#irishpoetry
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.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC
That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.
Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)
There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.
Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.
Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.
We stand ***** shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.
We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC
The herd enjoys it when tongues whack in rhyme
The master’s clap beats on not far behind
Mine and my lady try not to resign
To politics that bloat and tar the mind
While not far from here a tyre whines
The traffic crawls to break its broken spines
The plates and doors drag you in for more
And they’ll pay you the minimum, Son, to suffer their clack and roar
You’ll see the ghost of tenderness
Hidden underneath
The rolling iron hail
Calling out for peace
You’ll hear the labyrinth engine crack
And groan and freeze
And throw smoke in the face of the King
As he falls on blunted knees
But you can find solitude and ***
In your humble lover’s nest
And boy you best let beauty and grace
Into your bones
It’s okay to feel undone
Not quite at home
But reconcile yourself to know
Your soul has seeds unsown
You’ll see the star-tossed lake at ease
The nimble breathing trees
And the dew-drops dance from branch to branch
And shake the leaves
You’ll hear the gentle whisper of dawn
The robin’s hallowed song
And see yourself for the man you’ve always been
All along
The one with no regrets
No promised safety nets
No promised anything beyond the stage
And an ink-soaked hand
No compromise or hate
No gift of heaven’s gate
No way to know
But just the will, the will, the will
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC