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Ray Dunn Mar 29
in a field of four leaf clovers—
i’ll await your three leaves,
my dear

you’re my goodluck charm—
mixed amongst non-scented flowers,
my love
Just  thinking back to when I wore my grandmothers necklace, an Irish symbol with  marble from homeland of Ireland, and lost the pendant in a field of clovers by my school. Makes me very sad to remember, hopefully I’ll find it one day
Star BG Mar 17
I am not IRISH,
but on Saint Patricks Day
I be one tall and strong.

One to appreciate Irish music,
and dance with
Celtic Thunder.

Where I wear Green
and wave flag honoring
the country grand.

One to have button
saying Kiss Me I'm Irish
and wait for one openly.

Where I turn TV onto
parade to cheer happily
inside day.

One to breath deep
and speak with
learned Irish accent delicately.

I am not IRISH
but full of celebration
for date of March 17th
dear to heart.

Perhaps in next life, I shall be.
Happy Saint Patricks day ALL
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
Her platinum blonde hair was a firm
     spunky Irish when she was a kid
And compelled me to wish for time travel
     as I have loved her since she's existed

She says she'll table dance if she wins
All for a package of crackers I'd have
    never kicked her out of bed for eating
Says if I'm lucky she'll pick Mardi Gras beads

I told her that from her wedding picture
     Veronica Lake had nothing on her
She said straight into my transparent heart:
     "I've had a good life"

. . .and I was lucky
> As published in The Pennsylvania Poet's Society magazine, PENNESSENCE
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> Listen to me recite Joanne @ Bingo on DarkHorse7 BandCamp.
Francie Lynch Nov 2018
I am no longer a Roman,
Though my nose would differ.

I'm not Viking,
But my descendants have blonde and red hair.

I am a beneficiary of the dark ages,
The scriptoriums and monasteries
That brought the Greeks and Romans to life.

I am not Gael, though my eyes smile
When I hear the harp and pipes.

Neither am I Saxon nor Norman,
Victorious or defeated.

I, we, have metamorphized,
Casted of the moulted casement,
Spread dry wings and lifted,
Carried on fresh winds
To new worlds
To read, write, fish and hunt,
And I have gathered
My lineage,
Framed it in genetics on my wall,
To point at in fond remembrance
Of what I once was.
I crawled into a bottle once,
never found the way out.

It's cold and dark here,
lonely and with an echo...

...a hint and inkling of,
something else I cannot see.

How to crawl back out,
of something that holds you;

...back?

I crawled into a bottle once...

It's cold and dark in here.
"God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn't rule the earth" -Jim Bishop
Senti Mental Oct 2018
This is the story of Felix Riley
An Irishman from County Cork
Conceived during the great famine
And delivered by the stalk
He was one of ten; 6 brothers, 3 sisters
All of whom he cherished
Both of his parents passed away
From starvation and cholera they perished.
His father was a peasant farmer
From the port town of Kinsale
Working every single day
To bring home bread and ale
He died in the summer of 47
A year that many did
His wife Breanna heartbroken
But from the kids she hid
Not long after, she died too
Taking with her 3 little chislers
Poor Felix Riley was left solitary
When split from his brothers and sisters
He learned to fend for himself
And then met his lovely wife Bria
He never saw his kin to that day
And probably wont again, he'd fear
Like his father he worked and worked
To bring home food for their little one
And one day hoped he could earn enough
To buy a table to eat it on
He worked every hour he physically could
Almost every one god sent
But every week when he got his envelope
The money was already spent
Never disheartened he loved his wife
And his little daughter too
He remained optimistic in any weather
And through tough times powered through
Alas his determination was futile
In the face of the aftermath of the blight
He died at a tender age of 26
After putting up a hearty fight

His story is one of over a million
Who's stories are somewhat hidden
From the books and lessons given in schools
Their telling is almost forbidden.
A tale.
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
There once was a man named Rick
Who carried a red blackthorn stick
He flailed it blatantly
that ancient shillelagh
The bataireacht fighter was quick!
Dev Aug 2018
Here's to you, Here's to me
May us all drink two, maybe three

Here's to beer, Here's to wine
Long as your here, we should all be fine
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