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IRISH ACROSTIC DODOITSU by Woods, Sun
Green Is Not For The Irish Only by Crisci, Andrew
Irish Green by Rose, Brenda
Irish or No by Rose, Brenda
The House of the Irish by Carter, Daniel
Irish Widow by Bdosa, Vee
Walking In The Morning Irish Sonnet by duggan, peter
Not Easy Being Irish by Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic, David
IRISH WAKE by MURRAY, JEAN
Full Irish Breakfast by Kelly, Sean

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The Best Irish Poems

Details | Irish Poem | |

GREEN- reborn

GREEN, GREEN, GREEN!!!

My name is Jade Shamrock Green.
I will not eat one single green bean.
When I get mad, I turn green.
I wear my favorite green jeans.
I am hypnotize by the color green.
Not every green path leads to a flowing stream.
I lay on the grass so green.
I won a jackpot of green.
To visit the Green Mountains in Vermont is like a dream.
My eyes are shaded green.
My jealousy comes in the color green.
I diet on green veggies that are lean.
The Green Bay Packers are my favorite team.
I believe all frogs should come in green.
It’s a family gift to carry a green thumb gene.
My garden has the greenest life I have ever seen.
Lemons are yellow, but limes are green.
The Irish do not all believe in green.
In my greenhouse all, the plants are full of good self-esteem.
I'm the jester who wore a green beret for the king and queen.
The unripe sour apple is moldy green!
Flicking me a green bugger is gross and mean.
Why do all leprechauns wear color green? 
Not all clovers have only three leafs of green.
Green is the middle color of the rainbow team.
Good Luck, Care Bear's charming eyes are emerald green.
My favorite color has always been green.
This is all about wearing green on March the seventeen.



.         (a) S.K.A.T. POETRY (re-post) by;p.d.
.                 3-17-10  (update) 3-17-11

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011


Details | Irish Poem | |

One Green Leaf


One leaf fell from a tall, tall tree
and subtly kissed gnarled roots beneath;
a lover’s kiss below sunned-sheath 
of greenest leaves, a jubilee.  

One spiraling leaf brought playful mirth
to sullen earth of trodden dirt.
A flight of hopeful shades of spring,
for hard, hard ground, an offering

One leaf dressed in a sparkling jade
glided with grace to green grass blades    
and rested near a bubbling brook,
then waited for warm breeze that shook
its flirty skirt on green, green glade.   

An arc of bright green canopy
warmed my heart in bluest mood, 
and one leaf blew a kiss from you.
It twirled and pranced and floated by,
then with a touch it came to lie 
green in my hand, a dear surprise. 

Like emerald hills of Irish tales, 
I marveled at how one leaf sailed
green In my hand that blue, blue day,
a kiss from you on Patty’s Day -
The gray clouds parted shining green, 
a beauty like I’d never seen.


for Francine's Show Me the Green Contest, 3/18/15 

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015


Details | Irish Poem | |

I Think Of You - Ground Zero - 1

I Think Of You - Ground Zero (Part 1)

Leaving under a blood moon
                in a jet plane rising
  los angeles falls behind me
and I...

You.
Two.

                              Clouds dance
            to the song of the spiders.
Latent sun rays fall on me like rain...I 

...They say third time's the charm.
On planes again.
A sky...endless... and then finally 
from the other end of the world to here.
A continent, an island,
an australian flower drunk on wine.
Her...uniqueness lends to her beauty.
...and I

A fourth night.
A church spire at sunset.
At a distance bats fill the sky,
resemble a smoke plume.
...I 

I plead the fifth.
It's all these moons.
Tonight a hunter's moon.
She's unable to hide 
even with her bowl of clouds.
It's no help.
She has no spoon.
                     Her luminous rays give her up.
Moonshine in the moonlight over the sea.
...I 

I count...five, 
six...on the beach.
A purple nightshade,
a sand flower,
Irish eyes speak uniquely to me.
....I 

I, you...
you can't roll a seven with one die.

Back on a plane.
A snow fog blinding.
From my window seat a one of a kind view.
Alone,
...I

 I eight...ate...need to eat.

