Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Francie Lynch Oct 2019
You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Don't know why the world thinks the Irish are drunkards. I go to Ireland every year, and the only drunks I see are North Americans, whites and blacks, gays, straights and all others not mentioned.  Even the phrase "Paddy Wagon" is an ethnic slur.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...if nothing else.


Turns out I shoulda said lo, "shamrock" hence
Was it?  Aw, dearest me, how that detail
Called "leprechauns" had far more 'ppeal; and stale
As donning green to match me ein's green sense
Of hazel, la dee dah! the Duchess thence
Defined all in a darker pine tone's scale
'Til guess I lose for all I've Irish.  They'll
Not even care twas Barry's Tea fr'intents.
And I wore purple too, and blue, as poor
From thereon out that I donned green's fine hue.
O laugh at me!  I wanted violets too--
Tae go a huntin' fer them damsels we're
Sae sure to miss, hid e'er in shadows.  You're
Not pinked I tried to curtsy now, are you?

Oh, just having a little fun here.  Duchess of Cambridge, if you cared two bits.
Dawnstar Mar 2019
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!
I plucked a shamrock for him,
Beautified with the glamour of the green,
Mystified with the aroma of the wild.
I am keeping it for him to give,
May love & luck shall be his,
With all the shamrock blessings.
Today is St Patrick's day. I m fascinated by the Irish shamrock, blessings n the celebration of the green. The poem is inspired by the spontaneous thought of the past "recollected in tranquillity." The thought of shamrock luck, charm is simply aesthetic. It has certain universal charm. A simple plant becoming the symbol of luck is truly beautiful. Simplicity can represent such thoughts of luck. It represents not only Trinity & mysticism but also youth and aura of liberation. And truly it's charming, I must say.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Well, last night I just had to read Vogue's little piece on Taylor Swift in a cutesy romper--in pastel blues and pinks of course.


Pastels were lo, the order of these frail
Hours of new life was it?  So, wherefore thence
Do my thoughts swear red would be, for intents,
The thing to wear?  No tulip flaunts to scale
Such shades quite yet, Saint Patrick's Day in pale
Excuse what makes Chicago's river hence
Um, green as leprechauns or clover, whence
I've been in green to match my eyes' detail.
Yes, I've been wearing Irish green as twere
Since Febry gave up last the ghost, but threw
The towel in on that cause ere time in poor
Scuse, yesterday, and now am mixt up too.
No corned beef with green cabbage to assure
My ancestors I have been faithful.  You?

Remind me later that the light has an eye which in the middle of June wears a note of September, likewise the dryness of noon's glance as we lunched wore the same note, and I couldn't help wanting suddenly to put on red.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
The sales caught me off guard with early cries of St. Patrick's Day, kick me.


Lo, sparrows gaily chatter as I thence
Pass by the entry, and whiles rain t'avail
Is like some fragile yet persistent, hale
Sweet kiss that drives ole Winter's Death from hence
And rouses buds to pierce 'gain through those dense
Leaf mats knit months before and spread to scale
Across the sleeping flowrs last April'd hail
The world with once upon a time, ah whence?
I yearn to wander oer these wastes in tour,
If that I might now listen to the dew,
Hear all the little scurrying which'd bestir
As yellowed grasses shift to what? anew.
It is the Ides of March, the knife as twere
'Non twisting in dear Caesar's back from who?

NOTE: We remember March's ides thanks to that supposed soothsayer warning Caesar, but every month has ides, some on the 15th and others on their 13th, last I saw.  
Ah, what a way to begin Friday, eh?
Francie Lynch Mar 2019
On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.
Repost: Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone.
Breeze-Mist Mar 2017
Come close, friends, and huddle near
As I retell the story of the Children of Lir
Come close, ye travelers, I'll try to be breif
I can tell of the messy teenager, Blackfooted Gulleesh
Come close, little children, and listen all
To what happens when leprechauns venture into kings halls
Come close by the light in this untimely snow
I'll tell of Balar and Lugh's mighty throw
And as we fall asleep and turn off the  lights
I'll tell of how cunning beats giants in a fight
Happy St. Patrick's Day! And yes, I can tell all of these stories from memory (thanks to my bibliophile family and my dad being Irish).
Kay Ireland Mar 2017
I witnessed your birth.
Oak barrel wombs,
unknown fathers.
They presented you with so much pride
that I felt guilty refusing a taste.
So smooth.
Too smooth.
Fire should not destroy so calmly.

You witnessed my redemption.
Your name on his tongue
returned me to a Dublin distillery
but I did not fear you.
His offering was one of comfort.
You didn’t hurt as much
with his eyes on me,
my lipstick on the rim of his cup.
I was perfectly warm
in the dead of winter.
Fire should not destroy so calmly.

You will witness my unapologetic sins.
I swig straight from the bottle
to prepare for my numb lips against his;
our numb tongues ruining lives.
It won’t hurt anymore.
You gave me courage.
You showed me intimacy, unflinching,
with your solo cup facade.
You put my heart in his hands
and watched us test the waters,
You will be there
when we collide again.
Fire should not destroy so calmly.
Cné Mar 2017
Normally I don't celebrate a one day holiday
But it's a drinking holiday, so celebrate away
Drinking green beer
Spreading good cheer
To the Irish and non, Happy St. Patrick's Day!
I don't really drink beer. I usually just stick to the hard stuff.

But waiting to get off work, going bonkers and berserk.
Next page