The sound of the dead,
Make no more a chill,
Than the gentle breeze,
Of a morning draft,
Whispering through,
Ivy covered windows,
of an empty,Thatched roof cottage.
                                        
With words,
Sticking like ice,
From the dead lips of the departed owner.
Through hinges that creek their request,
Remember I, Remember.

Faries live in the hawthorn,
Gnomes live under rocks,
Trolls stay under bridges,
And nessie’s stay in the Loughs.

Pookas come close to farmers,
Changlings come to babes,
Spirits in the mirrors,
Kelpies in the waves.

The little folk are trouble,
In the heat they bring the cold,
They trick the weary traveler,
With pots of magic gold.

They whisper on the breeze,
While hidden in the mist,
Without them doing anything,
Remind you they exist.

They write about themselves,
So we don’t think they’re real,
They carved the lines in oghm,
magic words in ancient ghael.

Yet still we leave them gifts,
Bits of whisky & pooka’s share,
We have never ever seen one,
Yet we know that they are there.

is mo croí theanga í,
is an t-anam ó t-am dearmadta
gur ní cuimhnigh mé.

tá sé bhriste 's,
neamhiomlán,
ach is breá liom í fos

mar sin,
is mo bhaile í
agus tiocfaidh an lá
nuair tá mo theanga agam

Some Jamie snugly in me hand,
A cause for celebration,
Today, I found me promised land:
The home of Irish nation.

I dyed me hair shamrock green,
I made me teeth look orange,
(A spliff of Carroll's in between)
A sliver of Dutch courage.

I mingle with the leprechauns
(A shamrock on me chest)
Not in a thousand years gone,
I’m messing with the best.

Atop the jolly rainbow,
In hand – a *** of gold,
Revering, till I find me rest,
The stories I’ve been told.

A window is open
Wind travels free
landscape beyond what
The eye can see.

Barren and left
For nature’s destruction,
There’s nothing around
To cause an obstruction

No ocean’s commotion
Not a tree to be seen
The land was just plain
Nothing was green

No love in the air
No life on the ground
No sound anywhere
There was nothing around

The window still open
As the eye peers through
Wondering what,
it has stumbled on to

Strangely this land
Reminded the eye
Of itself in a way
That it could not describe

It encompassed its feelings
as it could now tell so
it set up its home
in its homegrown hell

There's comfort in
What, we find familiar so
We choose to stick by
Things that are similar.

The eye went on living
As all beings do
Never fully seeing
What it could amount to.

------------------------------

A window is closed
No wind blows at all
There's nothing to see
But one standing wall

The silence now eery
As all stands still
A note lay upon the wall’s
Windowsill.

“I realize now as I draw my final breath
That the life I have lead,
Is similar to death”

irish handshake, kelly-green energy - a minimal haiku

Shifty Mac an Irish drunk,
He plies his trade with *****,
Be it beer scotch or skunk,
He imbibes the lot by the trunk,
Shenanigans he presents to those he punk,
He doth no monk,
He stumbles and gropes till a thunk,
A smack a cross the lips for this drunk,
On the floor he lay as the sun hath sunk,
He arise by the light of dawn on his bunk,
Oh how he flunked.