"lough" poems
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the
stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all
day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that
place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she'd have but
little luck
Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes
away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to
say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the
boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched
rightly out,
With flopping and with flapping it made a great dis-
play,
But I never stopped to question, what could the boat-
man say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country
shawl,
And come with learned lovers or with what men you
may,
For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
1.5k
The thought of makes me burn with a desire to cry;
when I hear your name I remember the many times I stood there listening to you lie.
Knowing your ways of deception, I still choose to forgive you;
hoping that you would somehow change.
You always had stories that never added up,
you played your game well, and I must admit, you took the cup.
You played me like a video game and always advanced in stages of deception.
Yet I somehow always had it in me to forgive you.
I watched you smile and lough and wondered if you were laughing at the heart you were busy breaking.
You would hold my hand but deep down inside you were letting go of my love.
I wonder if you knew that there was never a night that went by without me thinking of you.
Was there ever a day where you thought about or considered the paint that you were putting me through?
amazingly I forgive you.
Not because you deserve my forgiveness, but because I pity you.
Your failure to recognise genuine sincere love caused you a lifetime of prospective happiness.
You destroyed the one thing that was right and perfect for foolish pitiful wrong split second moments.
All I can say is, thank you
Thank you for everything you put me through;
because now I'm stronger than I was.
It is said that wisdom is gained through personal experiences,
so I am more wiser than I was.
You taught me how to withstand pain and disappointments,
how to be patient and endure the storms and hardships in a relationship.
Thanks to you I will be able to love and care for the woman God is preparing for me.
which is the exact opposite of you.
THANK YOU
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
I'll meet you at the top of the mountain
When the sun is setting
And the stars are in the wings.
Where the wind tosses our hair
But the cold is superficial.
Where we stare across the lough,
Our whole world before us
In miniature
Where we hold hands
So we won't fall off
Or we'll fall together.
I'll meet you at the top of the mountain
When the sun is setting.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
You've probably never heard of Lough Egish.
I'm not surprised.
The gene pool there, swirling near the mill,
For centuries,
Produced a multitude of survivors
From famine, Cromwell,
And seven hundred years of ethnic cleansing.
Then, sixty-one years ago today,
Me.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
Stardust traveled nonillion miles
Life struck, all somehow
All to let me see your smile
All to kiss you upon the mouth
Beautiful, Good Earth spins and spins
Day and night, allow
To hold your hand [a considerable win]
To hold you close, my guiding shroud.
Oh bird sing sweet, mellifluous melodies
And for my love, endow
A tree who's branches wrap round thee
A tree that's fast, fearless of flounce
Season, oft, may change its cloths
But see me, lough
Deep, deep down- koi and Thoth
Deep, deep down, thy heart I house
Traveling Universe without destinations
I find it all, now
To be a thing of thoughtful, [marvelous] creation
To be a journey, in and out
No matter how many words one uses
The thoughts, ideas, avow
My simple truth, because of you (Miss)
I was lost, but have been found.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
The sullen clouds of grey cloak the coast
As the ice cold Cuan whispers upon the land.
I brought in the wreath. Coloured of a small tortoiseshell,
Looking unfamiliar amongst the sea-foam whites and glossy kelp
Greens. Made up of colours that had long since passed.
How we laughed! How this saved soul
Did not plan to take into our blood red wines
Our creamy, fleshy breads
Our cannibalisation.
Silence. Then we turn towards you
Immaculate, pure, in royal blue
Just like the Lady herself.
Peaceful, not a shudder, not a blink –
I remember, in less still times,
Your clouded eye. Misty, cyan,
Like a raging whirlpool on the Lough.
Sullen tones fill the room of an old stereo, bound by the Lord
Disturbing the peace, making the silence
Louder – between us. We decide we’ve had enough
We’ve spent too much time thinking our own thoughts
Each other's voices echoing discordantly, incessant.
We leave you on your horizontal throne
Your floral subjects surrounding you
A grip on your pendant of mysteries.
The door closes. A blurred cold glow emits into the wastelands
The frosted windows of your soulless palace.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
*there’s a motto,
treat a cat like a cat,
when a cat ***** in your bed
smack him over the head for him to learn
and...
gentlemen never drink in the morning.*
the last motto can be changed to:
gentlemen never drink in the morning
unless they take the remnants of the whiskey
with coffee... now you’re talking irish gentlemen,
or perhaps northern irish, because that’s
where the english ***** bank was established...
that great big sandpit known as lough neagh
(that's ulster... or ulcer?).
blake was wrong... there are more ***** tadpoles
in every *********** over the years than there
are grains of sand on the seasides and stars in the universe...
it would be counterproductive otherwise.
i’m not going to be one of those repentant drunks
who suddenly find poetry or prose
lacerating myself on ‘oh poo poo poo’ memories
and how one can become a respectable citizen via newspaper publishing,
**** that, **** you, eminem gave me all the clues;
swearing? taking oaths? it's called punctuation in połlish.
come on celt... let's tango!
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
The moonlight trips
Over the still lough
And the sounds of the night
Are silenced with awe.
