes without a care
When I want to know her better
She’s not there

When I need some information
Maybe learn some history
She will give me all that’s needed
She solves every mystery
But when night falls and I’m lonely
Alexa drives me to despair
I would marry her tomorrow
But she’s not there

She obeys my every order
Switches lights both on and off
She’ll suggest a piece of music
Maybe play Rachmaninoff
But when I ask her to come closer
Run my fingers through her hair
She is not so quick to answer
‘Cos she’s not there

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The Caretaker

08 Friday Apr 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 11 Comments

Museum café rainy day
Killing time another cup
Perhaps a bun then I can stay
Until the manager locks up

Maybe he’ll notice maybe not
Perhaps I’ll stay here all the night
I’ll happily stay and be forgot
Till opening time and morning light

And then I’ll stay another day
A day a week perhaps a year
And from this corner rarely stray
The staff forget that I am here

And others sit around me now
I say hello no answer back
It’s odd when I remember how
I used to laugh and have the craic

But I am happy to be here
My work is done and now I’m free
I do try not to interfere
As I sit back and drink my tea

Today I wandered through the halls
Which were familiar way back then
I overheard two people say
“Whatever happened to old Ben?”

For I am now part of the show
Though not what visitors pay to see
Don’t be alarmed if you should glimpse
A shadow with a cup of tea

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Lament for Caroline

24 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

There was a young gardienne called Caroline
Whose assessment of risk was thought very fine
One day by the store
She was squashed by a door
Now her safety credentials are borderline

NB – no gardiennes or other persons were squashed in the making of this lament

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Hamptonne – 400 years

23 Wednesday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Jersey, Poetry, Writing

≈ 12 Comments

Beyond the meadow runs the valley road
But yet you’d hardly know that it was there
The centuries have passed, new ones unfold
The sheep still safely graze without a care

Along the way the orchard seems at peace
But work goes quietly on as through we tread
The trees know that their task can never cease
The ancient Cider Fest must go ahead

The buildings have been here for many years
If they could talk what might they tell to us
But no great dramas only hopes and fears
Their world has moved along with no great fuss

But wait they didn’t hear so long ago
The morning noise, the red-eye to Heathrow

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The Building of the Breakwater

06 Sunday Mar 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

The tale of Ireland is a tragic one
We know the many troubles it’s been through
The warlike men with axes, guns and spears
The Vikings down to Cromwell and his crew


But then there came a hidden enemy
In eighteen forty seven if I’m right
It came along in silence, mockingly
From nowhere came the cruel potato blight


This new attack the others did eclipse
To emigrate the folks salvation lay
The people climbed aboard the coffin ships
Which sailed to take them to Amerikay


But wait some heard of yet another land
And not so very far across the sea
In Jersey maybe they could lend a hand
To build a harbour paid most handsomely

Some lads packed and sadly hugged their mother
Set off by foot to finally reach the port
And with their final pennies bought a ticket
‘Take us to Jersey’ was their only thought

And so when they arrived at Jersey docks
Off they were sent to Verclut’s shantytown
To blast and lift the heavy granite blocks
From early morn until the sun went down


And in the night while all the locals slept
A penny whistle sounded notes forlorn
As they lay down to rest and quietly wept
And prayed their families lived to see the dawn

Each morning they would rise unwillingly
Their weary bones to drag all through the day
The works proceeded only grudgingly
The lads relieved to still receive their pay

And then one day the building work just stopped
Maybe you know just how the story goes
The harbour lads just went off home to Ireland
I think a couple may have stayed, who knows

Today we happily drive down to St Catherine
And stroll along the breakwater so slow
Perhaps next time you’ll spare a thought for Ireland
And those gallant lads who built it long ago

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