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Best Ireland Poems

Below are the all-time best Ireland poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of ireland poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Ireland Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Ireland poems are below this new poems list.

IRELAND 2008-2016 by doherty, john
A Piece of My Mother Yet in Green Ireland by Ayyildiz, Judy Light
IRELAND 4 by doherty, john
IRELAND 3 by doherty, john
IRELAND 2 by doherty, john
One Ireland by Coyne, William
To Ireland by Rangus, Peter
Leaving Ireland by Miller, Mike
Several Miles from Home in Ireland by Spector, Erik
Give Ireland back to the Irish by jones, julie-ann

View all new Ireland Poems

The Best Ireland Poems

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Plato and Socrates

Dramatic prose for the pompous asses
I throw my Platos at you
If you come any closer
I will Socrates you right in the nose
Demands, demands!!!! The clowns now have demands?
I say, rise up oh poets of the infinite dot universe
Proclaim the revolution a new
Justify our fight with words wrapped in doo doo
When I see a condescending donkey trip on his verbatim
I laughs cause I know he will fall into Satan's den
I am at eleven, usually a sober man
I carry my saber high and shout "Ekphrasis I don’t give a bloody damn"
Infinite ............................ Universe


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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The Glory of Green

Green hues denote the healing of our earth,
That special season of springtime’s rebirth.

Green grasses growing o’er the hillside's face,
Embracing greening trees in leafy lace.

While amber fields engage in heaven’s kiss
As raindrops splash into emerald bliss,

I watch amazed as tender shoots abound
With daffodils and tulips breaking ground.

A floral scent begins to fill March air.
St. Patty’s I’ll wear flowers in my hair.

So many varied hues that can be seen,
This Irish lass loves every shade of green!

© Connie Marcum Wong

Contest: Go Green
Sponsor Poet Destroyer
3-16-2016




Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2015

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The Hanging

The jury was unanimous
Twelve cried out justice
Guilty
It was just before the changing hour
The hanging planned for quarter past midnight or so
The moon was full, the shining light exposing deaths dance
The grim reaper was ready, one more for his collection

I was ready for this moment
Ready to face my freedom and my death
Long ago, a mirror shattered into twelve pieces
Twelve faces who said I have to go
Twelve past the midnight hour

Sacred ghosts haunting twilight hours
Whiskey filling the soul soon to be departed
The hangman at the ready with a somber face
For his duties he did not so much embrace
This evening he knew the hanging would take all effort
Of spirit and determination
To send this one of to his eternal damnation

He was shivering and I sensed in fear
As I stared at him solemnly in the mirror
We both eye to eye knew this day would come
The hangman and me, conscious of the sum

So the note was neatly written
The whiskey bottle all alone, empty on the floor
I stood bravely or maybe cowardly
Upon the wooden chair

The rope I wrapped around I my neck
As the hangman in the mirror was in despair
I patted him on the back and said no worries my friend
This, you see is the end of it all
All that we ever both wished or dreamed

A week or two later
They found the hangman
A rope around his neck
Staring blanking in the mirror

A note on the bedside table
Told this story as you hear
A man with a broken heart
Hanged because of his own mutilated reflection


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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The Pub II

Inside pub steins stout magic spoke
‘neath genie wisps of bangle smoke
Brown cone cigars, deep chubby pipes
Aromatic spills to breach the night.
Music calls to muted songs 
Rough knuckles echo Bodhrán drums.
Flute, melodeon, bouzouki*, mandolin
Penny whistles, uilleann pipes, one feisty violin.
Pied piper rhythms, pied piper beats
Bold Celtic persuasions to move proud legs and feet. 

To Daver and friendship, thank you!

* Bouzouki...A stringed instrument that could stand up to the volume and intensity of fiddles, flutes, accordions, and pipes.
*uilleann pipes...Irish bagpipes...melodeon. an Irish accordian


Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2014

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Seat of kings

A stone round standing fortress crowns forever beauty
The name translated to english Grianan means sunny spot or sun temple
The land bows down inspirational the view 
seat of the high kings dating back to 1700 B.C
Overlooking Lough Swilly and Lough Foyle
Eogháin, after whom Inishowen is named
was baptised at Grianán by St. Patrick
where they imposed Patrick's rule 
Eoghan was a leader of the Ui Néill's 
the northern clan descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages 
Eoghan began a dynasty that brought forth the High Kings of Ireland 
for more than 500 years
our crowned jewel rings in the heart of Donegal

High up on a massive hilltop
it was a place of sun worship 
or the place of hibernation of Gráine
a Celtic sun-goddess

