Best Ira Poems
Remember
Israel of three thousand years
expulsed at times
enslaved by the Romans
gassed by Europe
persecuted by Saudi-Arabia
murdered by Iran and Iraq
shackled by Egypt
attacked by Jordan
robbed by Syria
sold out by the UK
bombed by the IRA
slandered with spit by Turkish terrorists
sent to the Siberian gulags in Russia
comrades they are not
evicted from many many lands
Battles house by house
street by street
once friendly neighbors
each calling the other traitor
a bloody war where no side
would retreat
by prophecy they won
Wrestling God
the twelve tribes returned
to the land of the Israelites
to their promised land
from sand they made gardens
from the desert they grew grapes
where terror reigns they
made an oasis
Anti Zionism still slithers
belly dancers selling their deceptions
naked harlots forever spew latent hate
evil men whisper, dead jew, dead jew
sadly, uneducated views saturate
seductively selling their false peace
like a woman's second hand virginity
They only hate, and dream of blood
if only, if only we had another flood
Noah would leave them all at shore
harlots, by any other name are simply
the devils horses
Israel was
Israel is
Israel shall forever be
the Middle East's democracy
and graciously
the custodian of all of us
a religious trinity
Gods chosen
their glorious capital
Jerusalem!
MANCHESTER
Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night.
Everyone has been to your cityscape,
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record.
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently,
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon
all coming and going, it amazes you
just to see them all become one with the city.
If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours— Radclyffe Hall
Explore themes of love and identity
Of Stephen Gordon’s innate sense of masculinity
Since a child, her desire, ‘women’
The idea that if love is considered a sin
The unfolding of a female sexual invert
The act of loving must be a tender selfless act, revert?
Love itself is not inherently sinful or
complexities of love, we shan’t ignore
But rather the circumstances surrounding it
Misfits from Malvern to London and then to Paris!
Ira furor brevis, the frailty, taboo and strife
Fellow q***r characters, all walks of life
From the *sapphic salon hostess Valérie Seymour
To the 'miserable army' and more
of outcasts that frequents the 'merciless
Drug-dealing, death-dealing' bars of Montmartre
Written in another time, still support and solidarity to
generations of LGBTQ genre
*Sapphic is an umbrella term for same-gender loving women or woman-aligned people, including lesbians and bisexual+ women. It is used to describe topics, activities, and ideas related to same-sex attraction among women. The term can also refer to the Greek lyric poet Sappho.
Camino en sociedad de ignorancia,
Donde palacios son corruptos por efectos de arrogancia;
Pasan por nuestros lados,
Echando el ojo, tratando de disimular;
Donde la conciencia es absentista,
Donde todos dicen ser abstencionistas,
Pero, todos son ambiciosos, consumidos y absorbidos por hipocresía...
Camino en sociedad abolicionista,
Donde abolicionan toda aventura,
Donde la única aventura es abolir la sociedad,
Siendo una sociedad abstraída y egoísta,
Poniendo todo lindo, pero con abusividad escondida,
Siendo una sociedad de imbéciles accionistas,
Mostrando intransigencia acérrima y decisiva,
Pero, todos son perezosos basados en negligencia anarquista...
Camino en sociedad de advertencia,
Donde los reprimidos quedan agrisados,
Donde los rechazados y solitarios quieren valentía,
Donde la paz social va desvaneciendo,
Donde la minoría quiere acracia y amnistía de la sociedad,
Para derrocar la corona trastornada y distorcionada...
Camino en sociedad amorfa,
Donde nos han forzado ansias a través de propaganda alarmista,
Donde existen muchos agiotistas fraudulentos,
Donde propias convicciones son raramente afianzadas y aseguradas,
Donde la autoridad permanece en mordacidad y acrimonia,
Donde los realistas son fastidiados y ajusticiados,
Donde las miradas autoritarias son falsamente alegatorias,
Donde muchos permanecen injustamente en incertidumbre ambigua...
Solo a través de sabios ojos,
Es que existen verdaderas experiencias;
Con mirada fiera,
Con mirada de ira,
Con mirada desamparada,
Con mirada sigilosa,
Con mirada misteriosa;
Con toda mirada real existe vida lúcida y estragos mortíferos...
