"gael" poems
I am no longer a Roman,
Though my nose would differ.
I'm not Viking,
But my descendants have blonde and red hair.
I am a beneficiary of the dark ages,
The scriptoriums and monasteries
That brought the Greeks and Romans to life.
I am not Gael, though my eyes smile
When I hear the harp and pipes.
Neither am I Saxon nor Norman,
Victorious or defeated.
I, we, have metamorphized,
Casted of the moulted casement,
Spread dry wings and lifted,
Carried on fresh winds
To new worlds
To read, write, fish and hunt,
And I have gathered
My lineage,
Framed it in genetics on my wall,
To point at in fond remembrance
Of what I once was.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
watching you play dark souls
late at night
thigh highs under ripped jeans
instead you're
too absorbed in the game to game me
so i wait
perhaps it's better for me to stay that way
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.
Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.
Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.
There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.
Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
We set out on our journey, that one fateful day
The winds of ****** shrieking angrily above our heads, filling our sails
Our ship tossing from Poseidon’s restless sea, sending us astray
As our journey wore on, and as night soon fell
We found ourselves awash upon the Isle of Gael
Venturing from our ship, now sunken
We were met with fearsome creatures, their faces twisted and scarred
Escaping from death, daylight soon broke
The sky turning grey
The thunder rolling in, showed the might of Zeus
His anger flickering with jagged lightning, bringing tales of what once had been
A guide approached us, his face sunken and pale
He begun to tell us the fears of the Earth
A time when titans roamed and the mountains burned
As he finished his tale
He stood and led us through to Mother Gaia’s fortress
We walked, hearing Polyhymnia sing her chorus
The art lining the walls, long forgotten
Depicting tales of battles raged long ago
Between the family that ruled
Four elements would battle for control, the throne would be held by the mighty Zeus
Our journey had soon begun to close
We had learned the history of our past
As we returned home, our minds alight with new history
We found the battles had not ceased
We dragged our travel worn bodies upon the shore
Only to have to fight for our lives once more
As our battle on ground wore on, the gods became angry
The mountains rose up and the tides crashed
Sending the world into darkened chaos once again
We would fight the never ending battle
Until all the wrongs were righted
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
French girl from St. Malo,
names Gale, spelt 'Gael'
like Gaelic. Her world is
my history. Excuse me,
professor, I have a question?
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.
With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.
At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold ****** man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.
Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.
Some marriages last many years,
some, a shorter time-
but a love that lasts a lifetime
is truly hard to find.
Joseph, knowing what he was to lose
His love and fate embraced.
He died when bullets pierced his heart
while in a state of grace.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
A leprechaun looking for gold
'neath the shimmering shamrocks of olde
(with the luck of a Gael)
found ten bottles of ale
somewhat green as if covered with mould.
;-))
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
Feel my breath blowing like a gale , the gael without fail,
I inhale and exhale the flames of hell,
Born hellbent-repent!
you’re scurrying in gullies while I seek your Scent...
SNIFFFF-grrrrrrrr! -that’s the sound of doom,
You’re better off digging in a pharoh’s tomb,
No room to escape the breath that melts cold steel
You’re a rabbit in my headlights fear my moulten hot claws of steel,
I breathe oxygen and nitrogen to exhale the red hot blast to seal your fate,
Best debate, best berate, get your estate in order one blast of rhyme its all over.
You’re a scorchmark against a granite wall,
Been burnt to a crisp by the firestorm from hell,
Well welcome to hell do you feel the heat?
Sandman slim-dragon never fears defeat,
20 years here spittin’ in the underground,
Now its time to take place in the sound that’s found,
In an Irish no go area, the gates of Mordor,
The Irish Dragon - draggin you to a state of ******
grrrr!-claws like claymore’s rake across your face
as I prepare to ignite,take flight,seal your fate...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
misplaced letters; misplaces trust
the world dines on their wanton lust
wandering footsteps, weakened by bottle glass.
I hurry up , so I won't be last.
Screaming
no glory
Dreaming
outscoring
forwarded footsteps and unopened mail,
left out in the barrenness, the terse winter Gael.
what should I do ?
what can't I see ?
left all alone
burdened by me.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
RUNNING THROUGH HISTORY
( for Grandfather Sheedy )
I, a creature of flesh
& mud.
Mostly mud I
train...run...running
across Curragh
Plains...pain. . .pain.
School cross country
running is - not:
my forte.
I, being constantly told I
am not my grandfather.
Obviously.
I plod after grandfather's
famous footsteps
inheriting only his calf muscles
but not...his stamina.
I am all skin & bone
merely my mind keeping me going.
Grandfather Sheedy is
running on into history.
I, the clod forever
running after his fame
into many a Curragh
sunset.
I run back through
time.
"In the year of the world
4608. . "
The Annals of the Four Masters
a running commentary in my mind.
