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Maria Monaghan Jul 2018
The sun sets on Ireland,
patchwork fields illuminated by the august light of
abiding memory.

Misty hues spilling
over the mountains,
glimpsed through a mist of tears
fighting not to be shed.

The last sunset
of a brief glimpse of manic happiness
and friendship
and love.

The fields flash by,
each one transforming into a rose-coloured memory,
and a tsunami of melancholy threatens to
knock me down.

Heavy sighs and
knowing looks and
held-back tears and
one last caress of your sun-kissed skin.

The sun sets on Ireland
And opens into a bright new tomorrow.
Terry Collett Aug 2018
Magdalene lay beside Mary
on her own bed
as Magadalene's parents
were out shopping in town
wonder what
Sister Luke'd say
if she saw us here
like this? Mary said
exhaling smoke
from the cigarette
she held away
from her lips,

probably have a fit
or wet her bloomers
in the middle of Mass
Magdalene said
before she inhaled smoke
from her cigarette
and going red in her plump face
she'd mouth out
half a dozen Hail Marys
Magdalene said
through a mouthful of smoke,

what'd your Da say
if he saw us now?
Mary said
bet he'd take to your behind
with his big hairy hand
and mine too
she added laughing,

Magdalene hadn't put on
the record player
so she could hear
if the parents returned
and they could
vacate the bed as quick
as they could and dress,

are you still seeing
the Brady boy?
Magdalene asked
as I saw you talking to him
the other day
and you were making him laugh,

wouldn't give him more
than a smile the big loon
nor let him near my *** ***
nor lick my skin Mary said,

they turned to face each other
having stubbed out
their cigarettes
in the ashtray
beside the bed
and embraced
for the last time
before dressing,

they had just dressed
when the downstairs door opened
and they could hear
her father's voice
and so left the bedroom
and went downstairs
acting all innocent
and pure as angels
and lied about what
they had been doing,

the parents greeted Mary
in half smiles and lowered voices
and were glad when she left
and moaned at Magdalene
for bringing her home,

just played records and talked
Magdalene lied
sensing the kisses
which had stayed
and dried.
Éire,
The beauty of a broken land,
Where each and every man
Took up his own fight
And fought it with all his might
. I really should keep learning Gaeilge (irish language)
(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!
Old English-style rhyme. Béarthr is Gallic and pronounced, "Be-ate-tor."
Dawnstar Mar 17
I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.

Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....

I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.

See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.

But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.

I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.

Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!
Jeremy Betts  Feb 2018
Stuck
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
******' hell, I'm still here, in the throes of terror for ever but that was close.
I don't know how many more of those devistating blows from life's twisted episodes I can take before I get exposed and everybody knows that this smile's a fake
Adorned like over warn costumes on Broadway shows
A mangled backdrop set prop to keep from view that I got behind the seens woes.
With each smile the lie grows, gotta live with this Pinocchio nose.
Black out curtains dress the windows so the only parts of me I expose are silhouette shadows.
Like house siding, I stack the facade till a barrier grows.
It adds curb appeal and social value I suppose, but for me it's a false face to hide the lows
To get me through this reality that blows,
Alife time of running into doors with a sign reading closed hanging next to the mandatory posted notice of demolition proposed
Life's ultimate plan to bulldoze any happy settlement till all that's left are foreclosed burrows, unwelcoming ghettoes, a real to life Gotham City narrows.
Every one knows **** flows down stream and my life's the delta where it all goes.
Rainbows casually replaced by psychos, sorrows flicker by like sickening slideshows
Arms and legs strewn all around, separated from torsoes
From heros to zeros, no back again as I decompose into the shallows

It's basically not a place anybody would actually choose to be
But when it's your own psyche it's hard to see any way out of the intensity that will always accompany insanity
And no one can hear your inner voice plea for much needed mercy
Beging to be set free but this inescapable captivity is your eternity.
So wait
Is this outcome then a certainty?
A destiny unremarkably average and already planned out for me?
It certainly seems to be now that I see clearly that comedy lies within my tragedy
But only because hindsight is 20/20, in the moment nothing's funny.
A well lit path is not part of my journey, mines miles walked through a dark ally.
The thoughts that emerge from the shadows come in a hurry
A savage flurry of the eire, physically consumed with how badly this could turn out for me
Any second I could come face to face with an enemy sent by a deity with the soul purpose to immedietly end this agony
But I can guarantee I'm not that lucky

It's a shame this evil never left after it came
The residual, dry back shot residue stain and remain after every time I'm ******, but those rinse off in the rain that came all the same
Causing me never to see life the same, now docile and tame
A king slain by his own sword, self inflicted pain
My shelf life would be considered inhumane
A body originally set to be a temple now unlivable domain even for an animal, but for an insane cannibal it's the opposite I hear 'em saying.
What I can't figure out is what's there to gain keeping me here on this plane.
An existence broken and lame
No highs, no fame. No title bout, no championship game.
I'd like to say it's done in vain but the fact is maybe this is where I'VE chosen to remain
But if there is no one to blame, to frame, to claim did this to me then the chain that holds me here I should be able to explain away so I don't know how to explain why I stay

And I always find myself stubernly staying in this mindset like I'm developing the onset of stalk home syndrome
Eventually the environment seems normal but it's a Truman show dome.
Entertainment at the expense of a grown man condoned
And the freedom shown is an illusion cause there's only so far you are able to rome.
It never occurred to me that it was strange to be in this place alone.
At first, while trying to escape, I wore my finger tips to the bone
But now I've got it so bad that I call this catacomb home.
No land line phone, no WiFi hotspot zone
Cut off from the outside inside this prison of cobblestone
Or is that skull bone?
It's getting harder to tell as the problems begin to become overgrown
My flaws get shown as they engulf my preset headstone.
It seems so obvious that I shouldn't be here, I deserve a permanent place in a corner alone with a dunce cap cone
Or next to the rest labled drone.
And I'm pretty sure I've waited to long to atone
So the best I can hope for now are some ruby slippers or the larger piece of the wishbone
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2018
Starting way up north from
from fair head in Antrim to
mizen head in Cork there is
not a Border Collie in the 32
counties wishing for a return
to The Troubles before the
Good Friday agreement when
meat was forbidden by the
Catholic Church because fish
is for felines and it was seen
by many canines as a blatant
act of segregation, racism and
even discrimination for which
the animal kingdom of Eire
(In the absence of a Monarch)
has been audibly vocal in all
of the four provinces, many of
the nations kennel clubs and
at last years Crufts Show in
Earls Court London, a Kerry
Blue refused to stand on the
winners podium with a Poodle
who shared first place, because
she was a vegetarian and not
at all sympathetic or supportive
to a universal diet for all breeds
on the island of Ireland.
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