Camino en sociedad de odio,
Donde toda mirada se vuelve rencorosa,
Camino en sociedad de miradas,
Donde las paredes escuchan y hablan,
Donde las divisiones son provocadas,
Apuñalando nuestras espaldas;
Piensan que es un simple juego de carcajadas,
Pero, todos son hipócritas a través de siniestras miradas,
Que me tratan de dejar en agrafia,
Con el juego de las miradas...
Every earlobe ever pierced, minus non-pierced lobes, without exception
Quantified by head size, quality of piercings, and variety of earrings worn
Under ultraviolet light, utilizing reflective space, sound waves and distance
At appropriate intervals, measuring cut, clarity, carat, color and character
Totaling to a six figure sum, then divided by US bonds withdrawn from IRA
Increase the risk of screaming in agony, up to, but not more, than 50 decibels
On an operatic stage, bursting glass objects, as per fat lady singing, wherein
Numerical miscalculations of damage, therein, must be subtracted from the
Sum, so that all of said variables will not exceed the confusion of the bystander.
Written on 3/9/2016
The familiar sound of gunshots
rings out in the dead of night,
As a sniper takes position in the
bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the
sound of many marching feet,
As 2 Para make their presence
felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days
graft 'n' then it's homeward
bound,
As a British soldier just
nineteen lays bleeding on the
ground,
Well he fought for queen 'n'
country so it comes as no
surprise,
As he draws his last
breath,says a prayer and there
a hero dies,
So many slain civilians(they're
just casualties of war,
Do the f*ckers even realise
what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got
lost in the mists of time?
The Ira take credit for their
latest deadly crime,
In a safe house miles from
nowhere there's three loyalists
lying dead,
One in a grave (he was buried
alive) and two with one straight
through the head,
But the score it was evened
before the cock crowed,three
catholic civilians were slain,
And there's rumours of
vengeance and fights to the
death and calls to keep calm
from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens
sit counting up lost lives,
The Ulster Paramilitary sit
sharpening their knives,
And loading slugs into the clip
of someone else's gun,
"Come on now lads there's dirty
deeds awaiting to be done"
In Londonderry,County Down,in
Belfast,Newry too,
The Catholics and the
Protestants keep Ireland torn in
two,
As our children grow in the
shadow of fear,
There's a stench of death and
bloodshed here,
So you with the power please
give us the chance,
To find a solution and finish the
dance,
Give Ireland back to the Irish
pleeaasssse!
Or bring the whole damned
nation crashing down to its
knees.
Back foot Irishman
Who remembers his
tripe
Major Barbara
Androcles and the
lion
are we all asleep !
Just a man of his
time
like a five minute
pop star
friend of nancy boy
Bosie Douglas
bringing the poor
main man Oscar Wilde
down
Better self love
than grovelling in
the dirt
how can any real man
or woman dislike
Shakespeare
a friend of Michael
IRA Collins
all there a
collection of back
foot Irishmen
The Irish sadly will
never be free
trapped in their own
Sunni and Shi-ite
sh**
He Didn’t Leave Much
He didn’t leave much, never had much.
His “stuff” mostly fit in one drawer of the
old dresser. His world a daily grind of
rising at five AM, walking to his first job.
Then at five PM, walking from his first job
to his second job.
I don’t ever remember him being happy.
I know that he must have had some happiness
in his life, but it was never apparent to me.
He was intelligent, if not educated. He was
pretty much a non-participant in my life.
An Irish immigrant, he knew little of the
games his children loved, although I think
he feigned an interest at times. I imagine
these moments were his attempts to form
something of a bond with children who
knew little or nothing about their ancestors,
their history, their heredity.
The mystery of the man still shadows me
today. Who was he – really. There were
stories of Ireland and the IRA, of farms
and family, a family we never met.
As he grew older, he would become
melancholy at times and meander through
memories fueled by a bottle of Irish Whiskey.
He would play the accordion. His eyes would
sparkle as he played, as if he had gone back to
a different time, a kinder place.