In Celtic mythology Grainne was the sister of Aine 
goddess of the sun, and though Grainne was known as goddess of corn 
or grain (springs from the earth after being nurtured by the sun)
both sisters are said to have been birthed by a sunbeam or “of the sun

There is also a tradition that the temple was built by Daghdha 
the good god or god of the earth 
He was known as the King of the Tuatha dé Danann
a race of supernatural beings descended from the Goddess Danu
They inhabited Ireland before the Celts
This tradition has Daghda building the fort to protect the grave of his son
A variation tells of giants building the hill and the Grianán on top a residence 
for the shining ones who gave birth to the children of the sídhe
All of these traditions link the hill and the fort on top with supernatural beings
to unseen energy and power and a link to the Otherworld

With one breathtaking scene 
overlooking spanning miles awestruck
sweeping below beautiful country side our forty shades 
of emerald green jewel of Ireland 

From inside outwards the pen flows golden precious
Here stands a kingdom 
dating back to a time of tuatha de danann
one dynasty sings over centuries
Legend states that the giants of Inishowen are lying sleeping 
but when the sacred sword is removed
they will spring to life reclaiming their ancient lands

Our ancient ring stone clad fort in Irish folklore sings
One such tale relates that Niall Frasach
he was born when these freasa or showers fell 
honey silver and blood
A high-king of Ireland 

Son of Fergal mac Maolduin 
Brother of Aodh Allan 
It is said that, when a famine occurred
they carried off by force the one cow 
that the solitary hermit of that church had 
the hermit cursed the king and his host
there was an earthquake 
people devoured one another there at this time

A great cow-plague existed
he prayed and the famine was lifted
with showers of food and silver falling from heaven. 
(High King of Ireland 743-770 AD)
to me it stands out one fort in a test of time 

On a clear day one can see five of the nine counties of Ulster 
from Grianán's parapets.
A truly magical wonder to behold
still standing in our midst 
sings enchanting sweet beautiful 
magical music to this heart


Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015

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I Am So Tired

I am tired of counting the red dwarf stars in the Milky Way.
I am tired of counting the 7 years of grain in Pharaoh's silos.
I am tired of counting the steps to the sacrificial altar of the Chichén Itzá pyramid.
I am tired of counting the people swallowed by the Antioch earthquakes of 115 & 526.
I am tired of counting the victims of the 1737 & 1839 India cyclones.
I am tired of counting the departed from the Influenza Epidemic of 1918.
I am tired of counting the death toll of the 1931 China floods.
I am tired of counting the total military and civilian casualties of WWI and WWII.
I am tired of counting the number of Jews killed at Auschwitz, Belzec and Majdanek.
I am tired of counting the drowned in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami.
I am tired of counting the biomass of plankton in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
I am tired of counting the needles on the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center
I am tired of counting the cracked and dirty windows at Riker's Island prison.
I am tired of counting down the clock until the our Sun becomes a red giant and dies.

God help me! I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep...
I'm immortal. I have OCD. I'm so tired of counting sheep.


Copyright © Beryl Dov | Year Posted 2013

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Fight For Freedom


Fight For Freedom The metal taste of blood on our lips As we recall history without any quips, A century ago when naivety rose From the tiered ashes of their ancestral woes, To fight against ominous oppression, Cast by Britain’s omnipotent obsession With slavery and pillaging—riches so handsome— All for the good of a tyrannical Kingdom. Denied the right to their native tongue Executed for freedom, to their deaths they sung, So wounded, some unable to stand, Strapped to a chair, ashes united with land. He and his brothers had good reason to live, But for freedom, their lives, they were willing to give. On Easter Monday, it all began, Their actions did speak louder than Words ignored by the English man, Brutalised by the Black and Tan. So! It was legal, didn’t make it right, These men, women and children put up a fight, Their blood and souls they did give, They fought and died so that I may live. 24th April 2016 Nicola Byrne In memory of the women, men and children who died and/or fought, between 24th April 1916 and 17th December 1922, when the last of the British forces embarked. They gave so much so that the people of Ireland may preside over their own country and live in a state, free from tyranny, exclusions and poverty. I have tremendous respect to those who don’t accept things as they are, and who persevere to make a better life for others.


Copyright © Nicola Byrne | Year Posted 2016

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Erins Green Isle 1798

   They live in fear in Ireland.
   Their sin is ' wearing of the green.'
   St. Patricks shamrock is now banned.
   A National Emblem caught between,
   Sweet Erins pride, and Englands stand
   Against the green, and to demean.
   Then rule the Gaels with iron hand.
   Beyond the pale lifes unforseen.
   It's freedom that, life does demand.
   So paradise on earth would mean.
   Sail Westward to a distant land,
   Where Irelands shamrock can be seen
   Those colonists will understand
   Why Irish eyes smile so serene.