Africa...a Safari.
A plant chloroform green
has holes like cheese.
A large swiss leaf.
I laugh and I...I distract myself.

A stitch in time beats nine.
 Back in North America.
A dilapidated fortress stares down 
an overwhelming thunderhead.
...I 

I camp out.
It requires a tenth...tent.
An Eagle never blinks.
No eye lids.
An unimpeded view.

...but I...I surrender.
There is no place in the world
I can escape.
...I 

i think of you.

You are living art.
Here.
Now.
What I perceive 
is what I live.
I perceive us.

I can picture you.
I am photography,
the camera, the lens.
I absorb your image,
process it.
A form of plagiarism

I didn't borrow.
I stole.
Inhaled you but 
...I
I dream
and I...

...i think of you.



Armand
March 11 2015




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015


Details | Irish Poem | |

How A Blue Rose Came to Be

Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely -  red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.

She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be  Queen; 
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.

Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon  her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping,  like a willow tree.

Then the sky begin  to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As  tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that  Irish rose, 
As she disappeared beneath the earth, 
There in his grief below.                                      
     
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply  - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.

The years and all their seasons came and went,
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent,
Upon her grave where everyday he knelt and prayed,
And dreamed of her until his dying day.  

The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone,   
That still stands alone  upon her grave,
Where from the million tears of love he gave,
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.

 
 Written:  June 18, 2010
Author:  Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2011


Details | Irish Poem | |

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!

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


Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2015


Details | Irish Poem | |

I Love Horses: A--Z

I Love Horses: A--Z

A is for... Appaloosa. They have 
blankets on their rumps. 
B is for...Belgian. They work 
hard and can pull up stumps. 

C is for...Clydesdale. They're 
BIG bays with white fluffy feet. 
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony 
from the moors--so sweet!

E is for...Egyptian, the finest 
horse on desert sand. 
F is for...Fresian: Big black War 
Horse--a Knight's demand. 

G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare 
beauty like fairy tales. 
H is for...Hanoverian. The best 
all-round from England hails. 

I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal 
horse that's black and white. 
J is for...Java Pony. He's 
Indonesia's working sprite. 

K is for...Knapstrup. He's a 
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey 
leapers known in the Big Tops!

M is for...Mustang. Wild and 
Free--roams America's West. 
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed 
black and drives the best. 

O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage 
ribbons just get bigger. 
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers 
named his, Trigger. 

Q is for...Quarter Horse, 
cowboy's fav'rite! Does 
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His 
ride's so smooth it will make 
you sing. 

S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse, 
Gaited beauty everyone loves. 
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing, 
"The Sport of Kings", he does. 

U is for...Ukrainian Riding 
Horse: Beautiful born after 
War's end. 
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish 
black stallion and true friend. 

W is for...White Horse(Albino). 
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of 
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's 
Mongolia's riding draft horse. 

Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut 
pony from Japan. 
Z is for...Zebra: African wild 
but tamed by man. 

A personal therapist long past 
the end,
The love of a horse...is the 
love... of a Friend. 

deborah burch
02.28.2013

For Cyndi's contest

Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2013


Details | Irish Poem | |

The Teetotaler

In Ordinary Cups

The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.

The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return 
the footfall of father, coming and going.

Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.

11/9/10

Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW

The Teetotaler

The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.

As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens

cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;

they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.

From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.  
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.

The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory. 

Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns, 
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.

A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene 
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,

Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.

3/21/15

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015


Details | Irish Poem | |

Blarney Castle

I walk the path amid the trees Where footsteps of the past have tread Where ancient stones of Blarney please, Where lips upon the stone are wed. My roots run deep with Irish blood and County Cork's where my folk hale. There Blarney meets where tourists flood to kiss the stone below the rail. Enchanting are the turrets here   bedecked in autumn's vines of red, the little stream that wanders near, and steps to where I'm being led. The Blarney stone at last I see, so bending backwards now to kiss the stone, my friend is holding me. That’s not a mark I want to miss! I have a thought;   I now can say my mouth has touched where many more have touched upon this stone of gray. How many thousands came before? These ancient walls in ruin stand With greater hist'ry than most know, Yet still throngs yield to their command In visitors that come and go. Inside the marrow of my bones, I feel a thrill . Will eloquence Be mine from having kissed this stone? I feel a chill of reverence! For the Partner UP Contest of Shadow Hamilton: Theme: Castles Finished 9/4/2015 By Connie Marcum Wong and Andrea Dietrich