Perhaps the mystery of the man is a better
legacy than knowing all the gritty details of
his loves and loses, his heartaches, his
youthful experiences. What were his secrets,
and why were they kept?
I wonder – when he left Ireland –
if he wept.
John G. Lawless
5/1/2014
Back foot Irishman
who remembers his tripe
Major Barbara n Androcles and the lion
are we all asleep !
Just a man of his time
like a five minute pop star
friend of nancy boy Bosie Douglas
bringing poor Oscar down
Better self love than grovelling in the dirt
how can any real man or woman dislike Shakespeare
friend of Michael IRA Collins
Back foot Irishman
Norman Wisdom, ninety-five, the comic actor dies in his sleep;
That is an exception, making headlines when violent ends have become the norm.
Bobby Sands, an IRA militant, died in prison, on hunger strike,
Baha Mousa, innocent Iraqi, died in custody, tortured, in chains.
Six million Jews of all ages, died in gas chambers - the Nazi Holocaust.
Two world wars of the recent past saw untimely massacre of many millions;
Hiorshima, Nagasaki, A-bombed victims were civilians,
Yet all world religions proscribe taking the lives of fellow human beings.
Death is demeaning to all who succumb, unless from age or natural cause,
Technology advances in geometric progression inflaming mankind's lust to kill;
Today's art and entertainment glorify extremes of violence and crime,
The end of the planet cannot be far off, as collective hatred explodes at will.
IRA; a strong idealogic and separatists,
At last surrender to the democratic values,
Over decades, after a long fight to achieve,
Thousand innocents blood on their name.
When a religion has a fight against a religion,
What a person can achieve in this invisibility,
He can kill himself on the name of a religion,
With a belief God will honour him in heaven.
But God never honoured to anyone,
When Lord Jesus was fighting for justice,
Tarrents hanged him innocently until death,
A miracle was disappeared to punish cruelity.
Lord Mohammad was fighting for justice,
To deliver a better service on the name of God,
But no power came to save innocents,
They were martyred as Hassan and Hussain.
Lord Krishna pretends that a man borns,
For his duty, he has to do that as he did,
Million people were killed in a battle,
As respect for a lady is a story of Mahabharta.
Lord Rama has a fight for his honour,
To defeat King Rawana who was seeking justice,
For his sister she was insulted to cut her nose,
Is Rama respects for ladies as Sita was banished?
Guru Govind Singh when declared a Khalsa,
Society killed his innocent family to stop him,
To establish a religion in a religion’s boundary,
And killed thousands innocently who followed him.
At last they admit that religion can’t survive,
Without a state power and a state power,
Can’t deliver peace without a belief in God,
They also surrender at last to democratic values.
Democracy where a person can enjoy his liberty,
Thousands lost their innocent lives to replace,
A better system to remove dictatorship,
As Iraqi nation is fighting for democracy.
Democracy is a best from for governments,
If they know how to respect and honour a law,
Law is superb in democracy, law fails there,
A system is corrupted, nation has no respect.
All likes peace because peace is only a tool,
That provides sources to develop personality,
To understand a cause of birth to identify him.
Who achieves a best achievement of nature?
Can you hear me?
The monster waited outside of my bedroom door.
My body pressed against the floor.
Looking, waiting for someone to save me.
The silence slices through the air.
Mommy didn’t try to scare him away this time.
I felt my heart beat in my ears
And felt his nails caress my hair.
What makes you happy? Why is this happening?
My screams trapped inside my pillow?
My eyes red from tears?
Are you thriving from my fear?
All the King’s horsemen are dead.
The next day, I made my bed like terror never lived.
Tucked in my blankets and fluffed my pillows
Erasing the memories of last night’s shadows.