Copyright © george seal | Year Posted 2015

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An Irish Robbery

The Irish bank was ripe and ready
For a hood whose hand was steady
And had a gun, not 'fraid to use it
Bent on living life or lose it
Just out side the door he waited
Put his mask on, hesitated
Then rushed in through, the bank's front doors
While standing on the lobby floor
With gun held high he shot one round
"Now everybody-- best get down"

Laying face down on the floor
A dozen patrons maybe more
And a teller, young in age
Standing frozen in the cage
So the crook with lightening speed
Driven by his lust for greed
Tossed a bag and said to fill it
Got it filled, then turned to split

As he ran, a man quite daring
Grabbed the mask the crook was wearing
At once the man, seamed surprised
Looked the robber in the eyes
Then took a bullet in the head
Now on the marble floor lied dead

The thief now desperate, looked around 
At all the patrons looking down
But saw the teller, see his face
Then walked to him in rapid pace
And put the gun up to his head
Another victim laid there dead


Now the thief to end it all 
Shouted out inside that hall
"Has anyone else, seen my face ?"
Perhaps a glimpse might leave a trace
Then McGee said  "I'm no sneak
But I think me wife , just took a peek"



 


Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

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Finn Mcgee and Me part3

MacJock looked uptight

When we said "That's not right,

We're not paying one pence you see" 

Den Finn swung and missed

With his powerful fist

And it landed on the jaw of McGee

MacJock grabbed a bottle

Intending to throttle

The closest poor sod in his way

And this caused a ruckus

McGee was so luckless

It certainly wasn't his day 

But when Macjock hit McGee

He went flying you see

And busted MacJock's new table

Then McGee tossed a chair

Clear through the air

Hoping MacJock to disable

The others ensued 

In this Hullaballoo 

Until, all I could see was the brawl

There were glasses and mugs

Bottles and jugs 

Smashing against every wall

The place was a mess

I sure can attest

When the fightin' came to its end

Not an eye was still blinking

So I started thinking

Dat its tyme to go 'ome un mend





Just one more part will end it


Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

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Now that's a Shame

~~~
Tis a gladness found in sadness
mostly pleasure
wince of pain
From an odor round the barroom
none the boys could e'er explain
Like a billowed line of washin'
after gentle fallen rain
Tis the wail of spring befallin'
on a barfly
oh ... the shame
~
Lo
there's homework
I'm the tender
to a list of things that broke
Ere the boss be sharing surely
words no poet ever spoke
Lazy good for nothing boozer
paint the fence and fix the gate
You want a pint ... you must be kidding
Plow the forty ... 'fore it's late
~
Down the misty path of memories
thoughts of Kelsey's brew appears
In a vision almost godly
round a table rests my peers
And no memory tarries longer
forceful
clearer
sweeter
stronger
than ol' Kelsey pouring liquor at the bar
I sheds a tear
~
Summer sadness tans bare shoulders
to replace the winter's shun
And the kids each day
they greet me ... Morning Dad
YOUR IT ... then run
Lord
I never knew that Heaven
'twas the place beyond my wall
Till I heard my children laugh
while toasting mallows in the fall
~
Though breath of Heaven
washed the aftertaste
of Kelsey's from my life
And forever I'll be holding ... dear
new memories
with my wife
I am angered at the sign
that hangs atop ol' Kelsey's door
. . . NO BARFLIES . . .
. . . CASH RESPECTED . . .
~
Sure
His wife now runs the bar
~~~


Copyright © Rex McCoy | Year Posted 2014

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A Winter's Rime

(In a churchyard in Northern Ireland)


Through the broken and barren trees
Winter exhales its coldest breeze
From the wintry breath of northern seas
That can chill the warmest soul.

Thus in the churchyard by the sea
Nigh one broken and barren tree
Lies cold a soul once warm to me
Beneath the winter’s rime.

As the heart of winter doth unfold
I feel its touch, so dark and cold,
For I yearn at night to yet behold
That soul once warm to me.

But in earthen depths doth she lie
E’er below the moon and starlit sky
As yet unto her grave I wander by
And despair the winter’s rime.

O’ the winter wails upon the still
With its bleak and bitter chill
That conjures from the nightly nil
A soul once warm to me!


Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015

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Sleep Amongst The Reeds

A prickly world envelopes 
The subtle Emerald skin, 
One so delicate as can be scorched
By an Irish morning sun. 
Low gulls crying overhead
Keep me idle amongst the reeds,
Eyes wide, sucking in the expanding blue, 
Sporadically streaked with white.
Rose dances with Ray 
Along the celestial path, and
A blushing glow is born.
Deep breaths. 
Salty air caresses and travels 
Down into a spongy soul.
Hand to cheek, a rose
Returns to blue, but Ray
Will forever twinkle around
The dusty pink until 
The crimson lakes again flourish.
The shriek of wings down the shore
Are now a distant echo. Lids heavy,
The siesta forcing me to sink
Further into the hot sands of the coast.
Light as a feather, eyes dimming,
I see it all as the tide chases me.
Through times of trouble she has guided;
In sadness, she did listen; once again
She draws closer and prepares to lead me
From the woes of the city, the faults of society, 
And into a world that is real: the salt of the earth.
I want to swim into unknown, bathe 
In the life of her vessel, and have the soothing
Waves wash over me and rid me of the false pretences.
But for now, I will listen to her: 
A soothing voice that one must never vex,
Swooshing in and sneaking out.
A light crash of waves against the rocks
Swooshing in, sneaking out;
The drama from days gone by
Swooshing in, sneaking out;
Money and bills swooshing in
“To hell with those” sneaking out;
Swooshing in, sneaking out;
Swooshing in, sneaking out;
Swooshing in, sneaking out;
Swoosh—
Out!


Copyright © Nicola Byrne | Year Posted 2015

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My Micke boys

                To be called ..
            ~   Grandma is a Honor ~

        I have been blessed with 4  Grandchildren

       ~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb "  He is God's Angel ~
   ~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~

     For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
       he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
      ~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
 
              Time passed another gift to see
               we are " Mickes" and Loved 
            Our Dad held the title in Baseball 
                   ~  that's how we roll ~
           those children are Grandmas hero's 

       The Irish they love big and Family is everything 
        The brothers will protect the beautiful sister 
              ~ as many lads will be calling ~

        Every time my Grandson hits a home run
     There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand 

       It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs 
           ~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
     either baseball or Art  ~ you shall find your gift given

                These children have been blessed~
                 ~  a beauty to hard to describe 
        If you think not ~~  Take a look at the Mom  
                     That girl can stop Traffic   
                    after raising three and still~ 

          "Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "

     May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell



Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

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My Old Bucket

I lost my old bucket so sadly,
And felt oh so terribly badly;
Then lo and behold
A pot full of gold!
I'd lose me another and gladly.


Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2014

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The Castle

In the green countryside of Wales,
A castle sits, dark and decaying,
It holds many ghostly tales,
That the locals keep relaying.

Surrounded by majestic, rolling hillsides,
Covered by a gray, misty shroud,
And cliffs high above the blue sea tides,
Where voices still ring out loud.

What was once a beautiful garden,
Where all the children used to play,
Has been left to whither and harden,
Just as the castle was left to decay.

Long cobwebs hang like curtains of lace,
In windows that remain dark and cold,
Someone still walks the crumbling staircase,
Just as they did in the days of old.

They walk the towers and through the halls,
Making the dusty, wooden floors creak,
Their portraits still hang on the walls,
Where the voices of the dead still speak.

The empty rooms will never make a sound,
But, if you listen hard enough to their history,
Stories of romance and love still abound,
Along with secrets of murders and mystery.




August 8th, 2013




Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

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Fishing Buy The Pound

Finn and Mcgee
went fishing once more
With the money they saved up all year

They rented a cabin 
up by the lake
And filled it with fish bate and beer

For two weeks of fishing
They made it their mission 
To wake up and start at first light

With poles in their hands
They hardly could wait
For a big fish to come up and bit

Day after day
They fished and they fished
but barely got even a nibble

Then on the last day
McGee caught a trout
That apparently wasn't so fickle

Now on the way Home
Finn said to McGee
"You Know what this fish, has cost you...

...A thousand Quid"
"Well Finn, if it did
Then I glad I didn't catch two"


Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

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Celtic Love

      CELTIC LOVE
The paths we take under the eye of god
and universe, but some consider odd
Great mother Dana, knowing everything,
help us to grow, into a birth of spring,
and know from where our lonely feet have trod.

In Celtic roots, from shores of Normandy
we came from long ago, a time called history,
made weary from the Roman and his sword
in seeking vengance, as if they were lord,
and Ireland is the place we chose to be.

They layed to waste all things we'd ever known
spared not one child--their hearts were solid stone
and Caeser put us out to where we choose to be
here in our emerald upon the sea,
to where, great mother, only you had known.

