I was told in secondary school
"Keep moving your goalposts"
At college, my goalposts moved too much.
So I gave my goalpost my sister's ADD medication.
My goalposts stopped moving altogether.
As I dressed in black for my goalpost's funeral, I thought to myself:
"have I won yet?"

"There are animals in the road"
the traffic reporter said
"We're not told what they are
find another route instead"

And so I got to wondering
though I wasn't going that way
what the mystery beasties were
that were on the road that day

Were they a herd of wildebeeste
who took a wrong turn on the veldt
or perhaps a wayward mule train
delivering some sacks of spelt

Maybe a team of trainee reindeer
diverted from the North Pole
or a bunch of llamas from Peru
that fell through a wormhole

Or bears, or wolves, or lions
could be zebras or kangaroos
surely not beached aquatic mammals
or elephants trumpeting the blues

Exotic beasts seemed unlikely though
it was more likely cattle or sheep
though it could have been migrating badgers
moving goalposts somewhere safe to keep

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 27/10/13

I hadn't been there in ages, hadn't visited, I had no reason to
But then the Covid virus struck and Dublin where I was working was put into quarantine
I wasn't allowed to go up there anymore to work,
And I had no computer at home and no broadband/ WiFi at the time
So they sent me down to the Old Town
It was nice driving down the motorway, it was Autumn and the leaves they were all changing colour
The different shades of red, brown green and yellow
With the sun shining on the mountains and on the bay
It felt almost like I was going on my holidays,
The Old Town it had changed so much, there were all these new buildings,
Retail parks on the outskirts, hotels, new schools, civic buildings... coffee shops
It was lovely and clean and tidy
Like those living there were really proud of it,
The old town I'd known it was there also, in the background, a bit dusty now
There was the big old gothic church my Dad used take us to, to Mass some Sundays
There was the Port and the big ships along the Quay
There was the secondary school I was meant to go to... had we stayed...it looked old, a bit dilapidated now
I wondered was it still being used as a school,
In the Main Street there were still old names of shops that I recognized
The shoe shop where my Mom used buy us shoes
The chemist where my brother got his glasses... the Bakery
The cinema where we seen our first movie "The Magnificent Seven", it was all done up now... all different...
In the office things were... well...weird! ghostly!
A big modern office and some days I was the only one there, just me all on my own
Was like something out of a Sci-fi movie
Other days maybe two or three might come in to join me
All the others of course, they were all working from home,
Often I'd find my mind just filling with old memories and nostalgia...
I could hear the old ghosts calling, calling me to go back
I knew... I knew I had to go back there
Back to where it had all begun for me
The little seaside village where I was born.

So going home I took the coastal road not the motorway
Just the sight of the headland and the blue mountains sloping down to the sea
With the lighthouse there at the end
Just seeing them again gave me an old feeling of my father, my Dad
And then the village itself, the seafront... all the colourfully painted shops,
Sweet shops & novelty shops, the amusement arcade, pubs and hotels and B&B's  (Bed and Breakfasts)
After being away for nearly fifty years, it still looked...it still looked pretty much the same, was hard to believe
I stopped my car and went into a little supermarket shop to get a sandwich for the next day
As I looked around, I seen these two mature ladies there, they were around my own age
I thought to myself 'I might have gone to school with you once many years ago, one of you might even have been my wife had we stayed here and not moved away
I might have lived a more normal, a different life'
But then I thought 'Life is never that simple, is it'.
Outside I decided to go for a walk, to look around and reminisce.

There was the path, the pavement I used go to school on with my brothers
It was like returning to the scene of a crime
How I used to dread going to school sometimes
There was a teacher, a lady teacher that used scare me a lot, she terrified me so
I remember I got sick in class on several occasions
She put me outside once sitting on an upturned bin
I can still remember sitting there on that bin in the sun, feeling so lost and that I was a really bad boy, wishing I was home
I remember I used to get hives, itches on my skin
My Mom used keep me at home
She was afraid, she thought I'd give them to the other kids
I missed the addition and subtraction tables at school because of this
To this day I still don't know what 7 + 5 is, instead I bring it to 10, I know 5 is 3 + 2, so I say 7 + 3 is 10 and 2 is 12
And I know all the doubles, 7 + 6 is 6 + 6 is 12 and 1 is 13, funny that
How I used to dread going to school
Until that was... until one day I did well at something and I received some praise
Then things seemed to change after that, I wasn't as bothered anymore, I think then I realized I was doing better than some of the others in my class and that seemed to make a difference
I remembered sitting beside pretty little girls who used have lovely pink pencil cases with lots of fancy colourful things
Whereas me I barely had a pencil, a rubber (eraser) and a ruler
They were strange lovely creatures, the Girls with their lovely long hair and their cute little faces...
I remembered walking home on my own, with my little schoolbag on my back with all my books in it
It was such a beautiful place, the view with the beach and the sea and the faraway blue mountains
And yet, I used to worry about so many things
It's like even then it was all about...all about survival...
There was the big Chapel on the hill
Once before the Summer holidays they were looking for altar boys and someone put my name forward
Then on the first morning back to school after the Summer holidays
The teacher said you better get down to the church right away, like fast!! you're on the altar this morning !!!
I was terrified, I didn't know what I had to do, no one told me anything
So there I was on my own kneeling on this cold hard marble altar and it was hurting my knees something terrible
And the priest he's talking about God and the Devil and Evil or Hell or whatever
And all these people, the whole congregation their all staring up at us
And I'm petrified, and I started to get faint and nauseas
The priest had to stop the Mass
I can't remember if I got sick or passed out
I was so embarrassed and thought afterwards I was such a terrible bad person, I knew it'd be all around the school the story.

