I wear a shamrock on my arm,
D Conors
Aug 10, 2010

I wear a shamrock on my arm,
high up near my freckled shoulder,
it's been there since 1984,
from those days when I was bolder.

It's not so very fancy, my dear,
but it means so much to me,
for it takes me back to my Auld Eire,
that land I love of emerald green.

D. Conors
10 august 2010
L Maruska
L Maruska
Aug 16

burnt-out little sister smearing ash on the
ruins, the cracked weedy cement of this
pioneer town, you’re the queen of the country
club, you’re the luck of the irish and they’d
use you like oil if they could just pin you down-

you fall asleep in the yard while your dad is out
working while your mom is at the market and
your brother’s far away at the wells and when
I come and get you there’s a wide patch of
clover grown green all around the place where
you fell-

and your dead older sister is the saint of
the highway they say that they see her
right before lightning storms and you mark
out the place where her good luck defied her
and you whisper to me “that’s the first place
we’ll burn.”

our fine highschool heroes our overworked
parents our long-missing will to grow roots
in this soil; we take your grandmother’s car
all the way to Amarillo and you say “if they
didn’t deserve it I wouldn’t come back at all.”

you’ve been my best friend since we were too
young to remember, we’re our own cheering
section in the branding-hot bleacher seats
we know all the secrets of this worm-eaten
flytrap and you’ve got blood in your eyes that only I can see-

“they murdered my sister,” you tell me
one midnight, the sky so thick with ozone
I worry it might just spark all of the gas
buried in its deep earthen veins, breathe the
flint of the lightning, set the whole world

and you hand me a clover, you say “keep
it close to you always and the fire will never
get to eat you alive.” I don’t know what
they told you but I know that the truth is
you grew far too old far too quickly for any
one of their lies-

you spend your night on the golfcourse, you’re
plotting the end-times, your grinning-wide
Armageddon curled up in your palm you say
“you go to Amarillo, you go far as you can”
but there’s no one else who can grow clovers
from this panhandle nothing and I’m not leaving
you now, not when there’s so much left to burn.

The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!
Paul Morgana
Paul Morgana
Mar 13, 2013

Another year, another Paddies day,
Here in New York, hope for sun to play.

So the Irish celebration, takes winged flight,
Green is the color in everyone's sight.

Parade in the street, down fifth avenue.
The master of ceremony, we don't know who?

But the master this day, stands as St. Pat,
Clad in green, with a leprechaun's hat.

Hear the bagpipes, the drums pounding loud,
This is the Irish day, to stand and be proud!

A Catholic holiday, dietary sanctions they lift,
Eat meat and drink alcohol, is the Popes gift.

What are we celebrating?  Let's take a closer look,
Power up the computer or crack open a book.

St. Patrick was born under English rule,
His family was clergy, formally educated in school.

Kidnapped by the Irish, and held as a slave,
To journey back to England he must be brave.

He returned one day to the Irish shore,
About the eternal Trinity, the Irish learned more.

A bishop now, native clove he did use,
To teach the Irish, about celestial clues.

About the father and son and the holy ghost,
The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!

The three leaves of a shamrock, and it's circular shape,
Are the same as God's Trinity, the logic you can't escape.

This is why the shamrock is so highly revered,
Wear one on your vest, or tucked into your beard.

Enjoy the day, celebrate with family and friend,
Toast to St. Patrick, may his legacy never end!

Visit poemsbypaul.com

Oh me Ireland from the green emerald shamrock how you tantalize and share the blarney
Hal Loyd Denton
Apr 2, 2013      Apr 3, 2013

