Unsuppression
Exact wild convoluted digressions
Dispatched rap to re ramp tan
Hide all important novelties
As I confuse the vile
Stagnations the ball sawed dust till
Legends found tall
Ballerina indignant
The definition that wouldn't kiss
She wanted rules in verbs
Out of poison
Longing for idiom
We played out a sunlight
So I could pass on to heaven
What he might
A long a line in times
Well righting zincs
Wipe after wipe
I built a heart she never lept
Four cloves to the heart did grow
And removed her shucks from my lies
Brexit
Instant the command
As decisions
In labouring the fields
A civil war of family's avoiding
Yet the enactments mimic
As bond as surety
In financing burdens
One wishes not to carry
Carriage as stable
Nightingales lost fables
Ferry in twist
Smirking gentle and smits
To the good Friday of Ireland
A movie set in Innisfree,
so green and beautiful to see -
the sun burned through the dew and mist,
but it was in my head - did not exist.
Flaming redhead lass, you will be missed.
A voice from the old-country calls Dave,
and there's nothing left for me to save,
in L.A, twenty-first century.
Her voice sings a birdsong melody,
and I leave this note no one will see.
This mystic Druid
Soul searcher with windswept eyes
Beckons. Come away.
She holds a bright flame
to see through the dark
for she's fearful of far
incoming storm clouds
Red Stag on the hill
watching closely in height
majestic proud stance
she's not fearful at sight
her long skirt touches leaves
as she crosses the *sruth
and her flames light her face
as her hair flowing loose
and she picks up her steps
as she hears foxes cry
and she pulls at her shawl
as the mist finds her eyes
so she calls out in song
as a fear takes a hold
longing rocking chair fire
at home, where belong
and her voice is so gentle
echo winds on the hills
at the stag she looks back
and he's watching her still
and soon she's back home
and sits by the fire
and the storm clouds have risen
but her heart never tires
for her watcher on hills
he guided her through rain
and he watches her still
and kisses her pain.
* sruth is Gaelic for 'stream'
An initiative unforeseen
Supported by the Countess Aberdeen
Motivated several politicians and were
Encouraged to convene
In the year of 1920
When issues were aplenty
Delegates backed the Cork City charter
And elected MacSwiney, our dear martyr
Yet as many were to grieve
Others would also leave
They were faced with a new mandate
Upon founding the Irish Free State
However not everyone was happy
And things got rather scrappy
With views diverging ever-more
Making it hard to keep the score
The dust took a while to settle
And tested our civic institutions’ mettle
Though issues were left unsolved
Causing city councils to be dissolved
New problems were to be addressed
That would get the people rousing
Occupied with public works and housing
Making the managers obsessed.
That’s an oversimplification
For a topic deserving of dilation
An overview of a creation
Being the Municipal Association
A district in the south
On the coastline it has graced
Is a well established charter
Ancient roots from which it’s based
The symbol of the city
Placed on the Corporation seal
That Latin script around the edge
Enshrines the common weal
A pair of towers at the Port
Consolidate the fort
Allowing commerce to flow forth
For there’s more tea to import
The glowing harbour waves
Drift in from the sea
They travel under bridges
Along the River Lee
Few today remember well
It was on a sunny June day
When this city seal was embraced
By the martyred JFK
Least we not forget
The motto that is his
Invoked now, forever more
‘Statio Bene Fida Carinis’
I’ve never dined on caviar,
The finest instead, a Mars bar.
No palace key for this housing Czar
Sip water alone, not at a gilded bar.
The challenge must be taken on the chin
And not merely with audacious spin
A moratorium won’t fix the cause
Of that usurious interest clause
And gestures from the righteous
To address this crisis
Have long past worn thin
Though life is well-equipped with knocks
Nonetheless, the misery clocks
And platitudes from a soapbox
Won’t outfox a notice
Sliding through the letterbox
There’s no bright light from the corporate sphere,
Shining down on hardship, here
Though those with good jobs try to spread cheer
Their lives are not as good as they appear
With some sleeping in a car
Obtaining meals from Spar, just near.