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


Details | Irish Poem | |

The Sweetest Song

(This is about an Irish/Celtic legend:
Oenghus & Caer)

A hundred-fifty swans in dancing light
of sun were shimmering upon the lake
when Oenghus, God of Love, beheld the sight
and called to her who made his poor heart ache,

“You haunt my dreams. I die for love of you!”
With her reply, the cloak that he had on
changed into soft white wings, for love was true.
And thus it was he joined her as a swan.

How great their joy when Oenghus met his mate,
the fair Caer, there in the gleaming throng.
Imagine knowing bliss to be your fate!
In unison, they sang a wondrous song.

It sweetly lulled all listening to sleep,
a melody their hearts would ever keep.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011


Details | Irish Poem | |

Emerald Memories

Green are the hues of the Irish Sea,
wrapped by the grasses of the Emerald Isle;
fields strewn with heather where you came to me
with eyes of jade and a charming smile.
The moorland grasses where we ran and played,
washed by the briny scent of ocean breeze
that wafts through the moor like a serenade,
the days encore of a sweet reprise.
As verdant hills softly roll away
and seem to disappear in a distant bog
I think of you and those far gone days
and reach for your shadow etched in the fog.
     Your breath is the breeze that sweeps over the green
     and floats through the memories that I dream.


Mixed anapestic and iambic meter

Copyright © craig cornish | Year Posted 2016


Details | Irish Poem | |

- A Most Irish Fairy Tale -

- A Most Irish Fairy Tale – Merry Christmas to All

It’s not just Santa Claus who we meet in the very cold of December; 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long, coal black curly hair far down on her back, and 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with such bright
Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of angelic content with
A glossy coat so radiant and sprinkled with pearls and diamonds.

Out of the woods she walks so quietly in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully, 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with an angelic guard; 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina speaks the animals’ languages
And this is an enchanted reality known only to the forest animals; 
The birds play in all their splendor so fine without sorrow and they 
Fly while Carolina—the “Fairy Maiden of this Enchanted Forest,”
Keeps watch carefully on the evening horizon while the snow falls
Now apace in the hope and wish for such a marvelous and majestic
Christmas—while in the distance the ground is now frozen frosted 
Hard and like shining and sprinkling silver in the mist until the very
“Rays of Enraptured Sunlight” break in the morning mist—this most
Wondrous image is at once so divine and fabulous to behold and 
Cherish as the annual “Spirit of Christmas” now comes alive again. 

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud— 
And then all of the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his “Red Nose” so beautiful, and oh so bright—                
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children—just like sweet-sounding little voices wonderful so in 
Dreams singing such celestial tunes while a bright light appears 
So magically on the horizon while planes from all over the world
Begin landing with such precious cargo like loads of neatly written
Letters from good little children—and with this joyous occurrence
Santa Claus begins calling his elfin troops into quick action while 
The “Leprechauns” do the heavy work as they are much tougher
But all the while the “Old Fighting Irish” in them reflects a softer
Side while the Leprechauns drink a drop or two or three of some 
Fine old fiery Irish dew to keep them both warm and smiling like 
The very wee Little Devil in them—so mischievous and all—but 
So content and happy to be part of such a delightful moment of                                      both memories and joy for “The Little Children of the World.”
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work 




 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014


Details | Irish Poem | |

How a Blue Rose Came to be

Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely -  red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.

She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be  Queen; 
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.

Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon  her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping,  like a willow tree.


Then the sky begin  to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As  tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that  Irish rose, 
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below 
                                          
                            	 ~~~~~
		
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply  - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.