I walked on...our house was gone, knocked down, where there used to be three houses together attached, now there was only the end house
Our house used to be the middle house
It didn't look right now, the symmetry looked all wrong
It was like there was two missing teeth
Why did they have to knock it down ? I wondered. It saddened me a bit...

At another house I stopped, this used to have a shop, a small shop,  the shop was no longer there
This was my Best Friend's house, all the days we used to play football together in the back garden
Kicking the ball to each other
With our jumpers/ sweaters as goalposts
The first to score ten would win the game
I...I usually won
I always found you easy to read, it's like you only ran in straight lines,
I think you were a bit in awe of me for some reason
Maybe you wouldn't have been my friend if you'd beaten me
How did we become friends anyway, I wondered
I suppose coming home from school
We lived on the same road and were in the same class, we'd have met each other
I had two older brothers whereas you were the oldest
So our families would have had a different dynamic
I remember you had a delightfully silly younger brother
I remember your Mom, she was very pretty, she was a lot younger than my Mom
You used bring me in and give me a meal sometimes, we'd all sit and watch TV
There was a different feeling when I was in your house...a different atmosphere
But when your Dad would come home, he was a bit scary
And I knew it was then time for me to go home
You'd wonder afterwards what the lovely Mom saw in the scary Dad, adults they were a bit peculiar.

We were inseparable in those days, many mornings you'd hear the knock on the door
And the familiar greeting
"Hello Mrs B---, Is G---- in, is he coming out to play?"
We were always playing soccer up the garden
Or down on the beach, going out for miles to meet the tide, catching *****, looking under  stones to see what we might find
I remember we were very entrepreneurial
In the Summer we used collect returnable glass mineral bottles, Orange and Lemonade and Coca Cola
And we'd bring them back to the shop and get money back for them
And then we'd have a royal feast, we'd buy bottles of Orange and bags of crisps and ice cream pops and chocolate bars,
Remember all the different Ice pops there used to be, Choc Ices and Brunches and Orange splits, 99's... Ice cream cones
Chocolate bars, Smarties and Malteasers, Milky Bars and Milky Ways, Dairy Milk chocolate bars, fruit gums and Love hearts with little love messages written on them
We used hang around the amusement arcade, play the slot machines, maybe help some old lady collect her winnings, she might give us a tip
There was the bumper cars and the swingboats and music playing all the time on the jukeboxes
It was the seventies (the 70's) and glam rock was all the rage
Marc Bolan and T-Rex, and Slade and The Sweet and a million others
So many great songs, we couldn't wait to grow up and become one of those amazing creatures we saw on the telly
I'd never lived since as intensely as I did back then,
We'd stay out till late
We were like young hustlers going around,
It seemed the days they were never long enough, all the things we got up to,
We'd Caddy in the local golf course
And retrieve lost ***** from the ditches...
Heh! Remember... remember that time... the Brennan sisters, we were up one day near the school
There was building work going on
And there was this big high mound of clay
So we climbed to the top to take in the view
And then the two Brennan sisters came over
They lived nearby
They were in our class at school, we knew them only to see
They were smiling and laughing and giggling
They beckoned for us to come and follow them
We went wondering what was going on here
They led us back to their house, I think their parents must have been out
One of them came up to us and smiled
And then she pulled down her pants and showed it to us in all its wonderful glorious splendour
It was amazing... incredible... such a sight
Her beautiful...her splendid... her lovely... bare Bottom!
I remember thinking it was like a lovely ripe pear
One of Life's great mysteries had just been unveiled
And her there with this huge impish grin,
When we were going home we promised each other we'd not tell anyone, our parents, not even the priest in confession
About that great vision we'd just witnessed
It was the height of naughtiness
Yea! Those were the days...