I run through
my mythological past
the ghosts of kings famous
before time began.
Cobhthack Gael is still
killing Laoghaire Lore.
He highfives me as I
stagger past.
St. Brigid casts her cloak
it covers the entire plain.
I greet and thank her
with a wordless nod.
The Curragh Camp of today
coalescing into being
thanks to the Crimean
Campaign.
I recite Tennyson to
startled furze bushes.
"Furze bushes to the left of me
furze bushes to the right of me. . ."
into my mind rides
the 17th Irish Lancers
leading the Balaclava Charge
their mascot terrier Jemmy
following close behind
barking at the Russian guns
surviving it all
to roam around where I am
raoming now.
My Uncle Tossie's
familiar greeting
"How ya...howya...how ya
are ya winning...are ya winning!"
Grandfather and Uncle
Balaclava dog & mythological
kings and saints
all urging me on
claiming I can do it.
I can & I will
...come. . .last.
Me the non-runner runner
driven by
history
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Wind em and wrap em
come on me brithers
Knop on their withers
An lay the beast down.
Fetch em an catch em
Carf all their hoolin'
Mither needs meat on
The table by dawn.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
"It’s time for more scorchmarks on the page,
As the Dragon of Eire takes to the stage,
Hear the page rip,under my claws,
Bending reality,shaping the laws,
Time and space switch place at my hest,
Best come clean kid,make a clean breast of it,
Skitz-rips opponents to bits-torn asunder,
Lightning flashes from my claws-Steal thunder
Is heard as I trumpet my triumph to the skies,
Your Nemesis approaches-close your eyes,
Now a hush falls over the crowd like a shroud,
You’re crestfallen-Sandman stands proud…
Roam your dreams,as the judgment shapes,
eyes agog while your heads agape
Draped and soiled,more lambs to the slaughter,
Hear that laughter,lock up your daughters-
From the harbors of Dubh Linn I set sail,
Grim forecasts of the howling Gael,
Are passed to your shipmates word of mouth,
Eyes sealed up-tongues torn out.
Drift down to the seabed more lost souls
Mourn and wail as I lose control,
Of the beast that that prowls from stern to prow,
Some try to repel but soon stand cowed,
As the captain begs for his wretched breath,
Claws pierce his hide with the stroke of death,
10,000 lashes take a grisly toll,
As the ferryman casts his net behold!-
Grim spectres gold scepters lost chapters,
Fever dreams trapped in dreamcatchers-
All behold the lucid waves break,
as The Nemesis sails and leaves a crimson wake…"
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
The day dresses the wanting hopes
that flood across the barriers of time
and somewhere in the momentum of the day
Fills and takes the mind away
Upon a journey into the deep
where spirited the soul releases its hold
and gains the frontier of stories old.
It is here where the shades of time
cross the long ticking beats that run
the outstretched embrace lore,
Upon the gentle winds we come to adore.
Here stands the ancients in all their glory
The unwritten lines, the oral story
That drifts upon the subconscious mind
the myths and beliefs of what we find
Held upon the glimmer, the silent dream
That fills our want like a running stream.
I see the Celts, dressed rich in glory
The old Gael wielding within the holy
That sanctum of delicious folk tales
That flows upon our tongue like a wind in sails.
I hear the whisper upon the mire
The hidden dream, the long desire
That cries out upon the fate of man
the reassurance of the common hand
That reaches across fate to bear
us out where the night does share
every fiber of what within us flows
The story that unending knows
These roots from we spring.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 5:56 AM UTC
is like a jigsaw piece
in a nine force gael wind.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
RUNNING THROUGH HISTORY( for Grandfather Sheedy )
I, a creature of flesh
& mud.
Mostly mud I
train...run...running
across Curragh
Plains...pain...pain.
School cross country
running is - not:
my forte.
I, being constantly told I
am not my grandfather.
Obviously.
I plod after grandfather's
famous footsteps
inheriting only his calf muscles
but not...his stamina.
I am all skin & bone
merely my mind keeping me going.
Grandfather Sheedy is
running on into history.
I, the clod forever
running after his fame
into many a Curragh
sunset.
I run back through
time.
'In the year of the world
4608.. '
The Annals of the Four Masters
a running commentary in my mind.
I run through
my mythological past
the ghosts of kings famous
before time began.
Cobhthack Gael is still
killing Laoghaire Lore.
He highfives me as I
stagger past.
St. Brigid casts her cloak
it covers the entire plain.
I greet and thank her
with a wordless nod.
The Curragh Camp of today
coalescing into being
thanks to the Crimean
Campaign.
I recite Tennyson to
startled furze bushes.
'Furze bushes to the left of me
furze bushes to the right of me...'
into my mind rides
the 17th Irish Lancers
leading the Balaclava Charge
their mascot terrier Jemmy
following close behind
barking at the Russian guns
surviving it all
to roam around where I am
raoming now.