                                  ~~~~~

The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.  


		~~~~

The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone   
That still stands alone   upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.

 
 







Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2010


Details | Irish Poem | |

Alana Dulcita

Once in a forest, a long time ago, there dwelt a young maiden, bright, sweet and fair. Flowers she wore in her long wavy hair, and each day she’d vanish into gloaming’s glow. Alana Dulcita was this young maid’s name, a name that fell sweetly from everyone’s tongue. The townspeople loved her -both old and young, yet nobody knew from where the girl came. They only knew that, at the end of each day, with sun dipping downward into the west and sky splashed with colors Alana liked best, was when, as if magically, she’d slip away! “Where does she go?” all the villagers asked, “And how does she leave us so quietly that not even one of us ever can see? Has some kind of spell on our dear girl been cast?” Spell or no spell, the young maid had powers as into the woodland she fled and then donned a gossamer gown, hidden well near a pond surrounded by beautiful flowers. She peered into water after she’d kneel as a lovely face gazed back at her. In this perfect moment, what should occur but, like magic, the girl became real! Her filmy silk gown would blend with her skin, shrinking into a stem, and her face changed into petals till soon not a trace remained of the form that a human lives in. Alana Dulcita, her real self again, breathing lilacs’ and lilies’ sweet scent, would bow her fair face, a flower content, to repose by the pond with her kin. Awaking at dawn, renewed, she’d return to the town where they loved her so well, keeping the secret she never could tell of youth’s beauty for which humans yearn. She’d never grow old as long as she had a place of seclusion where she might go to water around which bright flowers could grow, for this is what kept the soul of hers glad! Never to marry and never to stay too long in one place, she’d always move on. Beloved she would be till the day she was gone. This, for Alana, was the only way. Alana Dulcita, where did she go when forests grew small and lake beds grew dry? Did the fair maid eventually die or is she still sleeping where bright blossoms grow?
Note: The name Alana means "the bright fair one" in Gaelic or "precious; awakening" in Hawaiian & "Beautiful dear child" in Irish/ the name Dulcita is Latin for "sweet." Written by Andrea Dietrich & Inspired by the "Reflections" Contest Sponsored by Constance La France ~A Rambling Poet~

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011


Details | Irish Poem | |

NINETY SOMETHING


She is ninety-something
A tiny old lady with wizened eyes
She says the hot dog on her plate looks good

“It reminds me of when we roasted them over an open fire.
They tasted so good, hot off the stick.
I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.
I waste so much food, and my mother would never 
have approved with so many starving children in the world.
Would you help me put my leg back up on the chair rest?
My body doesn’t work too well anymore.

I wasn’t always like this.     I wasn’t always this old and crotchety.
I was young once too, and so was everyone else.
I was a child at my mother’s knee.     I was sassy and a brat,
for children of six have such confidence.
I played with an Irish boy two doors down in Illinois.
He hit me in the forehead with a snowball wrapped
around a chunk of coal and I rubbed his face in the snow
until we were wet and cold and our mothers were mad
because we stayed out too long.

I am not as different from you as I seem.
I too had dreams, although I admit
they did not include the events I lived through.

The flu epidemic which swept the land, 
where so many took sick, with children dying out of hand.
The big war, the first one.     I was still a fairly young child,
but I knew the young men were dying, heard the mothers crying.
Then the depression came, with no jobs, no money, no food.
Each night on someone’s table there lay a posting of jobs,
but there were too many looking for work and too few jobs to fill.
No jobs were fat jobs, you were beyond lucky to get six bits a day.
That is seventy five cents, by the way.
I learned to make do with what I had.     There was never any excess.
Not like for the generations who came next.
When World War II came we already had practice.
Only this time my generation was dying, and I was one who was crying.

Look in my eyes, I am still a young girl inside.
A young lady with plans to be a bride, to have my children at my side
and be the loving mother like mine was to me.
But my son took too many risks.     I told him to slow the cars down,
don’t drive so fast.     He did not listen and he died before me.
That is not supposed to happen.

I did not plan to get old and infirm and alone.
