I MIND him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod;
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in-
The crops was fine that summer, praised be God!

He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed;
Meself was tyin' on their bits of clothes;
Their mother-rest her tender sowl!-was dead.

It's not meself can say of what she died:
But 'twas the year the praties felt the rain,
An' rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.

If we wor haythens in a furrin land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
'Twas of stharvation me poor Sheila died.

But whin the parish docthor come at last,
Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes-
They looked straight into Heaven-an' her ears
Wor deaf to the poor children's hungry cries,

He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw:
'She's gone!' he says, and drew a solemn frown;
'I fear, my man, she's dead.' 'Of what?' says I.
He coughed, and says, 'She's let her system down!'

'An' that's God's truth!' says I, an' felt about
To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark;
An' in me hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart,
I felt the kindlin' of a burnin'spark.

'O by me sowl, that is the holy truth!
There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still,
An' Mickie's eyes are bright-the craythur there
Died that the weeny ones might eat their fill.'

An' whin they spread the daisies thick an' white
Above her head that wanst lay on me breast,
I had no tears, but took the childher's hands,
An' says, 'We'll lave the mother to her rest.'

An' och! the sod was green that summer's day,
An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair;
But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched,
An' sent their cruel poison through the air.

An' all was quiet-on the sunny sides
Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay,
An' thim as lacked the rint from empty walls
Of little cabins wapin' turned away.

God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod,
An' whin upon her increase His right hand
Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue
For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.

No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky.
No mines yawned on the hills so full an' rich;
A man whose praties failed had nought to do
But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch.

A flame rose up widin me feeble heart,
Whin, passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure,
I saw the mark of Sheila's coffin in
The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.

I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands;
Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' **** an' me
Must lave the green ould sod an' look for food
In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.'

An' so it chanced, whin landed on the sthreet,
Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay
Came there to hire a man to save his wheat,
An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.

'An' bring the girleen, Pat,' he says, an' looked
At Rosie, lanin' up agin me knee;
'The wife will be right plaised to see the child,
The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea.

'We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised!
As nice a farm as ever brogan trod.
A hundered acres-us as never owned
Land big enough to make a lark a sod.'

'Bedad,' says I, 'I heerd them over there
Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet,
An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck
To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet.'

'Begorra, Pat,' says Dolan, 'may ould Nick
Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues,
An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure
Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!'

'Och, thin,' says I, 'meself agrees to that!'
Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey;
Says he, 'Kape up yer heart; I never kew
Since I come out a single hungry day.

'But thin I left the crowded city sthreets-
Th'are men galore to toil in thim an' die;
Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home
In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.

'I did that same; an' God be praised this day!
Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure;
An' in them years I never wanst have seen
A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure.'

I listened to ould Dolan's honest words:
That's twenty years ago this very spring,
An' **** is married, an' me Rosie wears
A swateheart's little shinin' goulden ring.

'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look
At the green fields upon me own big farm;
An' God be praised! all men may have the same
That owns an axe an' has a strong right arm!

You have to check
the bogs,
Blue says,
the inmates
try make off
with each
other sometimes.

I look at her,
the nurse,
younger,
yet more
authoritative.

Do they do it?

Will if they can;
some of the more
brighter have a hold
on the more
feeble minded.

I walk down
the corridor
of the hospital wing,
passing rooms,
side wards,
off corridors,
dark and uninviting.

I come to the toilets
and peer in.

Some big guy
is trying to ******
a younger guy.

Put him down,
Brogan;
this is not
the place or time.

The big guy looks at me
wondering what
to do or say;
he says nothing
and moves away
from Murphy
who just looks at me
and smiles.

Off you go, Murphy.

Off you go, Murphy,
he echoes
and trots off
back down the corridor.

That wasn't nice,
Brogan;
best be back
on the ward;
I think Blue's
looking for you.

His eyes enlarge
and he screws up
his nose.

He says nothing,
but goes by me,
looking at me
as if thinking
I may touch him,
but I don't,
unlike some,
I just walk back up
behind him.

Blue glares at him.

Have to watch him,
he's a molester.

Molester?

Yes, of kids,
filthy ******;
no one likes him;
what was he doing?

Having a ***.

He's dangerous;
he's here
for his mental state.

I watch as Blue moves off
in the direct
of a patient
rocking back and forth
on a chair over the way;
she talks to the man,
strokes his hair.

I look away.

There's a strong smell
of ***** about the ward;
it clings to you
like a disease,
enters your nose,
your clothes.

Blue takes hold
of Brogan's arm
and leads him
out of sight.  

I work days;
thank God
I’m not here
at night.

I want to roll down that grassy hill,
Again in Mississippi bare-footed
In my ‘petticoated’, polka-dotted flouncy dress,
Sashes hanging untied down the back.

And walk through the fragrant gardens
Of brogan wearing old-maid great aunts;
Hiding half-way behind her dress,
Clinging to the wrinkly flesh of my Granny’s arm.

I considered myself sophisticated and wise,
but the addictive power of texting
and subsequently sexting
took me by surprise,
and impossible mission to neutralize
despite experiencing scraping rock bottom
as emotional lows courtesy accusations
from the alewife, nevertheless
communication, envisioning, and flirting
with a veritable unknown females
generates testosterone filled highs
diatribes hurled lambasting me
despite trying to articulate
faux convincing alibis.

As a recent newbie to accessing
Facebook (Meta) Messenger
(similar to any other social media platform)
one offered feature
constitutes Friend request option,
which function when answered
in the affirmative
courtesy the recipient
activates modus operandi
and implied netiquette,
where veritable strangers
lost in cyberspace
immediately finds him/herself linkedin to
plethora of potential physical entanglements
with members of the same
or opposite genders
leaving little or no opportunities
for platonic friendship
the somewhat limited
level of familiarity yours truly seeks,
apropos to a married former agrarian
Norwegian bachelor farmer,
barbarian, communitarian, disestablishmentarian,
equalitarian, grammarian, latitudinarian,
nonvegetarian, sexagenarian, utilitarian,
Unitarian, and non Aryan.
Though just a run of mill (by the pond)
generic guy with negligible qualities to boast
before long, I found myself
without absolute zero self discipline
to cease reciprocating with unknown
from across the webbed wide world,
and excitement coursed
thru every pore of mine
for adventure found me blithely engrossed
as these not
so nimble butter fingers
analogous to that sensation,
when betting on when my ship comes in
(ideally laden with riches)
after traveling the seven seas
for numerous orbitz around the sun
(escaping countless mutinous crisis
linkedin with humorous,
pirate, or vaccination conspiracies aye
unable to avoid an impost
courtesy Trump economics,
which favors the one percent
and impinges those people dirt poor
(like yours truly)
bumping uglies along the nethermost
at risk for becoming indigent
reduced to eat burnt offerings
vis a vis rotten stale toast.

If perchance ye dear unknown reader
espy a scruffy Unitarian, sexagenarian
reincarnated Union soldier to boot
donning dark blue wool uniform
consisting of a "sack coat" (jacket),
blue wool trousers, a forage cap
(hat with a leather visor),
and leather brogan shoes
but currently spends
his senior citizen days
as a present day panhandling chap,
who makes sounds courtesy his glute
after living on beans
cue Blazing Saddles,
with a cheeky bit part
yours truly starred
where stage got set at Moyer's dump
ofttimes declared a superfund site
for air he did pollute.