Best Brogue Poems
He died when I was a baby
I never felt his touch
Never heard his soft Irish brogue
Which I yearn to hear so much
I will never look into his lovely blue eyes
No memories to recall
He gave me the gift of life
Yet ,I never knew him at all!
Ahhh the luck of the Irish
complete with leprechauns
and pots of gold
The Emerald Isle
God's country
filled with lyrical voice
but no one hears her cry
that fabled luck
truly a fable t'would seem
suffering
the only thing in abundance
it is their only pot
that remains filled
an impoverished relative
showing up late for dinner
tossed a few scraps
from the rich relatives
but not allowed to sit at the table
a history rich with servitude
famine, plaque
and indentured slavery
spit upon by class distinctions
laughed about as uneducated
their brogue common
ahhh yes the curse of the commoner
in a society that rewards
upper class and the deemed
right of birth
drunken happy go lucky louts
that would steal your pants
rather than wash his own
and on and on the prejudice flows
from old days into the new
of drinking and gambling
even in the movies
portrayed as a rogue
these perceptions followed
fine people across the sea
where they built the cities
endured the hardships
and still no one hears their cry
no one gives them their due
they did the jobs
others were to afraid to do
the hard labor
standing on steel skyscrapers
so many descendent's
of this proud people
have formed the foundations
of other countries
and still they do not control their own
now the world frowns
not understanding the religious battle
that dwells within
it's all they have
their faith
it makes perfect sense to me
for yes the Irish
would start a fight in a church
for they are not afraid
to stand up for their beliefs
they are just hollow
for so much
has been taken from them
so much suffering
has been endured
so they cling to their faith
as a man clings to a life preserver
for to lose that last vestige
they will lose themselves
ahhhh the luck of the Irish
maybe they should pass that luck to another
then maybe someone will hear their cries
someday they may follow the rainbow
and will truly find that pot of gold
In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.
He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.
His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.
Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.
He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.
His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.
Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.
What's In A Name
(Heritage, Proudly Honored)
From ancient lineage comes my last name
Brave warriors that drank strong ale, spilled blood.
Some were letters men, spoke in Irish brogue
foot loose fancy free, set for any game!
Patrons of olden villages and their pubs
They daily, drank to sing and sang to drink.
A few were artists, painters and that lot
sworn to clan, beloved clan was their club!
Masters of vast lands, in valley of trees
Shepherds of flocks defended only by staffs.
Others arms makers, broad-swords forged true
More recent times, sailors of seven seas!
Yet I dare to honor father's proud name
With pen marks and compassion's flaming glow.
Family dear, loved beyond my own life
As I breathe, teach my son to do the same!
With humility, pray these words hold true
Each day, I shall bless those I most cherish.
At night, guard lives even should it cost mine
With honor, pay great homage that is due!
January 9th, 2017
Syllable count checked : www.howmanysyllables.com
For Contest :
What's in a name? - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by SilentOne
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
1. BROGUE
The term brogue (/bro?g/ BROWG) generally refers to an Irish accent. Less commonly, it may also refer to certain other regional forms of English, in particular those of Scotland or the English West Country.[1][2]
The word was first recorded in 1689.[3] Multiple etymologies have been proposed: it may derive from the Irish bróg ("rough or stout shoe"), the type of shoe traditionally worn by the people of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, and hence possibly originally meant "the speech of those who call a shoe a 'brogue'".[4] It is also possible that the term comes from the Irish word barróg, meaning "a hold (on the tongue)", thus "accent" or "speech impediment".[5] A famous false etymology states that the word stems from the supposed perception that the Irish spoke English so peculiarly that it was as if they did so "with a shoe in their mouths".[6]
McDugal, the Leprechaun is a gent
Mick's wife always says he was Heaven sent
He shows respect to women
In their praises he's swimmin'
They love hearin' his Irish brogue accent
~ To be read with an Irish brogue ~
Mary, please marry 'me merry Barry'
'Me merry Berry,' Mary, please marry
Don’t marry Matty
Don’t marry Moti
Marry 'me Barry,' ~ Be merry, Mary
Aye, ‘Tis His Brogue
A stout Guinness will cause him to sing
a second will sharpen tongue’s sting
and after that
‘tis a known fact
he’ll talk for an hour and not say a thing.
John G. Lawless
1/22/2017
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE MALL
A funny thing happened on the way to the mall
It came in the form of a really odd call
My smart phone rang and answered itself
And began a conversation with a TV chef
The chef was Italian, my cell phone speaks Creole
I pulled to the roadside to hear things unfold
The chef indicated his need for her to see
What ingredient was missing from his new recipe
She said to the chef what you need is crawdads
The chef asked if that was all that he adds
She explained to him in her Creole accent
Crawdads would be his greatest advent
And in his Italian brogue he said okey dokey
But I think it will make my dish rather hokey
My Creole smart phone made this reply
I am a smart phone and I do not lie
The chef said to her how you getta my number
And why you calla me and tella me this bummer
She said to the chef get a line and a pole
Then take a walk down to the crawdad hole
Catch yourself a dozen or two
And change your recipe into crawdad stew
Then you'll be the most famous chef of all
Because you got it all from a smart phone call
Now the moral of this silly nonsensical rhyme
Is to see how many of you will take time
To see if your smart phone is smarter than you
And give an Italian chef your recipe for crawdad stew
25 June 2018
For the contest sponsored by Robert Haigh
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
organ, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said is
Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
I imagine my ancestors having once lived in parts of Europe
having the ambition to sail to America with prayers and some luck
leaving behind the potato famine blight that disrupted their Irish lives
with their small suitcases arriving here as husband and wife
Their Irish brogue was probably endearing and very thick
as the Ellis Island inspectors inspected all the "Micks"
more than likely they had to talk slow so Americans could understand
gradually assimilating and talking like folks from Long Island
I wonder how it felt when they sailed into New York harbor
more than likely they were nervous and excited to their Irish cores
walking around the city they took in sights they never saw before
a fresh new start...bringing their Irish heritage from distant shores.
6-18-18
panama
hats
canvas
caps
cravats
&slacks-
a kaftan
or two
tabards
brand new-
sandal
brogue
leather
shoe,
jeans
with
seams
cardigan
jumpers
socks
too true-
braces
laces
shirt
&skirt..
one or two-
or three!