Tag Archives: lines on the lockdown

Ballyfermot Road, Dublin yesterday

Hanging Out

Hanging out the washing is my life now
Predicting the weather causes me strife now
The laundry detergent is like my wife now
April showers and cold winds rife now
Must dash to the clothesline right now

Coffee Machine

Hey there little filthy coffee machine
It heartens me to see you so covered
in ground coffee powder and dust, getting
old-looking like me and starting to rust,
Showing your years of functionality,
Boasting a superior quality,
I clean you with a knowing smile that we
have a prosperous future together,
You and I, as long as you keep grinding
and I keep drinking, our bond will remain
in tact, permanent and unremitting

Dear Backdoor

A gateway to Paradise
You remind me of nature
I neglect housework
Your allure greater

My access to sunshine
My sun lounger awaits
An elegant door handle
Provides my escape

You beam light into my life
Release steam from the kitchen
You break up the wall
And give children their freedom

You let me look through you
Maybe you see through me
I keep you unlocked
Should I need setting free

Eimear Grace

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie marked ‘Lines On The Lockdown’


This sign in Irishtown, Dublin today


Put your skinny hand in mine
You can shelter for a while
Cases are increasing here
Patients worse off than appear

Trying to explain to some
Society has come undone
Nods and smiles, accepting eyes
Been prepared since once retired

Told it’s spreading far too fast
Far and flung the good times past
Older many, younger few
Were they underlying too?

Is it fair to question form
Of dead and dear departed sort?
Should we ask intrusive things
While earth is warm and cardinal sings?

There is no fear we have not felt
Lucky we still have our health
There but for the grace of God
I would be there, not here, how odd.

New sheets over older faces
Putting hospitals through paces
Spring has sprung, a bell has rung
It’s fine for me, I’m only young.

Austin Slevin

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie marked ‘Lines On The Lockdown’


Sandycove, County Dublin at the weekend

The Other Side

When the frantic world
Is all too much
For your brain

Go into the other side
Of solid things
Poetry filled with sandy beaches
And teacups

Quiet blankets, rivers and monologues
Silent weeping, moon frogs and romance
Floorboards that creak

When the news
Makes you dizzy
With lost breath

Go to the other side
Of history, long lost loves
And the quiet knell of grass, so wise

Rain strewn landscapes
The darkness of night
Littered with stars
And century old bumblebees

Escape for a while
And join us on the other side
Remember why it is
We need to fight

Roberta Cappieri

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie marked ‘Lines On The Lockdown’


Sutton, County Dublin this morning

Still Allowed To Dream

You look out the front door at a lifeless street
Hardly a car on the road or a leaf on a tree
Very few humans pass by the window
The sky is grey with no hope of a rainbow
As for me, I don’t look where you look
I get inspiration from book after book
I close my eyes and peer inside
Let my imagination be my guide
I enter a world that you’ve never seen
A magical place you wouldn’t believe
With fluffy white rabbits and cute little puppies
Giant marshmallows and chocolate chip cookies
Where love is the law and crime is unheard of
There are no shops, you get loads of free stuff
Smiling is easy ‘cause folk are so friendly
Yoga is practiced so everyone’s bendy
If only you’d turn off the TV and join me
Close your eyes too and come on my journey
Travel with me to the land where I dream
Meet my mystical friends and a fairy queen

It Doesn’t Matter

It Doesn’t Matter I notice my whole family come downstairs everyday with the same jumper on as the day before, and the day before that.
It doesn’t matter. My five year old didn’t bother to put her skirt on. She’s carrying it around the living room draped over her arm.
It doesn’t matter. It looks cloudy and windy outside today. It’s probably gonna rain, lash, pour, thunder, lightning, hail, sleet, sn…
It doesn’t matter. What will we have for dinner later? Well I’m not risking going to the shops again. Whatever we have in the fridge, cupboards, fruit bowl …
It doesn’t matter. The kids haven’t finished their weekly homework from Teacher and they’re going to get a new homework list on Monday.
It doesn’t matter. No one’s gonna correct it anyway…

I Wanna Be An Egg

I wanna be an egg Fry me, sizzle, sizzle
I wanna be an egg Salt me, sprinkle, sprinkle
I wanna be an egg Boil me, hard or soft
I wanna be an egg Crack me, chop my head off
I wanna be an egg Scramble me in your sandwich
I wanna be an egg Add salad to your omelette
I wanna be an egg Spread joy and Easter cheer
I wanna be an egg Behold my gooey interior
I wanna be an egg Versatile and savoury
I wanna be an egg Lay me, sit on me
I wanna be an egg Eat me at your leisure
I wanna be an egg Taste me, guaranteed pleasure

All poems by Eimear Grace.

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie marked ‘Lines on the Lockdown.

Homecoming in arrivals at Dublin Airport last Christmas

Last hugs

Grateful for last hugs I shared
Before this virus took control
Thankful for the memories
That forever I will hold

Bear hugs filled with love
Hands I shook to say hello
Hugs filled with gratitude
For those I’m glad to know

Hugs deep with meaning
The sentiment will remain
In my thoughts for a long time
Imprinted in my brain

I even treasure the awkwardness
Of the uncertain embrace
We went in for it anyway
Despite feeling out of place

Little did we know back then
How the world would change
Ignorant of the enormity
The spread, the scope, the range

I’m glad we shared that hug
Back when we still could
We felt that human contact
And it felt really good

Eimear Grace


Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie

Dublin city centre yesterday

a kind of ballet

the aisles are wide
we slide and turn
scanning the empty places
all the new and sudden spaces

with our trolleys and our paper faces
moving fluid
gaps between
we enter and leave
a kind of ballet

this is how it has to be
no muzak; silent ticking
we flow
in and out
a choreography
of survival

Spaces on the shelves
spaces between us
a dance no-one rehearsed for;
we orbit, lonely planets

the coffee and the bread
and the instant noodles
and the cereals
and kitchen towel
and petfood
are still here

but everything else has changed

Stephen Brady


After You’ve Wiped Your Arse But Before You’ve Washed Your Hands 

After you’ve wiped your arse but before
you’ve washed your hands,
you’re putting your life on the line.
You’re practically committing hara-kiri.
You could give yourself a very nasty
infection at the very least.

Because after you’ve wiped your arse
but before you’ve washed your hands
you have to stand up and pull up your trousers.
i.e. You have to touch your underpants and
your trousers with the four fingers and thumb
of the hand that has just wiped your arse.
(Unless you hop over to the sink
with your trousers and underpants
around your ankles, that is. Unlikely).

It’s not a healthy situation whichever
way you look at it. And please,
don’t look at it for too long.

No matter how many times you wash
and disinfect your hand in the sink
when you get over to it,
the danger will still be lurking
all over your trousers
and later in the evening
you’ll touch your trousers unconsciously
and perhaps then touch your face.

That’s the moment at which you are unwittingly
putting yourself in mortal danger.
Dicing with death. Screaming at Satan to
come and have a go if he thinks
he’s hard enough.

So I beseech you.
The solution is simple.
I suggest that after you’ve wiped your arse
but before you’ve washed your hands
you put a plastic glove on your wiping hand.
As a precaution.
And pull up your trousers
-wearing it. Then bin it immediately
when you get over to the sink.

Now please,
wash your hands

Camillus John



We shall live in squalor
No visitors expected
No one rings the doorbell
No need to disinfect it

I’ll wear pyjamas if I want
Let my hair dry naturally
No point in ironing anymore
For nobody will see me

The stack of books beside the couch
Rises higher day by day
Dust gathers on the shelves
I want to blow it all away

I can’t be bothered anymore
Ain’t no one calling at my door
Dirty laundry hides the floor
A knob hangs off a wonky drawer

Who would I be tidying for?
Only thieves and robbers
I’d welcome them inside y’know
To beg, steal or borrow

No appetite for housework
It’s time I’d rather squander
I’m resigned to live in squalor
For just a little longer

Eimear Grace

Yesterday: Lines on the Lockdown

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie