Two poems

The Ballad of Tommy and the Sow

For Nancy McAuliffe

Everybody knew him,

“Tom, the village fool”

Who long ago when just a kid

Was the butt of jokes at school;

And all his life they laughed at him

For his simple ways,

How he barely could express himself

His mind was such a maze.

One Sunday night he rambled

To a neighbour’s house

Where the village gathered;

Tom sat there, anonymous,

Hidden in a corner

While the others held court

Until one young smart alec

Decided, just for sport,

To play a trick on Tommy—

The sow had farrowed, and

He sent Tom to count the bonhams,

(The fingers of his hands

Were as much as Tom could calculate),

The litter was thirteen,

All knew that he could count to ten

And nothing more. He beamed

At those who laughed at him

As he set out to go

To count the bonhams in the shed,

But Tom was not as slow

As the village deemed him—

When asked for the amount

He proudly said, “There’s ten of them

And the three I couldn’t count.”

Oh yes! They deemed him village fool

(That’s what they’re remembered for)

But, remembered for his answer,

He’s avenged in local lore,

He is.

He’s avenged in local lore.

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

bonhams: piglets

______

Happiness

There are mornings when you wake up

And everything is good—

No frown on the horizon,

Hosannas in your blood;

And believing in God is easy

And it helps against the times

When God is a tsunami

And nothing, nothing rhymes.

Gabriel Fitzmaurice