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 I see 'em they're usually 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.

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 I see 'em they're usually 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.

I see a clover in my heart,
  two trefoil shamrocks do adorn my breast,
          these spider's webs on my elbows, -covered,
                    with moving foot never do I rest.

Upon me soul and in my mind,
           resides a brotherhood to wit I'm joined,
                        from home of Prometheus a story born,
                                  seed of Gomer passes through my ****.

I have a clover in my heart,
   a turning foot makes this world mine.
      The Caucasus seem so far from me,
              with six-thousand years in brotherhood; time.

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.

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.

the shamrocks bleed.....Ireland's countrymen gang wars, slaying each others' dreams

7 o'clock
a light summertime dream
just before dark
unfolding it's scheme

painted in sandals
clovered kissed toes
lovely green shamrocks
are standing in prose

a fierce looking cat
Amber eyes
silver fur
bunting her leg
and giving a purrrr

getting back home
nearly hour gone by
look to the tree
playing ball in the sky

it looks like the moon
nearly 3 quarter size
outlined in countries
is neatly disguised

it's actually a ball
playing with leaves
That thing called the moon
has some tricks up its sleeves

she saw it glide down
and bounce off of a cloud
tipping it's hat
and bowing to town

See you tomorrow
her group of new friends
this just the beginning
we're far from the end

No need for luck
with her beau in the sky
a 3 quartered boy
with love in his eyes

she bows to the moon
as her Gypsy skirt flows
silver cat walking
wherever she goes
shamrock tipped pom poms
will twinkle her toes

Another summer time walk
with his dearest of Maidens
her toes and her eyes
are moon dipped and ladden

Goodnight Moon.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

have we met ? seems so. you got them elastic rainbows i know you from
and that outskirts of pure idyll... you throttle the ominous pond of our requited aplomb.
we enjoy beetles.
this is how love chips away at the decade of obscure lesions. the reverse forward to a back-hand eclipse in a blithering idiot of genius. unkempt.
a bone rug.
the skim milk of human kindness, blinds the unicorn and the cabbage lichen
florescent in the mildew parchment of evening's attire.
i'll be here at the met, less attending but haunting the fiberglass whispers of your recent events.
the ones you left. left to their own devices. our every crisis is kind myth, crushing the throat of our adversary. as we pluck shamrocks in the way of our luckless fathers.
we alter the plausible cause with our audible launch
of not rockets.
where the air...
the air don't sing.
but you ain't been there
really

anyway.

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.

;-))

Looking up,
I saw your shamrocks smiling
& held your face in reverence.

It was lady luck,
not fate,
on my side
who put me
in this sweet position.

And at the corners,
love runneth over
the turned-up
half moon,
there,
I crumbled.

love drifts between you
and me like a musical sea
and civilisations thrift  shamrocks
to hold us both close
trees are happy to pose

The sound of bagpipes in the air
The bittersweet taste of dark green beer
Leprechauns playing in the yard
Finding trouble isn’t that hard
They are doing back flips off the lawn chairs
Shamrocks flying all through the air
Time to let loose, let your worries be gone
Everyone get your Irish on!

Happy St. Patty’s Day!

On this St. Patrick's Day night,
Green light is seen in the sky.
Stars aren't the main attraction.
Do you know the reason why?

Big shamrocks are in the sky,          
Making stars appear real wee;
Light up like bright emeralds,           
What an awesome sight they be.

When your smiles ricochet there,
They bring gold forth from your heart.
The gold that surrounds shamrocks,
Is a piece of Irish art.

Shamrocks out on St, Pat's night,
Fill the sky with sheer delight.

is celebrated with a call through tin can phones
connected by yarn-                           to us. He sends warm wishes and warnings, slurred together as                spirits replace blood. Our kiss was nine rings around the tin can ago,      under a streetlamp where you've unveiled a pool of               Acacias and shamrocks.

We are crafted of cement chips from the streets we once sauntered.
We grasp for one another's hands on playground equipment,
stomachs full of one-dollar cinnamon rolls from Jewel-Osco,
cowering from the sun like children in a blanket fort.

we are safe                 when we are together              we are invincible

There will always be splinters of us. My name
is spelled out where the light meets the street  –
a balmy, January sunset           birthing,
                                                                ­      crawling to a dry.

Kiss me, drink with me,
Ireland and Africa,
Truly, Black Irish😊!

where Lassie free to run across petco junction

All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge *** of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold

of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous beings (about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with

heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty

downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,

and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver.

Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.

Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand seventeen.

Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic.
curling his left lip
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,

averse to any outliers, whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually (while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.

It was on St. Pat's Day night,
Green light was seen in the  sky.
Stars weren't the main attraction,
Do you know the reason why?

Giant shamrocks in the sky,
Had made the stars appear wee.
When your smiles had reached them,
They then shone with much beauty.

Gold and bright light from your heart,
Brightly had ricocheted there;
As far as the eyes could see,
Gold flakes floated everywhere.