(By Ira Dawson and Brittany Spaulding)
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: White Boys
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/1995
I want to do
just like
the white boys
do -
Wear
six hundred
dollar
shoes,
and
dress
in
the finest
of
suits -
I want
a
six figure
income,
to splurge
at
Fred Segal's,
on
Melrose
avenue -
I want to
jog
with
my dog,
while
pushing
my child
in a
stroller -
I want to
send
my children,
to
only
the best
of
schools -
I want a
pristine
neighbourhood
in a
gated
community -
And
style
in a
Bentley,
through
Hollywood -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
live
in
Beverly Hills,
and
hob nob
with
my
constituents-
I want to
have
A-1
credit,
to
charge
on
Rodeo Drive -
I want a
foyer
filled
with
roses -
and
a
Butler
passing
out
horsd'oeuvres,
champaign,
and
caviar -
And
I want to
travel,
in a
Lincoln
Town car -
What
I really want
is
equal rights,
regardless
of
colour -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
Who
wouldn't
want to
ride
a horse
under
the
golden
sun,
on
the
beach
in
Malibu -
Just like
the
white boys
do
I want to
explore
life
under
the sea
in a
submarine -
I want stocks,
bonds, CD's
and
Ira account's
too -
a
Yacht,
Lear Jet,
and
a
home
in
Peru -
Just like
the white boys
do -
I want to be
in
every
television
commercial,
every
movie,
and
smile for
the
camera,
when they
call
my name -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want it
all -
even a
star
on the
walk of fame -
I want to
expose
the
myth,
shown
around
the
world,
that
only
white boys
are
doing
everything -
I want to
Sky Dive,
Hang Glide,
and
fly
in a
Hot Air
balloon -
I want to
fall
from
the sky
in
a
parachute -
I want to
golf;
play
board games,
and
speed race
in
a boat -
I want to
drive
a
jacked-up
truck -
and
lasso
a horse
with
a
rope -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
Snowboard,
parasail,
ski,
and
wind surf -
And
I want to
dine with
Royalty,
like
Kings
and
Queens -
I want to
be
on the
cover
of every
magazine -
I want it
all -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
There it was, a stranger of sorts.
I say "It" in place of "man" as my memory supports.
A beguiling arrangement of coffee mugs,
porcelain creamer boats,
filled with lumps of matured cream.
Sour and old as would be an elder, celibate parishioner.
There where books on cosmology,
showing me the endless closets of the universe.
Chip crumbs, and dead writing, my nights operations.
With a ball point pen preforming haplessly to deliver a life,
always ends in the same habitual flat lines.
And my torn piece of paper, with words as wounds, doesn't pull through.
"Call it time of death 3:38 am"
Fifth one tonight.
For tonight this shall cease.
The stranger it seems has his own words for me.
In the shadows he speaks so gentle but abrasive.
in perfect harmony, each his voices.
"No more pity for the odd one now."
"No love less given to the average mans brow."
It chuckled and turned and hummed as it took leave.
I wrote better that day.
A poem about a man who leaves his home in Oklahoma, and travels all the way to the city of angels.
He starts selling fruit on the highway,
in hopes it will bring him interesting stories.
He meets people and attends parties.
Eventually writes a best seller about an Irish couple in The I.R.A.,
who commit treason in the name of their undying love for each other.
And the heartbreak, action, the romance, and the comedy blew the world away. I won an award for that work and prestigious publications where pestering me.
I often think of how I got here.
Then I notice a strangeness it seems.
Always watching lurking in my days and dreams.
It's stranger and friend with eyes that gleam.
A stranger who is stranger than the strangeness it brings.
Entry for the Golden Age of Music Poetry Contest, sponsored by Oliver McKeithan, March 2025, Second Place.
I dreamed of Johnny Cash last night,
his music spoke to me,
I said I thought that you were dead,
but music lives said he,
but music lives said he.
From Folsom, to Fort Bend,
for every soul behind bars,
he asked if we could say a prayer,
then picked up his guitar,
then picked up his guitar.
He sung to me of Ira Hayes,
words that rung in my ears,
the world of reservations,
with all those rivers of tears,
with all those rivers of tears.
We talked and talked of music,
country, hip hop and blues,
how Bo Diddley and Beyoncé,
can move our blue suede shoes,
can move our blue suede shoes.
I dreamed of Johnny Cash last night
surprised to see him back,
I said I thought that you were dead,
but he was still dressed in black,
but he was still dressed in black.