My Uncle Tossie's
familiar greeting
'How ya...howya...how ya
are ya winning...are ya winning! '
Grandfather and Uncle
Balaclava dog & mythological
kings and saints
all urging me on
claiming I can do it.
I can & I will
...come...last.
Me the non-runner runner
driven by
history
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
When Enrico’s Olde Horse
Was Too Old to work, he was
turned out by his master.
It is a quote from a book when
we were at primary school and
perhaps what first signalled that
I was a Socialist, humanist,
naturalist, poet, herbivore as
observed and stated at one of
my book launches, by James Kennedy
the Ex Mayor of Mallow and current
contestant as a councillor.
I would love to know from whence
the quote came from, especially
now that I am in the same position
as Enrico’s Horse, the metaphor for
Enrico being The Fine Gael Government.
It is a very important lesson that has
taken me a lifetime to learn.
Ps
Proposed book title about the abuse
of the elderly " The Knackers Yard ".
The author is currently learning
how to **** whilst walking.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 8:10 AM UTC
Mary of Gael sat on the dock
Leprechaun spat O'neill coughed
She of the banshee
screamed!!! O'grady
St Patrick love Spongebob.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 3:28 PM UTC
While I am waiting for
Regina Doherty, the T.D.
Minister for Social Welfare,
to look into why my senior
citizen status privilege, of
the free rail pass, which was
cancelled for no reason, I go
daily to Mallow South Bridge,
where I do some Train Spitting.
Ps.
The card was issued Nov 2018
valid until 2023, was annulled
three weeks ago, while we were
in Dublin and refused access to
return. No notice was given.
This is how the elderly are being
treated all over the country, under
this current government who have
past associations with Fascists.
Fine Gael's Fascist Roots | LookLeft
https://www.lookleftonline.org/2010/08/fine-gaels-fascist-roots/
Aug 31, 2010 ... The most serious fascist movement to emerge in Ireland were the ... bans – adopted the blue shirt and the right-arm salute and grew rapidly. ... Even as O' Duffy was made President of the new Fine Gael party, the more staid ...
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
*you only assimilate with what you care to retain, you retain nil, when you assimilate nil... meaning you turn toward white-boy masochism, but white-boy never taught your masochism... me? i know that i assimilate with, as i known what i retain to be worth being upkept... and leveraged toward a "loss". you only assimilate with that you care to lessen but at the same time keep as a "loss"; you retain nil, when you assimilate nil, but more abhorrent in retaining an origin, is very much asiatic, pakistani, the anglo-saxons were once, and never will be, anglo-indians... the most racist sons-of-goats akin to the arab closure on a curse to be worth minding... calls us vermin... no wonder my aversive vocab... ask a camel to spit at a donkey with these ******* some are anglo-eire-indian and think they're speaking einstein english when actually speaking your local rancid john of 'ackney... wankers can't even get a hard-on to **** one off solo. what? it's personal! you want a jerky-chicken-sauce-diablo to "mind the affairs" of a undeliberate "concern"? paki-hackney, sons of ******* are so ******* arrogant you almost wish to apply some sort of aversion to circumcision utilising their **** twist one ****** of flesh out of the enclosure, and then trim the bits... only an anglo-paki would call a pole vermin... so? here comes, the party!*
your attempt
at an "education",
is worth my response;
that's catholicism
minus the paedo paedo 'edo 'edo;
luckily enough;
thanks for not
teaching me any concern
for latin...
rather: the ethics
of being concerned with
abortion, aged 16...
or sniffing glue aged 13...
i'd let you off had you
managed to teach me latin...
but no... you're about as catholic
as, ******* maradona;
you know what's worse
in england than the finicky fake
englishness?
alpha maling celtic...
they actually think
the lowest of the lowest accepted rank
in their societal format is
actually king...
most notable in the region
of the gael, who doesn't possess the
intelligence for bilingualism,
too busy playing video games,
too stupid in attempting to
write a book,
twice the handyman
in attempts to learn his native
labhair -
his caint -
****** don't
teach me a "proper" within
the domains of a language:
that isn't either yours, as it isn't mine!
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
I sat as close as one could
to the tide line, not being
aware of which way it was
moving and with no moon
nor debris at hand I had
to wait and see if I got wet.
Suddenly, a Boomerang in
carved aboriginal symbols
washed up beside me.
Surely not I exclaimed, it
was hardly possible that
The Gulf Stream brought
it all the way from Sydney.
Twelve hours later I came
back, the level had changed,
gull and seaweed concoction
gave scent to the sound of air.
I etched something on the
throwing arm and watched
the farewell as a Gael Force
from the hills of Connemara
declined its wish to return.
Then, as a hungry Gannet
it swooped both wings into
The Atlantic surf ,with its
celtic scroll and the words
we discovered inside my
mothers wedding ring.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 12:22 PM UTC