The Wicca way, so deep out of our past
now comes of age, as if a spell were cast
to love all things, and have you at my side,
the only place where two in love can hide,
here in the only dream to ever last.

You'll be as much a part of all of me
as anything in life could ever be,
and we shall honor all and everything,
each to it's own, our destiny might bring,
and everything in life we'll ever see.

Forget my name, remember just my way
of loving you both every night and day
We'll have it all, if we can realize,
that all we want is here before our eyes,
and all we need is here, and on our way.
© Ron Wilson


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

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Celtic Lunar Sacrifice

     CELTIC LUNAR SACRIFICE
That night,  the dead, rose up into the dark of night,
to make their way led by the Druids' burning light;
there's buried many soul they chained and bound
deep in the mother earth, their mournful sound
is wailing through the dark of this, their dreaded night.

The bonfires burned and brightly through the land of Gaul
the dead of plants, and dying life, they burned them all
as sacrifice to help ones through the cold
of coming months of misery untold
but prophesied to be, throughout the land of Gaul.

And there beneath the Celtic moon to lead them on
all madness of the times prevailed from dark to dawn
The mid of ev'nin brought the earthly fear
of death to all who looked--their death was near,
a blessing that would keep the others living on.

And so the lord of death would pass them by that night
they stretched some maiden's arms, and bound them tight,
who might have shown a bit too much desire
and set their souls adrift that night a'fire,
and some say we still hear them screaming out tonight.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

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Kingdom Lost

In summertime, the ivy climbs,
and hides the castle wall.
The king dreams of late,
that the sea is so great,
and yet - his boat is so small.
As swift as a fox and
dark as a raven on wing,
seven hundred soldiers march  
into the valley of the king.
Long overdue, a battle ensues
flanking the powers that be.
Children cry, and good men die, 
the monarch is now on his knee…
Soon the horsemen alone 
try to maintain the throne.
But the long way around
is the shortest way home.
The evening is filled
with chaos and smoke,
and the kingdom is 
stunned by it all…
Soon the sun will go down,
and in spite of his crown, 
the king will undoubtedly fall…
His rival’s strength
was mistaken,
by a king overtaken,
his life is now but a pawn.
His authority lifted,
the power has shifted –
an era of glory is gone…
 
 
 


Copyright © Cole Banner | Year Posted 2013

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Hell

I sauntered out of an Irish Pub
Basted in booze and Irish smooze
The whiskeys sure didn’t cover the blues
Me, I knew this wasn’t good news

As a crossed the street
I met a bus, Full of nuns, all in a fuss
There was no contest, the bus sure won
I was run over and ready for a place with no sun

I arrived in hell, this surly no surprise
At least I was drunk, or so Satan surmised
He looked confused and asked who am I?
A Lawyer? a Dictator? or maybe I was both?

I apologized profusely for I surely was not
Any of those professions, I'm no in their lot
He asked if I was expecting 72 virgins?
As drunk as I was, I said I was not

He was angry and mad, there was doubt
What could the Devil do? He seemed in a stew
So he gave me a degree, in Law and Justice
So I could live in hell among all the others untrusted!

Notes: No Lawyers were hurt or maimed in the writing of this poem, and I apologize for that!


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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St Eve, a lovers Limerick

There once was guy named Steve
He swam in a pool with Eve
With a frisky smile
He undressed her with guile
In nine months she was to conceive


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Taxi

There once was a driver from Uber
Who really only owned a scooter
So when it rained
His passengers complained
So now he has no more commuters

Couldn't let a St Paddy's day go by without a wee limerick!!


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Irish Tall Tale

Come all ye, kiss that blarney stone
Join in the legend and be known
For the gift of gab
Ye come kiss the slab
Eloquence and luck shall be shown


Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane | Year Posted 2014

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Girl Of Dunloe Gap

    GIRL OF DUNLOE GAP   
She in her father's jaunting car,
an eyefull sight to see,
with smoky blond and flowing hair
she smiled as if, 'twas just for me.

And how she stole my heart away
when first we locked our eyes,
all Irish eyes, and I should say
she made my heart to realize

I'd been for much too long alone
her eyes, they promised me,
here is the love I'd never known,
the way a love is meant to be.

I watched them disappear into,
the Gap of Dunloe's road,
I'd see this sight, again, I knew,
the jaunting car--its precious load.

And when we wed in summer rain
the world was at my feet,
now mine but less of all the pain,
that made my life so incomplete.
© Ron Arbuthnot


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014