Everyone is gone.     I told them goodbye, each and every one.
No one left to hold my hand.
No one left to understand the memories 
prompting bursts of girlish giggles.
I never planned on being the one left for last.
never planned on my future becoming my past.
So much history remains alive in my mind.
I lived the events which shaped the world that you found.
Lived them time after time for ninety some-odd years.

No, I was not always this old.
I was young and fresh and in my prime, for a time.”

Copyright © Monterey Sirak | Year Posted 2014


Details | Irish Poem | |

A Most Irish Fairy Tale - Merry Christmas to All

It is not just Santa Claus who we meet in cold December— 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long coal black curly hair far down on her back 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with beaming

Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of polar bear skins 
With a glossy coat sprinkled with pearls and diamonds . . . .

Out of the woods she comes so quiet in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with angelic guard 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina talks the animals’ languages 
The birds they play in all its splendor fine without sorrows 
They fly while Carolina keeps watch carefully on the horizon 

Falling snow now dazzling Christmas in a ball circle most brilliant 
While there is a frozen frosted sprinkling silver in the mist shining sun
Oh so!! Wonderful to behold as the Spirit of Christmas comes alive . . . .

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud
And the all the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his red nose so beautiful and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children just like sweetly wishing little voices wonderful in dreams
With those singing, tunes a dancing light appears so wondrous 
While planes from all over the world begin landing with cargo
And one each day with loads of letters from good little children

And Santa Claus begins calling the elfin troops into action while
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work as they are much tougher
But the old fighting Irish in them showing their softer side all the 
While with a drop of the old fiery dew to keep them warm smiling 
Like the very wee little Devil in them - mischievous and all . . . . 

They do all the heavy work for the elves as they have more of a spring
In their step while almost bouncing on the tip of the their toes like 
Little jumping springs so full of boundless wonder and energy and  
Then day after day the letters keep arriving and landing at the North Pole 
And they begin working like mad and very busily in the North Pole factory

While Santa checks the letters of all boys and girls through a secret window 
And when he shakes it he sees through the mist in a glass bubble of the
Christmas treats while hurriedly calling together all of his Reindeer . . . .
The sound of hooves on the snow saddles up the sleigh he is very slim 
To start off while all his helpers are loading up and he flicks the reins 

And the bells start ringing and - in a flash of magic dust in spirit sings of 
The ground waving he bade Mrs. Claus a very fond and loving farewell
And off he goes in a flash of light Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! echoing in the distance 

Each chimney sliding down he eats the food throwing some to the Reindeer 
Treats left after the night's over he feels so fat eating so much he heads back 
Home to the North Pole while smiling so content at the children’s happiness 
And ringing in his ears filled with golden smiles and wishing everyone a very 
Merry Christmas he falls asleep after Mrs. Claus makes him a hot chocolate
Really tired but easing his weary bones year after year he loves his job very
Much so and all of the sheer delight that his efforts and those of Mrs. Clau
And his elfin helpers and the joy and fun of the Reindeer bring to all children
On this Earth!! 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2014


Details | Irish Poem | |

st. patty's limerick

writing a limerick
so easy and simple
a little irish humor
give both cheeks a dimple
rainbows and leprechans
have come into season
but really St. Patrick
has given us reason
the three leaf clover
so common to us
settled an argument
a great big fuss
Father, Son, Holy Ghost
one from three?
St. Patrick with one clover
named one for each leaf
so easy so simple
as anyone can see
you can have one God
and He His three leaves

Copyright © john loving iii | Year Posted 2010


Details | Irish Poem | |

THIRSTY SEA (Slightly Mature Content)

the indelible scent of ecstasy filled their auras
with the fragrance of lovemaking spent and
aroused passion anxious to be tasted then
devoured…skin forged on skin…a magical collaboration
of need satisfying need…moments when love
takes you far beyond reality…no limits…
no borders…nothing refused… your physical surrender