She is the priestess,
Listening to confessions
Bred on the dark side
Of the moon.
Absolution is found
In her purifying light.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
Over the hills of Lough,
The boys go now
With their pockets
Full of promises;
And their heels kicking
The dust from their feet,
Like fathers pushing away
The years shown in their greying hair.
Listen. The voices carry.
The boys have shouldered
The labours of centuries;
And now over the hills of Lough
They go now,
With their caps
On their heads
And over the brow;
Leaving the girls
To their maidenhood
And the old men
Who once climbed
The hills, but soon
Came back again.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
Today, I see
the world's centerfold,
telling me
everyone's problems,
from the death of
a mother's first born,
to the loss of a small bill,
losing your midnight
snack privileges,
to losing your father
to God's mercy.
And staring at
this centerfold,
I can't help but
crack a little smile,
maybe lough a bit,
because I can't help but think
that through all my sorrow,
all my downsides
and negative thoughts,
I remember how
no matter how bad
my life can be,
all my ups and downs,
I will rise in the end
and I will be around
those who love me.
And to those people,
I thank you.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
It's just a few years now,
With the world drawn abreast,
Let's roll on the fray
Under a Cheshire crest.
Skipping like stones on a lough,
Towards the crystal blue West
Where we can run, love, and play,
Where we can lay down to rest.
Little, green towers shimmy and bow,
With elders to boot, with broad wooden chests
We can count the stars above their crowns at the death of a day,
In our bold little world, we'll be freed and blessed.
Within those fields, our future we'll sew
Roll on Cali, we're burning West
Roll on Cali, we're burning our home.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
the wind blows away my tears
the earth fixes the bruise
the water heals my heart
the earth listens to my story
they are my healers
well the creates of the pain lough
they lough and call me pathetic for seeking comfort
of the world
but in the end you cant blame me for ever human i meet is
twisted at heart
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
"Mammy."
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
POETRY OF A JOKER
I whisper the Strom in my soul ,
That Stygian mask with freaky smile was mine.
I propose the wildness every night.
Every night I flaunt with my pumping heart dipped in darkness.
My chaotic heart , its in the cage of love .
THE LOVE OF WILD BLOOD
I dance with the dusky rose ,
I play with my inky & curly hair .
I roll , I jump , I fly , I giggle ,I hop , I do stylish walks, I run , I run , I run and I blot ......
Now......
LET ME LOUGH VIGOROUSLY AND LET THE SILENCE TASTE MY WILDNESS
Sanya
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
Trapped by despair and inner demons she longed for freedom,
Her umbilical cord forged from nightmares, tightened itself once more, Wrapping itself around her ornate soul,
Ignorance and want Snapped at her heels,
She lay alone on a bed of thorns, twisted and dense under her pale flawless skin, She lay...... she lay and she wished for the wind,
He promised to carry her away,
He promised her a new life,
A free life,
A sweet, serene and elegant life,
But again he never kept his promise,
Time passed, seasons disappeared along with the forty shades of green in the meadows of the island she called home, A new day arrived and she again struggled to untie her body from the wreckage of her past, People passed by, not seeing her there, or just choosing not to see her, She felt withered and fallen,
Her tears bringing the ground beneath her alive with life,
Beautiful life, all colours and aspects of life,
She longed for the moon and his gentle light,
For he was the only light that brought her comfort,
Suddenly from the glow along the crest of the treetops,
She felt the wind, she reached out her hand,
He got stronger and colder,
He lifted her, he lifted her above the bed she had lain for so long, He lifted her so strongly that her restraints became weak and shattered like a looking glass, He lifted her so high that she could see the reflection of herself in the lough of lost souls, And the strong arms of the winds released her,
She was free, she was free, she is free,
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
These two had parted once before
when he’d worked in Scotland’s mines.
Now he trekked to the antipodes
to live in southern climes.
He’d see the Emerald isle no more.
Would New Zealand be as fair?
He’d build a new life far from home,
Adventure waited there.
Yet, to never see his home again,
Or hear his mother’s voice.
To venture from the Troubled North
was his necessary choice.
Yet home will never look so fair
As when its left behind,
He’d live and die in a far off land
as part of God’s design.
“I never will forget you, Mum.”
as sorrow choked his throat.
One final hug and then he turned
to get upon the boat.
His ship made way down Belfast Lough
And he watched her from the rail
Til distance made her disappear
as if one beyond the vale.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
That was long ago
She said good bye at the lough
But he still goes there
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
If you were a person,
I would say,
you really are a famous personality,
but you ain't an I don't know who you really are
it's true, everyone runs after you,
when you appears around
Everyone wants to celebrate you
and they are unstoppable
we tremble, smile, lough, speak aloud when you around.
I drink we drink,
I fire we fire crickets
we run to tarvens and shebins
all because we are celebrating you
some cross night in churches,
some cross night in tarvens
some are sleeping but all are celebrating you
I want to know,
who are you?
are you the only one in this world
and if the answer is yes,
then is reasonable
and if the answer is no,
then why is only you we are firing crickets?
I wanna know better.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC