nj-mcgourtyWhisper

Irish
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Aul Fionn McCoolI / In a land of myths, from the jaded isle, / Great stories are told of the brave and the guile.
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ElkMounted in Ulster Mausoleum / you greet me with your rotted smile, / with oaken bones splinted into pose
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1.8k
From a Bench on Cliff WalkPeople in the sand / The tide, it heals the fresh scars / And leaves their salvage.
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Lightning BugsNot the drip of freeway from Pittsburgh but a rough trundle / on chalk roads as flaxen skies shade to molten celluloid / and I can still see them
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Sunday and She Will Not EatA Sunday and she will not eat / cabbage brew / or the plethora of stale mush
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DeciduousOctober brings a flurry of trigger-happy handymen / to carpet over the potholes, puddles and last year’s cloth / with that emerald bract that’s rusted in seasons past and
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1.3k
The Croatoan TreeIt sat upon Virginia’s shore / stalked by the sea, / it’s lichen pale with salt
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Gerry's RevolutionColonel Hathi with a hurl / that weighs in his illicit hands / like an AR18 play-park swing
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GAA SundayI often pondered why we wore our studded boots, / When the mud was impenetrable with morning frost. / The same that misted our breath before our eyes,
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FlagstonesThe mossy stitch of a concrete quilt can / cosy and tuck the gummy road. And should / we scrawl upon patchwork step, catching
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