One More Cow, One More Sow
Another acre cultivated
By a shining plough
The farmer’s son takes off his hat
Wiping the sweat from his brow
Their productive loans are being called in
Lives changed at the financier’s whim
To survive, they’ll work for life and limb
Yet their malnourished bones are wearing thin
The processor purchases milk below cost
And no buyers for our fields of maize
It looks like all hope is now lost
It seems, rarely these days
That honest work ever pays
One More Cow, One More Sow
We are coming closer, acre by acre
Until we use our Starry Plough
Let’s grow a harvest from the soil
And struggle living from our toil
Every revolution ever
Devised by the most clever
From the rot, they sever
And souls naive
Of anew, believe
Assuming it not too far gone
To rectify all that’s wrong
They must be ready to stand up, then
For combat in the villain’s den
And although it is not as mighty
The sword decides who holds the pen
Yet history provides a warning
And the idealist may end up mourning
For those without a Machiavellian trait
Are warriors destined for a tragic fate
As it seems that thoroughly good men
Will never be esteemed as great
Those who gain control may revise the theme
Drifting ever further from the dream
Men of puerile mind
To knives are blind
And that vision once so fabled
Destroyed by some, we many enabled
On reflection, it makes the morose sigh
When they hear that brave man’s cry
“We serve neither King nor Kaiser”
Acting as a battle galvaniser
Due to the fact that ‘ad finem’
There’s superficial change achieved since then
And all of us are none the wiser
At Lough Allua, along the waterfront
One observes a turning of the tide
From river stones, which stay blunt
Are nature’s creatures, who needn’t hide
A little toad searches for anew
Commencing a journey made by few
Its passage, grows so weary
Following the gravel track
On its way to Ballingeary
High ditches cloak edges of the roads
Serving to both sides, a useful shield
Tender branches break against the cars
And one peers through leaves, into a field
To spot vibrant hydrangeas, unconcealed
Yet across the rugged boundary
One can hear the mud clumps crack
With a sand-tinted Hereford bull
Rolling around on his back
Retiring into a pond
Atop the Shehy Mountains
The land in Spring, it is so fond
When in the creases of these hills
The emerging sun shines through the petals
Of those lovely daffodils
With the sudden pang in your abdomen
And the onslaught of terror,
Did you look around one last time
At the familiar keepsakes on the fireplace
Or did you avert your gaze?
In the frosty darkness of that night
As you climbed to that holy shrine
With mud colllecting at your ankles,
Did the Virgin hail her unexpected visitor
or did she avert her eyes?
And as you laid there,
In your bed of stone
And when that moment came at last,
Tell me, were you revealed or petrified
As you finally held what was always yours?
Were you afraid you’d burn -
Not like the sages in their holy fire
Or were you pierced with peace,
Gazing into his evanescent eyes
In that still darkness of the night?
Four leaf clover Fiona was a lucky Irish lass
Boys asked her out, but she always took a pass
She had large goals, and wanted to get things done
Having six boy cousins, she knew they were not a lot of fun.
But some boys are truly special, her older sister said.
I am only seventeen, she said, don’t change my mind or head.
There are many years between now and when I go to the other place.
Right now, I can barely keep up with my own self-imposed pace.
Fiona was in clover leaders of the world, and on a robotics team.
She had designed a specialized drone, and a new flying machine.
Fiona was a scientist, a writer, an artist, a woman with an active mind.
She was not on the hunt for a man, difficult to find a similar kind.
Mr. Potato
a.k.a., Spud Murphy
'I'll have another cigarette,'
as John Lennon (1940 – 1980) writ,
'And curse Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 – 1618)
he was such a stupid git.'
However,
(altho' to his cost)
it may have
gone to his head
(which, unluckily, later he lost),
Raleigh introduced
the noble potato
(the blight of Ireland)
into Britain — ca. 1586,
and what's more
tobacco it did eclipse,
so yes indeed, his is the face
that launched a thousand chips.
Freckles decorated him from end to end.
In Ireland, there was no drinking after 10:00 pm
Leprechaun O’Toole, was his name.
If found with the drink, shame, shame!
One crooked night past 3 am, O’Toole's tea invited whiskey to attend.
Liquid rules that Ireland had spoke, were now secretly broke and drank by nearby folk.
His silver shillings were now mine to spend! He had forgotten no drinking after 10:00pm
Specific Types of Ireland Poems
Definition | What is Ireland in Poetry?