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Coconut Skins Feb 2015
An bhfuil duine ar bith ag tabhairt aird orm?
Níl, táim i mo thaibhse, ag siúl gach lá
Gan duine ar bith ag rá, conas atá?

Chomh imeallaithe leis an teanga álainn atá in úsáid agam.
Ní thuigfidh daoine an dán seo.
Ní thuigeann daoine mise.
My first poem as Gaeilge (in Irish).
Oh those cold, dreary, wet, winter days spent inside, warm and dry, looking out into the drizzle of these grey skies.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
Lovers are patient, or so they say.
The quiet hours of our strange days
hold me close as hours pass and I look
into the clearing sky, a cold horizon falls
upon this tired denizen of the little
idiosyncrasies that life grants, such as
remembering, detailing, wondering what
atmosphere is and wandering down its path.
Follow your heart,
Consider with your head.


For awhile I thought innocence still lingered
in this old world. A fool I was,
That young word is used
against those who would
otherwise loiter on this old earth.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
The future never arrives, plans contend
with the present just trying to survive;
We need be content, lost in sometime
and sometimes I do, I wish I was high.
I remind myself of someone,
I am so lucky to be alive
and when I realize
I am content enough to rest
for a time; sigh
What little of me did ever survive.
I wish I could offer you more
but I am selfish, I write
only for myself.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
fiachra breac May 2019
teanga álainn
san aer.

ar gach taobh:

daoine áille
agus
tír gálanta.

éistim,
mo shúile druidte -

tarraingím anáil dhomhain:

síochain
diolch, agues go raibh maith agaibh a Bhreatain Bheag
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2019
En France, the fans
hit the ****.

Tout a L'Egout
**** you too.

**** mon ******
what a good shot.

Gendarmes are Cochons
feel at home in the merde,

But it's flavoured with Garlic,
so the stink's a bit Werde ?

Ps.

****** Maura Ein Volk.

Ta Bfalla haon Daoine.

And with that, Ryan goes
off the grind the coffee beans.

Time now 07 : 19.

Mallow in Ireland.

La deas agat.
Tyler Apr 2021
My folks cut off my roots.
I almost never knew that
I’m just four generations removed
From fighting with Pearce.
Six from being born into genocide.
“Ar scath a cheile a mhairean na daoine.”
I was placed on dead men’s shoulders.
Great men, terrifying men.
But they’re not here, where are they?
That’s a weird question, here.
I don’t pray enough.
Hardly ever touch a rosary.
Most others don’t even consider the act.
But that’s all there is for the last of us.
If there are any.
Unless we’ve all outlived
The last American Irishman.

— The End —