I wondered, 'Whatever became of you Old Friend ?
I looked you up online but couldn't find your name anywhere, couldn't find anything about you
Were you even still alive ?
50 years was a long time, I'd barely made it this far myself, and I had a lot of scars to show for it
I thought rather amusingly that I should knock on your door
Maybe you were still living there,
But what was I hoping to find ? I wondered...
"Whose at the door ?", a woman's Voice inside might say,
"Just... just some crazy guy talking about 50 years ago" her dutiful husband would reply
That's probably how it would go
I felt like I was Rip Van Winkle awakening after being asleep for 100 years or in my case 50 years
What did I hope to find
What did I hope to see, an old man now just like myself
And I bet you'd tell me your opinions on the government and the economy
And how the village had changed over the years and how other old schoolmates of ours had got on in life
But No! that's not what I wanted to hear or see
I wanted to see you there again just like you were as a little kid
Your lovely youthful face smiling back at me
And you'd say, "I'll get the ball and we'll have a game, the first to ten wins"
This was what I was looking for, this was what I wanted to hear.

We were very close, were going to grow up together, go to the same schools...college
We'd always be friends
We'd meet all the trials of life together....
I hope Life worked out well for you, my friend
In a way...in a way I almost didn't want to know
If I learned you did well in Life I'd probably only get jealous
I'd start to think I was better than you and that I should have had those things you had
Life, this world it makes enemies of us all... eventually
It divides, is all about competing and comparing... and beating (I suppose).

I still remember that last night before I left forever
We were down on the beach, it was twilight, the tide was coming in... the waves slowly advancing
Just like in life I had no power to stop it, to change things,
I had no say, I didn't want to go and leave you Old Friend
No! I didn't want to go....

Thank you...thank you for being my friend, for being there
For all the time you gave me, I hope I didn't hurt you in any way.

I have a photograph, one solitary old black and white photo of the two of us
We're sitting on a barrel in our back garden on either side of my Dad whose in the middle
You look a bit uncertain, unsure of yourself, probably lost in the dynamic of my family,
I look at you and I think
"Whatever happened to you.... Beautiful Friend, whatever became of you"
And then I look at myself as well, and I think, I whisper
"Whatever became of me as well".

goalkeeper

The goalkeeper stands tall between goal posts that
some times seem far away, but he is the hero
the man they have to get past to score.
I was once a goalkeeper, they put me there mainly
because no one else wanted the job.
I will show them alone I decide whether to jump
left or right, today I will be successful, nimble and
elastic, stoic in the face of the horde.
The goalkeeper stands tall, yet feels small goalposts
are too far apart it is beginning to rain, and he wants
to go home,

You're the one who suggested
the park picnic, obviously. We got the food
from the M&S at King's Cross after you’d arrived,
wearing the bracelet I'd bought you
for your thirtieth half a year ago.
You really didn't have to. I knew that,
but did anyway. Happy tears flashed
in your eyes. In mine too.

Although we both know, we ask
how we've been. Much the same as always.
Work colleagues fancy a drink
on Fridays - it's a pass. Skin’s breaking out
again - it's hormonal. Turns out we're both
reading Emily Henry because everyone else is.
Falling into line with the masses.
Bookish FOMO, you say. I emit a giggle at that.

A group of others play football nearby;
tote bags for goalposts. I doubt a wayward kick
but I move the share bag of cheese
and onion closer to my crossed legs.
I almost don't hear you ask really better now,
I worry you know. I know you do but again,
my throat becomes clogged. I never tell.
The light licks your shoulders and I think of drinking
the sun one day without rosy blotches
on my skin, heartburn on the hour, every hour.

This is going to turn ugly I can tell,
But you hurt me, what the hell?

This is a normal reaction this is mature,I have always been this way even before

I never moved the goalposts it was always you, always setting me up to fail just to prove you were true.

Summer time,
Eyes vibrant; alive

With occluded featureless smiles
And women in vest tops;
High-waisted jeans.

Innumerable particles of dust.
Old autumns,
The fallen, forgotten;
The flying are free.

Local cover bands play
In the central courtyard
Of the landmark church.
Lazy vendors, market stalls;
Head shops selling smoking papers
And gauze to gather the dregs.

Alone, acquiring old technology
To keep my search for intelligent life
Away from the screen:

Typewriter to enforce thought to my word,
Punch to every letter like swollen breath-
No going back.

Record player to erase perfection
And leave what is human.

Constant temptation to stay inside,
Dream of our day in the sun,
Constant recollections
Of debts accrued; summers spent

Glass in hand, stretched out on the grass.
Free time without the desperation,
No imprisonment from the moment,
All hot and high
Over dwindling supplies,

Simply laid to the elements,
Burgeoning love
Before the scars came.

Tattooed a hundred reasons
Never to fall again.

Part-time gardeners tend to fenced-off fields.
Far from the commute,
Freed from the suit; the neck-tie
Ceases suffocation.
Sweat paints a Jesus face
On the lining of their backs-
Old grey t-shirts
Toiling an enterprise
That paints beds of dirt
And enlivens the stems
That wilt with age:
Their weekend Eden.

Straight mile to the beer garden,
Old foes, friendly faces,
Residue rings, the sweat of lager
And loose change over numbered tables,
Stained and chipped
In the entropy of revelry.

Crates and boxes of wine,
Patio furniture not orientated to the screen.
It is easy to believe
The modern life is free.

Teenagers learn to drink,
Learn to love what will finally
**** them.

Parks filled with cannabis haze, dried snacks,
Picnic baskets beneath disused goalposts.
Single mothers dutifully mind the sandpits,
Longing for an ashtray; an outlet.

Someone to stand beside them:
To say they are doing fine.

Air cools by evening, shawls appear
Over exposed shoulders.
The high-waisted women,
Shudder a memory
In my lack of a moment.

Paranoia of approaching darkness:
Another day without conclusion.

Cataracts that form in the night,
Tomorrow’s stain; last year’s trauma.
All the money we spend
Trying to forget.

Asleep; skin cools and reddens.
We praise our vanity,
our hangover;
our morning
Beyond the experience.

We forget September,
The onset of winter.
Details sharpened
And losses forgot.

They drink in the beer gardens,
We bathe in our love,
Until the warmth gives out,
Until the feeling is lost.

somebody strikes a match
outside the corner shop

at the park the team are using
jumpers for goalposts

you put your lipstick on
in a hurry this morning

dropped your Tube ticket
somewhere at Caledonian Road

a teenager sings Dancing Queen
wears an Adidas sports bra

the old man is sleeping again
you saw him two days ago

phone’s on 22%
brother’s birthday is tomorrow

in a second-hand shop
with its own brand of smell

the spines are cracked
the pages have yellow breath

lunch is barely a fiver
the guy on the till is called Brian

if you could you’d tell
a person how you’ve looked

for this one story
but there are too many shelves

and no person
to help you look

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

Sunday, the lads are on the pitch
they were ****** the night before
the other side look just as bad
not sure any are fit to score

The whistles blown, the ball is kicked
three players chase concentration on their faces
The keepers are leaning on goalposts
and seventeen are tying their laces

Number nine is running at goal
He must score, it's in the bag
the ball soars past the goalie
and hits the corner flag

By the half time wistle
there was one red card and four yellow
players were crawling off the pitch
the supporters were less than mellow

The full time score was a one all draw
the Ref blew for full time
the players headed for the bar
Twenty one pints and a lager and lime

Match clebrations went on for hours
though neither side had won
next Sunday they would play again
only to draw again, one, one

There are appearances of many journeys..but

Let's imagine that there is only one..

It is the journey inward..and not inward..to

Discover that which can never be discovered on

Any journey..as goalposts dissolve in the tears that flow

And burning flames leap..behind and ahead..

Envisioning
From the backseat
The brutal heat
And burning concrete
Beneath
My bare feet
These stringent standards set before me

The goalposts are constantly changing
The white knuckling I'm always doing
Always moving, never choosing  
The deep, dark bruising

A battle of wills made by difficult by the witless on both sides. Discussions derailed by wild-eye gadflies on fire.
Goalposts travel here and there and then disappear. The crux is lost in the shuffle, replaced by ad hominems galore.

The gavel is coated with sound protection. The recordings are distortions  interspersed with specious conspiracies.
Look around and see the painfully contorted faces on the mouth breathers wrapped up like intricate pretzels.

No good fight in sight. Just power grabs and jostling for attention and 180 degree turns for the almighty dollar.
Where are the heroes, the selfless willing to break the chain of mendacity and vileness even knowing it will boomerang?

I miss them
missed them
kissed some of them
loved all of them.

Holy ghosts
move the goalposts
when it suits them.

I'm listening to the fireworks
at least
something works in
broken Britain.

I thought I'll not go on after sixty one,
but now I'm here and the fear is I will,
yes
age is the bitter pill we swallow when life
has left us lined and feeling hollow,
used up like a matchstick that's been burnt.

Sixty two will have to do or maybe three, I'll wait and see.

If you believe we never leave
and just move to another plane
I for one don't blame you
but
I'd rather move the
goalposts.

In All of its entirety
infinity is the one place
you can reach out to touch me,
but
don't expect too much.

As far as far can be and deeper than a bottomless sea
we like to think ourselves the masters of our fate
and thinking this we think infinity can wait
however, an expanding universe moves
the goalposts every day.

I could try to stretch out time
to wrap it around these
fingers of mine
to intervene
but the everlasting dream sounds
so inviting,

to be safe
I'm spending the night in
watching the static build
until my head is filled
with white noise.

Boundaries may be
Nonexistent
When it comes to you and me
Goalposts moving constantly
Down or up
Never near
Coach calling plays
I cannot hear
Defensive line so clear

It’s dark now, so it must be night. That was the rule by which we all played. We were faithful to time.
We could set our clocks on what we knew to be true. We had alarms to wake us up at the right time.
Time was on our side, if you look at it that way. It was clear and honest, and unmistakable. Unequivocal.

As time has gone by, we’re losing the old goalposts. We’re benighted by the loss of what held us together.
Big Ben silently weeps for what was. Watchmakers have no more time. We’re spinning out of control.
Frenzied by no schedule, no boundaries, we bump viciously into one another in a stupefied dance.

Lovers without time, friends untested by time, no time for resolutions of peace and good will, no time at all.
Time was our truth, not yielding to whims, never fake or malicious. It existed outside the realm of deceit.
But dark forces destroyed time and bent it to their will. Will we ever have time again?

WE THREE

Sweeney goes down
on one knee

gathers the ball
safely to himself

before releasing to
the foot of Dwyer.

"Dinger!" he yelps
with pin point accuaracy .

"Thanks Ger!"
Dinger smirks as he chips

the ball over his own
and the defender's head

pivoting/turning
on the proverbial sixpence.

Dinger Dwyer
scorches down the left wing.

Then stops...lays back
at an angle of say 43 degrees.

Impossible to prove
without a protractor

in order to create the cross
that will arrive to me...Dempsey

in exactly say
another 7.7 seconds.

"Dinger!Dinger!Dinger!" I yell
like a little bell on legs.

"Ok memory...
can we stop it there?"

"Sure boss!"
Memory complies.

Time stops.
Enabling us to see Dinger

leap from his body
and run to where

he expects to place
the ball ...right...there

He draws an X
on the air

just like the Spot
the Ball competitions.

He has already chiselled
the ballistic progress of the ball

upon this summer evening
clear as a diagram.

Dinger then runs back
to his slanted body and

pops back into
his self again.

"Ok Memory you can
roll it from there!"

We gasp at
the perfect parabola of the pass.

I am not where
I should be.

Both the Murphy boys
have manged to turn me.

So that now I am
running backwards to

the waiting cross
"Blast. . .!" I am

not going to get
on the end of it.

No magnificent right footer.
No ****** brilliant header.

So I fling myself
straight up in the air

settle there as if I were
reclining on an invisible chaise lounge.

And: almost casually
indeed elegantly

raise a lazy right leg
going for the overhead

bicycle kick
that usually has me

fall flat on face
or ouch ****.

Shaking my skeleton
to the core.

I have the physics
of it down pat.

Even the quantum uncertainty
I only laugh at.

I am a human
vector.

"Only connect!"
Foster whispers in my ear.

Time. Now.
Timeless.

I with all the time
in the world

****** into this
one second.

This second of all
seconds.

The ball whistles
past Mike Murphy's left ear.

A real stinger.
I thank God for a Dinger.

It rockets between
the jumpers and schoolbag goalposts.

Rolls all the way
past the Power Station and beyond

to Sgt. Major Dwyer's plot
who stops  foot on a *****'s lug.

Chases away
a persistent wasp.

My mother across the road
at No. 31 O' Higgins Road

lulls her newest newborn
lullabies him in his pram.

This is the only time
I will ever be

great
morphing  into my hero

Denis Law.
I now a Law unto my self.

I and my icon
blending into one.

The one armed raised salute
fingers gripping the cuff of the shirt

all the better to wipe
the snotty nose.

It seems as if
it couldn't have

been any other way
than this.

The Sweeney/Dwyer/Dempsey magic.
We the small Gods of this little time

that exist now
only in my mind.

Shakespeare is going mad
in the commentary box

his voice echoing in so
many wireless sets

the Bard's spittle
flecking the mic.

"How now, my hearts?"
Shakespeare searches for the words.

"Did you never see
the picture of we three."