Oh me Ireland from the green emerald shamrock how you tantalize and share the blarney cool pools
And streams in diverse scattered form you bedazzle the mind I and all others are your prisoner
We fell under the spell of your charm wickedly fun delight smites from the heights of joy we
Stroll even the national theme is to cajole it’s born from the woods where the wee ones abide
They are the pride and honor of Irish lore Dublin the lilt the thrill rolls down the hill Joyce
Found and spoke from his native tongue so well there is the Mexicali rose and the” Spanish rose
That grows in Spanish Harlem” but what I know is those Irish eyes are gleaming makes my
Heart start my dreaming oh soliloquy with haste you make your statement the blends of this
Ancient twist of tree and steam that flows and then breaks a fix point to gather from wind and
Water the beliefs and wonderings of Leprechauns how else could such magic unfold and be told
After you awake conscious thought is so limited walk on my dreams and you will find my inner
Heart there revealed lost garrisons and bastions of thoughts and deeds spread to the woods
And coast spellbinding the listener the cistern of bliss was cracked open it profoundly and
Evenly coursed through city and villages alike timelessness found its place in this land uttering
The wistful richer than many pots of gold it was as distinguishable as a man’s own signature it is
Like a check list it holds close and tight the facts a man who as a stone mason handles the hard
And course and lives with the residue of fine stone work deeply ingrained like the esteemed
And like forth telling words of Thomas Aquinas who had the closeness to God and set forth
Those royal surmising that scorched the earth of his day it could almost be said as it was of
Jesus no man speaks after this order overwhelmed by the laudatory speech it rises on the
Breeze it stands in these excellent hills to walk is to be staggered with emotional fervor the
Bloodline of Ireland runs deep and is abiding what privilege to stand as a voice a teacher for
Such a place that has such great history that is easily exported to other places making inroads
To build Ireland anew in other lands if nothing more than in a small way that is the greatest
Deterrent to war is for all people to meet and share their positive and unique outlooks nothing
Can build quality life like sharing and creating like mindedness in others crafted out of feeling
And knowing of your world and your place in it to dispel doubt and fear and replace it with the
Quaintness and charm that makes every rock and bush in wee fair Ireland

there in the middle i saw a shamrock  tree

i was walking through the dell has happy as can be
there in the middle i saw a shamrock  tree
it had leaves of gold shining very bright
shining in the sun reflecting off the light
there were lots of flowers they pure and white
blooming on the tree so very very bright
in between the branches there sat a little dove
sitting there so sweetly as he sang his song of love
it was very lovely a nice sweet melody
i wont forget his song or the shamrock tree

joanna dibble
joanna dibble
Mar 17, 2012

four-leaf clover pressed in dictionary_dried up good luck

Of hypnotic pupil shamrock sights!
Curt A Rivard Sr

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, for you are mine
Never let me go, grip me tight like a vineyard vine.
I love that pretty rose that your garden did grow
Betwixt those long beautiful thighs of strength
Exposing that sea shell pink jewel, I do know.

Your garden is so unique, it’s a one of a kind
Such parts are so delicate, that the slightest touch
Produces tropical showers that fill my mind.

Flowing from your meadow, and dripping from
Those soft sensitive pink rose petals,
Golden rain drops that taste O’ so sweet.

Thy lips O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb:
Honey and milk are under my tongue:
Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak,
Every time that they meet.

I love all of your natural beauty,
And I love every lock of your hair
Swaying from a beautiful face, worthy of my stare.

How fair and how pleasant art thou. O love, for delights!
Your calm green eyes in my trance suddenly gave me visions,
Of hypnotic pupil shamrock sights!

I love your seductive soft lips,
One kiss upon them, takes me on so many trips.
My precious 1, your body is a wonderland I cannot resist,
I need for this dream to come true
And if so, I will forever do, everything for you.

You are the Garden of Eden, brought back to life
My only thought now is, I must betroth to have you,
As my wife!

Behold, thou art fair, my love:
Behold, thou art fair; thou hast,

Shamrock Eyes!

Grandma calls a Shamrock Tree.
Richard D Remler
Richard D Remler
Oct 25, 2013

I've never tried to climb that tree -
The one in Mercer's Park.
It's crazy wild as can be,
Especially after dark.

Whenever evening draws our way,
And we all head inside,
When the moon comes out to play,
And stars no longer hide,

I'm sure that tree pulls up each root
And, like my Grandma said,
Sweeps up all its leaves and tip
Toes through the flower bed.

And when morning comes,
It's moved away,
And found another place to stay,
Over here or under there,
It could be hiding anywhere.

It was right beside the Wishing Well
Just yesterday at three.
The perfect place to grow a spell,
Far as I could see.

Its branches were a grand machine,
Leaves of clover full and green,
A canopy of summers bloom,
Still dressed in a springtime plume.

Today it's near the baseball field
Unnoticed as of late
By anybody passing through
The Silverwater gate.

And I'm never gonna climb it.
Yep, it's best to let it be,
This oddish wierd of wonder
Grandma calls a Shamrock Tree.

Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler

"I never saw a discontented tree.
They grip the ground as though
they liked it, and though fast rooted
they travel about as far as we do."
~John Muir

to Shamrock green.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

Here in Nuwara Eliya,
Sri Lanka,
tea terraces manicure
the verdant mountains
where the Ramayana story
etched Hanuman’s footprints in granite
near the waterfall of Sita’s mythic tears.

Welcome to the Emerald Valley
where Saraswati dipped her paintbrush
into the palette
of Brahma's creation
to manifest 50 shades of green
metamorphosing with the earth's rotation.

Latitude: 6°58′14″ N
Longitude: 80°46′58″ E
The following color events
occur in Astronomical Time:

Army green transforms
to British racing green

Sea green mutates
to Shamrock green.

Harlequin turns over a new leaf
to overripe honeydew.

Kelly green converts
to China jade.

UFO green alters
to colonial camouflage.

Olive drab denatures
to dark moss green.

Graphite diverges
to rifle green.

Astronomical Twilight
Myrtle transubstantiates
to gray-asparagus.

I'm in Nuwara Elia writing these observations. Definitely put this heavenly place on your bucket list. As a coffee drinker, who knew tea (bushes) could be so beautiful! This hill region is Sri Lanka served as the backdrop for Ramayana story.  If you're not familiar with this Hindu epic, here is a brief summary. Events occur in Mythic Time:

Rama & Sita: The ideal Royal Couple
Rama, the prince of Ayodhya and his wife Sita are the ideal royal couple. Rama is brave, wise and dutiful, and Sita is beautiful, generous and saintly. Sita gets introduced to Rama at a ceremony called ‘Swayamvara’, organized by her father Janaka, the king of Mithila to identify a suitable bridegroom for her lovely daughter. Princes from various kingdoms are invited and challenge to string a giant bow. Only the mighty Rama could lift the bow, string it and even break it into two halves. This leads Sita to garland Rama as her husband.

Intrigues in the Royal Family
Dasharatha, the king of Ayodhya, had three wives and four sons. Rama was the eldest and his mother was Kaushalya. Bharata was the son of his second and favorite wife, Kaikeyi. The other two were twins, Lakshmana and Shatrughna from his third wife Sumitra. While Rama is all set for coronation, his step-mother, Dasharatha’s second wife, Kaikeyi, wants her son, Bharata, to become king. Before the aged king could hand over his crown to his eldest son Rama, Dasaratha is destined to die. And instead of being crowned king of Ayodhya, Rama is sent into exile in the forest for fourteen year by an intrigue in the palace and a quirk of fate.

Rama is Banished for Fourteen Years
Rama goes to the forest, accompanied by wife Sita and brother Lakshmana, and they live as recluses among the hermits that lead a life of meditative retreat in the deep woods. Bharata, whose mother's evil plot won him the throne, goes to meet Rama in the forest and pleads him to return to the capital. As Rama declines to break his vow given to his deceased father, Bharata is compelled to go back to Ayodhya with his sandals, which he places on the throne as the symbol of Rama’s continuing monarchy.

Rama Fights Ravana, Rescues Sita
While Rama, his wife and brother are living a simple yet happy life in the forest, tragedy strikes! Henceforth, the plot revolves around the abduction of Sita by the demon king Ravana, the ten-headed ruler of Lanka, and Rama’s pursuit to rescue her, aided by Lakshmana and the mighty monkey-general Hanuman. Sita is held captive in the island as Ravana tries to persuade her to marry him. Rama assembles an army of allies comprising mainly of monkeys under the brave Hanuman. They attack Ravana’s army, and after a fierce battle, succeed in killing the demon king and freeing Sita, reuniting her with Rama.

Rama Regains His Kingdom, Sita Returns to Mother Earth
After fourteen years, Rama and Sita return to Ayodhya and are warmly welcomed back by the citizens of the kingdom, where they rule for many years, and have two sons – Luv and Kush. Unfortunately, Sita’s chastity during her period of capture by Ravana comes under scrutiny, and she has to go through trial by fire to prove her purity. But queen, who emerged from the earth at her birth, invokes Mother Earth to take her back into the earth, and the saintly Sita returns to her Mother, never to reappear again.

For related pieces on India and Sri Lanka please visit my:
Radha Krishna

Mumbai Haikus

The 'Big 10' Hindu Pantheon in Haiku
into shamrock looking for more
Wuthering Heights

Rainbows inject
into shamrock looking for more
wisdom than gold.

"How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams."
- Bram Stoker, from "Dracula"
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