Shamrocks out on St. Pat's night,
Filled the sky with sheer delight.

You're someone very special,
Hearts like yours are prized and rare.
There are smiles bright on my face,
You're the one who put them there.

Ireland has the Blarney Stone,
And its share of shamrocks green;
Ireland sure wants your visits,
To help the chefs with cuisine.

I hope you have a swell time,
While on the Emerald Isles,
And make Ireland much brighter,
With the sunshine of your smiles.

When you return from Ireland,
Immense light, here, there will be;
Your heart profuse with sunshine,
Highlights Missou's scenery.

Mizzou' has the Gateway Arch,
And the Mississippi wide;
Warmth you've  brought bring into my heart,
And joys, there, you've multiplied.

where Lassie free to run across petco junction

All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge *** of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,

thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling

with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,

since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.

Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.

Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.

Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.

Clover and moss adornment,
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained
smile.

Yet, north of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
and in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.

My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?

My beauty, the souls and
shamrocks in the dew,
weep just as much as you.

ah man! the paddies got thrashed today! i have to admit, i was secretly rooting for them, i wanted them to win so much, the first 10 minute euphoria, and then: a sharpened decline... at 1 - 1 i was still wishing to see the shamrocks in russia, when was the last time they played? u.s.a. 1994? then i stopped supporting either side, and just enjoyed a **** fine match... what a thrashing, losing 1 - 5 to denmark... mind you, with hindsight, this irish side could have beaten the azzurri with their thumbs stuck up their *****, no kidding, the last time the azzurri didn't play in a world cup, was... 1958! oh sure, i like football, i'm like bob marley.

nearing the end of heidegger's
ponderings II - VI,
  and like any bibliophile -
i'm just simply itching to put
back the sleeve on this hardcover
bad-boy...
   more relish in that, than
in a *the end.
           besides that -
oh my, nearing the finish a gem
comes out -
i like this aphorism style of books,
you get to think - at little - a lot;
that being said, i prefer his
aphoristic style to nietzsche -
mainly because he doesn't work
on a build-up -
   if he does get a maxim out,
it's a maxim: in passing -
unlike neitzsche who somehow
has to climb a mountain,
and reach a maxim at a zenith...
i think nietzsche has been exhausted
in pop culture,
the 20th century belonged to him,
no doubt, but as in passing
the olympic torch, we've reached
the conclusive years of nietzsche's
influence...
          so in aphorism 172 (VI)
heidegger notes the importance of
art - such a rarity for a philosopher
to appreciate art, notably poetry...
      he mentions the "un-philosophical"
artist, who he compliments with the ability
to fathom something philosophical,
although he calls it thoughtful discourse
  (and of its grounding style),
and then the plain obvious, well, so so,
that philosophy has moved into
the proximity of "science" -
then some blah blah knowledge blah blah -
and the conclusion:
    "scientific" "thinking" is furthest removed
from what happens in philosophy -
after all: rhetoric is an art-form,
   not a logic-form...
            oration is an art: not a science.
ah right...
           the whole point of this note:
books like drugs, marijuana being
the "gateway" drug... i've got one for you
too, in literary form...
   you want to read philosophy?
i've got the only book that will un-muddle
you being fearful of being "right"
   in reading a philosophy book -
and i hate to say it, it will not be a stoner's
paradise experience...
  thomas mann's magnum opus:
   dr. faustus...
                 believe me when i say this with
a sense of respect for the book -
heidegger seemed easier to read, even kant
than that literary inferno!
and then chose the the son of philosophy -
kierkegaard... notably either / or -
  and if you really want to go crazy
and reach for the systematic literature of
the heavyweights, you'll at least have a firm
grounding...
                      i wouldn't bother reading
the greeks though...
                    too ancient -
                    if they didn't didn't answer
the questions they asked -
            you might as well ask new questions
and in the vein of philosophy:
struggle to answer them, if at all!
  now if you'll excuse me, i have a date
  with arthur bell.

ginger spice air
Irish green shamrocks
bring
the cascade of mountains
go, lassie, go there

I'll invoke the rule of threes
first the beginning and then the end
connected by the spirit’s breath
speaking words birthed from truth

reflections found in fairy tales
once upon to journey’s course
shamrocks whisper what could be
in the fields now forgotten

these triangles spoke of power
too much fortune is a curse
certain lack begets great wealth
to be lost when once it’s found

by the fall the crone remembers
who they were before the mother
innocence in distant past
a maiden asks to live again

rebirth is found in ritual’s breadth
what was born must coexist
with the life that leads to death
spirit passing to dwell again

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180301.

year year when I looked in the sky,
On March seventeenth ,then I could see,  
Many stars were do--ci -doing,
All throughout the whole galaxy.

Normally the stars above are,
Yellow, red, white, and blazing blue;
But it was on that St. Pat's night,
The green shamrocks were far from few.

It was a flabbergasting sight,
One that I will never forget;
So many stars spun like a top,
Each one beautiful, you bet!