a mere formality as flesh seeks flesh…
frolicking taste-buds unlocking rivers of dreams whose
surge simply washes away the pain of loveless
droughts past …in a heartbeat forever forgotten

all resistance simply ripped away as
flame licks ice as if it were candy… mouths drawn to loins
scented by eucalyptus that once inhaled becomes
unforgettable and forevermore addictive as
the taste of warm summer honey cloaks the soul

the strength of passion is found in its gentleness
the luxury of being touched so deeply…so intimately
your soul is turned inside out…eager to respond
the relentless tongue victoriously plays hide and seek
as a master…once found you beg for the mercy of more
you are never the same again…ever…as if a thirsty
sea lay within your soul and its tide is forever restless
paradise found …over and over…emptiness abandoned
as if a decree by the gods of love…two scents becoming
one..the air you breathe forever shared…the promise of
forever scratched on your skin as if you were a trophy

Irish  ST PADDY'S DAY 2010

Copyright © Michael Poyntz | Year Posted 2010


Details | Irish Poem | |

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb

(Irish from his Pop      Appendage from his Mum)

stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!

(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)

the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground

Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can

(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)

Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets

the ground isn't just a place for our feet

Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes     giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence

(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)

Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight

our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple

We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"

I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...

... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...



Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016


Details | Irish Poem | |

The House of the Irish

Of the musings that I can ponder,
the trips up the I 95 I can conjure.
To the house where my family dwelled.
At the thought of them my heart swelled.

The gooseberry bushes sang with delight.
The geraniums rose up when we were in sight.
Inside the emerald harmonies would play.
I was reminded of my home before my day.

My childish mind would wander in my sleep.
In the dark the phantoms and fairies would creep.
Under the bed I imagined fortified cities,
with vassals that bowed to my whims and ditties.

For me, the maternal voice caressed,
as I rested in repose, and I was blessed.
In the shadow of my elders I was positioned,
before into manhood, I would be christened.

Then manhood came without admonition.
And my childhood left, subject to revision.
The cities in my thoughts went by the wayside.
And its butlers and maids became nullified.

I outgrew the bosom to which I clung,
For mature men, maternal songs are no longer sung.
The voices that once sang a velvet harmony,
declined into dismal dormancy.

And the hands that once guided me,
Prepared to set sail on the eternal sea.
Then the banshee entered while they slept,
and in this house is where She wept.

The gooseberry bushes no longer make a sound.
The geraniums have wilted to the ground.
More of these musings I cannot reckon.
For the trips up the I 95 no longer beckon.

December, 2015
Written in memory of my late grandparents: Thomas and Philomena Brennan

Copyright © Daniel Carter | Year Posted 2016


Details | Irish Poem | |

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


Details | Irish Poem | |

Erin Go Bragh

At Ben Bulben’s feet Sligo stands
The home of such creative hands

Where poet William Yeats did grow.
The Nobel Prize his poems did know.

On my trip to this emerald isle,
I yearned to visit a long while.

As sun poured through the misty sky
Shedding warmth with its golden eye,

I stood beside the lough in awe
At dancing diamonds that I saw

Near Connemara’s tall twelve bens 
O’er lands of ancient souls that wends.

I sense their haunting watchful eyes
And feel my roots where rivers rise.

I hear the voices lost at sea,
They echo on eternally;

As with the thousands who took flight
During the worst potato blight.

Their sadness streams across the seas
Where most souls died with unheard pleas.

Those sad and tragic days long past,
And Erin’s joys returned at last

To verdant Lee and sandy shores
To music heard across the moors,

To people with the kindest hearts
Is what this isle to me imparts.

© 2013 

*Erin go bragh means Ireland Forever
*lough means a lake
*Ben means Irish, a mountain peak

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2013


Details | Irish Poem | |

A PAINTED LADY'S KISSES


All round the ring of Kerry’s highways, people point and cry
It’s 4 o’clock on the very dot and Mick’s rig is passing by,
It has glistening sheens of yellow, with cinnabar spots in red
Rich lozenges of orange complete the livery, as this butterfly forges ahead!
She’s kissing those dew damp breezes, on a morn like an Irish dream
As the sun’s rays like golden spokes 
Steal silently; through oaks of emerald green.
 lighting up a meadow’s buttercups, that border a hillside stream.
She hauls her load of butter, fresh from the herds of ‘Kerry’s spreads’
To sweeten the taste of a million slices, of European bread!
She’s making good time this morning in passing the various towns,
By 9 am she makes Letterkenny, to lay her cargo down.
Mick checks his trusty wristwatch
He needs to be back in Clonakilty; to make a special call
For by, begosh and begorrah ‘tis Father’s Day ‘n all. and
His sweet Molly will be waiting there, by an ancient rock built wall!
So he spins the painted lady round, to take the south west route,
Tooting  to folks he recognises; as along that road he shoots.

At 1 o’clock he’s made it back, and parks the painted lady up
He wanders up the dusty track; just a Dad in working gear
Straightening  an aching back, now his destination’s near
He searches the milling kids all around, many colours their faces show
And then he picks out his Molly. as those raven curls she throws!
She runs to greet him at his call, raising her face to be kissed
And she had chosen a painted lady, sure.. He felt how he had been missed!
He swings Molly up on high and they head back to the farm
She showers him with sweet butterfly kisses
As rabbles of the creatures unravel, in clouds and colours of charm!


NB the Painted Lady is an Irish species of Butterfly

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2013


Details | Irish Poem | |

Wild Irish Love

May your love for me
always be
as stormy as an Irish sea. 
I want no gentle ride
I wish for no small swell,
I've been safely drifting for too long.

May my love for you
always be
as sure as the setting sun.
As steady as a spring rain
a balm to your scorched plain.

You bring the wild,
I'll bring the sweet.
You be my rose,
I'll be your thorn.
I will be the sweet smile
as you swig down what makes you burn.

Copyright © Rachael Hood | Year Posted 2013


Details | Irish Poem | |

So many shades of green

visitin me aunty Cushla
For the first time in Ballybay
I found meself beside a signpost
An I stopped to find me way.
It was then I spied a little feller
Laid behind a bale of hay
He was prepared to help me 
but wanted to know what I was prepared to pay.

Well I couldn't believe what I was hearin
He's a tight fisted scallywag
but he wouldn't listen to reason 
and jangled the coins in his money bag.
Would ye do that to a feller Irishman ?
I hope yer marry a sour faced old hag 
He said , Why do yer think I'm chargin yer
Shut yer gob an get out yer swag.

He rubbed his hands as I counted me money
Just like Ebenezer Scrooge 
Gigglin like an hyena 
With his cheeks the colour of rouge.
Twenty pieces of silver
I thought his price was huge
The guys a bloody comedian 
an I am to be his stooge.

He stood up from behind the bale
An dressed in so many shades of green 
With his funny hat and his little pipe
On his shillelagh he began to lean.
Now where was it yer said yer were goin
Ah Ballybay , Well to prove I'm not too mean 
I'm gonna walk there with yer 
Aren't I the most generous leprechaun yerv ever seen?

As we walked I told him about me aunty Cushla
an me bein on holiday fer two weeks
He handed me back me money 
I'm so dumbfounded I can't speak
Ah to see a leprechaun yer must believe 
He said,So yer must forgive me cheek
An its luvvly to see a young Irish lad
Who didn't treat me like a freak.

Well Shamus an me became buddies
Fer the duration of me stay
Downin pints an eatin colcannon 
an dancin in the Irish way
He could really play a fiddle 
An no more did I have to pay
I loved me visit to see aunty Cushla
On me first trip to Ballybay. 





Copyright © DARREN WATSON | Year Posted 2014


Details | Irish Poem | |

The Isle of Man TT

Our sleepy little Island in the middle of the Irish Sea
Opens its eyes slowly for the Isle of Man TT
The Island bursts into life with bikers everywhere
You need to keep alert and take extra care

The Grandstand is buzzing with colour and noise
You have to admire the bravery of the biker boys
Tearing round the course at a million miles an hour
The machines that they ride have an awesome power

They line up on the grid; the adrenalin flows
The starter counts them down and then the rider goes
Tearing around the circuit at a tremendous pace
Trying to be the winner of the TT race

A dangerous sport racing can be
You don’t want to be a casualty 
We cheer and shout when they cross the line
Then the Island goes back to sleep until the next TT time

~ This poem is to be featured in a book called 'Bringing it home' ~

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014