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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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There was once an elf who learnt how to brew
a full-bodied beer and cook Irish stew.
He mixed them both together
with whisky for good measure.
When BANG went the pot a tantrum he threw!
-- --- --- - -- --- - - - - --
Contest: Luck of the Irish
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Placed 5th
© 15th March 2017
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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In a horrible dull monotone
Bobby spoke, and his girlfriend would moan,
“No kisses from me,
dear Bobby McGee
till you first kiss the old Blarney Stone.”
Written March 15, 2017 for
Kim Merryman's Luck of the Irish Limerick Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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(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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Ireland Poem
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~~~
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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Ireland Poem
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Don’t Get Me Irish Up
Me glasses were sitting a-top-a me head
the jam I was spreading was next to the bread
my knees were together but me spindly legs spread
I’m either half way in ---or out of the bed
I have to look down when brushing me teeth
and glue them in tight before chewing me meat
and as for the callous that grows wild on my feet
I find sanding them a sensual treat
Me fingers resemble cold, wintering trees
aging icicles hang from my elbows and knees
the slightest of movements puts a scent on the breeze
and to make matters worse I pee when I sneeze
Me back’s slightly bent, me forehead is wrinkled
when reading a menu, me eyes, yes – they’re crinkled
when I fall asleep they say “ the old boy’s Van Winkled”
and me stories they say are all “Blarney sprinkled”
Me slippers are worn, me legs freshly shorn
the skin of me cheeks soft as the day I was born
but when they break out the corned beef and stout
all of me parts start to dancing about
John G. Lawless
© 3/6/2017
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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7/18/02
In a tropical place the climate
becomes a way of being
Fruits and flowers on shirts and dresses,
Breakfasts of bananas.
Pineapple flavoured passions
of afternoon,
Pathways to the moon
on evening seas
Coconut milk tipped waves at dawn
Palms tilting horizons, gulls gliding
the edge of time
Yet- where I live does not define me
Not like the timeless, Irish dairymen who,
rain or shine, milk cows, they
could easily set their clocks by.
Here on this perfect stretch of sand-
I am rootless - envious
of those who have never moved.
I feel puppet-ized by modern life
A little schizoid - liking where I am,
hearing the voices, while
a part of me pines
for pastoral beginnings.
© Suzanne Delaney
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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St Patrick’s day is great
to drink Guinness and relate
how great the Irish are
at falling out of bar
in a highly drunken state
penned 14 March 2017
Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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Eriu Queen of our green land
enveloped within your Emerald eyes
Shining one lantern within a flaming torch
Spirit burning with fire escapes through the oceans whisper
Ruling sovereign turning over your earth lays foundations stone
breath of centuries gone bye building blocks
From the land of abundance we are your sons and daughters so to speak
your Reverence long live the republic of Eire under the gold harp and green
The true flag when our nation once knew freedom
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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They told me Paris was the city of love.
Never did they mention you.
They told me red was the color of admiration.
Never did they mention green.
I know you have experienced loss.
I walked onto your loss
I know you carry plenty of love
I watched the love through your motions
Your beauty is timeless
Your build is ageless
They said you never stopped crying
Your rivers will never run dry
Your tears are only mere love for the soil you feed
I know the rich dark red hops you pride yourself on
I have tasted the malty sensation
I know your humor is apparent
I heard it like I heard your strong Gaelic words last night
Now, all I think about is you
All I crave is you
You, the one who whispered in my ear
“I’ll marry you one day”
Ireland, you’ve got me.
Copyright © Shelby Bay | Year Posted 2017
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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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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Ireland Poem
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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 " 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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Ireland Poem
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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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