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Stone hall with concrete walls
Perched with colours of the crown
Ripped down for united minds

Dole queue patriots hyped with delusions of grandeur
Camped upon corners, moaning ****** ******
Laying claim to title of white line champions

Still the law sheath batons
Sharing guarded desire
With debased brethren

So united the occupied stand
Defying foreign lords who oppress ancestral land
Awaiting the day the crown falls defiled
And high flies the green, white and gold.
Kitts Apr 2015
I am
not a
true racist...
I am
a culturist...
I do
not like
certain...cultures...
Even though
that culture
is my
own....
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
Papa,
Had you held her,
She'd be the death
Of you.
We see it
In her lineage,
Which we
Ascribed to you.
Eons of Irish tribes
Coverge in her
Blood lines;
She is like
The ripening fruit
That cures and makes
Fine wine.
My grandaughter, Aine.
My father, Papa.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing surely
An understatement,
It pushed so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But the hard rain that night
Made it all seem uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.
"Keening" is a cry of grief at an Irish wake.
Sam Hain Mar 2015
I stubbed my toe and yelled out, "****!"
But blessèd be that Irish luck!
For had I not an Irish root,
I would've surely lost the foot!


Seán Mac Falls Feb 2015
Ruddy and worn,
Dusted by turf and salt,
Sun rose cheeked and blue
Clouded eye spurt in a gait
Ended by mute journeys and toil.
He breaks the long day with a shove
As the old pocked door is waiting to be
Opened.  At the crowning stand of the bar
He orders his Craic, some froth of tar, his black
Medicinal and when the tales of tall pints grow, sinking,
Live, flickering light slows and smoulders, shoulders with moist
Embers of smoke trailing by with an impromptu céilí and all is brilliant,
Blind, awful and right, cast in the sprite, spirited dance of the verbal swirlings.
"Craic", or "crack", is a term for news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation, particularly prominent in Ireland.  It is often used with the definite article – the craic. The word has an unusual history; the English crack was borrowed into Irish as craic in the mid-20th century and the Irish spelling was then reborrowed into English.  Under either spelling, the term has great cultural currency and significance in Ireland.

In modern usage, a céilidh or ceilidh ( pronounced: kay-lee ) is a traditional Gaelic social gathering, which usually involves playing Gaelic folk music and dancing. It originated in Ireland and Scotland, but is now common throughout the Irish and Scottish diasporas. In Irish it is spelt céilí.
aar505n Feb 2015
Tá mé codladh orm
Ag iarraidh codladh
Ach gan aon toradh
dom-ádh

Rugadh agus tógadh
leis dearcadh difriúil
lá i ndiadh lae
An grá mícheart

Is é mo chroí ag craoladh,
faoi grá
Ag muineadh dom nach,
faoi mná

Rachainn mé go dti an trá.
an alainn trá
Déarfainn mé Dia duit ar an buachaillín.
an alainn buachaillín
Mo muirnín.

Dhéanfainn mé seo, ach
Nuair a fháil i go dtí an trá,
Ní bheidh tú in ann.
Beidh mé san áit mícheart
ag an am mícheart.

Ní haon ionadh é mar
Ní féidir leat a shéanadh go bhfuil
mo chroí,
i gcónaí mícheart
Is dán beag as Gaeilge. Tá roinnt earráidí ach cosúil leis an seanfhocal:
Is fearr Gaeilge briste, na Bearla cliste.
Bain sult as!
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2015
Rua
Dearg,
Rua, roselet,
Gruaige na fíniúna agus scarlet
Fíonchaora, drown me i do deoch
As liopaí, fíona, Ruby, flesh an paisean
Torthaí agus adharc de neart,
Earthen meirge de pebbled cré
Tarraing mé mar uisce seeping
Isteach uiscígh ársa, ualaithe, i bhfolach
Faoi vastness Sahára
Sands. Tá mé scamall de aisling
Drifting, itching, edging chomh maith do chothromú
Hills. Do ******* sruthán mé mar gaile,
Tá do chluasa le haghaidh doves neadaithe
Agus do shúile, tá an spéir ag fanacht, cogaíochta
Le farraige, le haghaidh a dath,
Is é an ghrian wandering strainséir
Mar a thiteann sé, dar críoch gach lá, faded
Mar an fathach gásach de Antares faint,
Eclipsed ag do heavenly
Foirm, do lasair Vulcan
An tsolais.
Rua  ( Red )

Red,
Rua, roselet,
Hair of vine and scarlet
Grapes, drown me in your drink
Of lips, of wine, ruby, flesh of passion
Fruit and horn of plenty,
Earthen rust of pebbled clay
Draw me in as the water seeping
Into ancient aquifers, laden, hidden
Under the vastness of Sahara
Sands. I am a cloud of dream
Drifting, itching, edging along your rounded
Hills. Your ******* burn as I steam,
Your ears are for nesting doves
And your eyes, the sky is waiting, warring
With ocean, for its colour,
The wandering sun is a stranger
As it falls, ending each day, faded
As the gaseous giant of faint Antares,
Eclipsed by your heavenly
Form, your Vulcan flame
Of lumen rouge light.
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