Christmas Tree Boy waved a star on a stick
Said “abra ca dabra” in a brogue that was thick
Danced the holiday dance around the tree.
He was incredibly silly said my weird Aunt, Aunt Vee.
the king felt thwarted in his own kitchen
he was not fancy, but his concoctions were ’n
the cook said to her sous chef, he is a rogue!
in her unusual jibber jabber, an Irish brogue
the king knew he was entitled, he had been so at birth
He straightened his crown, and bowed to the earth
a loudspeaker on the wall laughed at his pompous ways
he baked a treasure in his scones, in pinks and grays
the cook tried not to laugh, she had to hold on to the sink
The sous chef was yelling “those scones are gray and pink!”
the king’s cheeks were all red, he ran from the place
Serves him right said the cook, making fun of His Grace.
Alright still gobsmacked how we were
Attacked..hacked..hijacked...whacked
Ransacked cracked shellacked poleaxed
By his relaxed Rat packed knack maxed
So here's a witty ditty ode to Travis
No ifs or buts can't tut tut... annul it or cull it
Straight out of the hut a classy brassy strut
Gung ho have a go heave ho maestro Mullet
Slaying & flaying.. no rut just a glorious glut
Left a stark dark smut.. every bowler's a mutt
Like some flirty dirty sl*t playing with the nut
Hard not to swoon at the boon of the loon
Croon at Travis's off his Head buffoon tune
Stubby not chubby tad tubby like David Boon
Us staunch fans of the promising paunch gasping
Can't snub or sub.. like a lad down the pub or club
Another out of whack attack does launch rasping
Rogue's Bogan brogue.. flashes his blade like Shogun
Wizard of Oz as loved as X men's Logan or Paul Hogan
Dashes and lashes.."Taches win Ashes" the Travis slogan
I am a wearied wandering
man
Still trying to stick to my
menu
I have worn out my brogue
shoes
Now, i have to pad the hole in
my sole
But i would rather have a hole in
my shoes
Than have a hole in my soul.
(Written 16th October, 2025)
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
Rascal the rapscallion was a slyboots rogue
he fancied himself a pixie, spoke Irish brogue
we suspected he was a leprechaun hiding gold
he lived in Skeezicks Forest, Celtic land of old
molly mcbee had a brogue that was thick
her gravelly voice scared her neighbor Brick
when he saw her coming he ran away
she laughed at this, showing her sense of play
here she comes, cute Molly McBee
She will be the death of Brick and me
Brick is hiding behind yonder tree
Please hide me from Molly McBee
~ 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
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually, quite common
in the long-buried book of Celtic Memories.
When she in a reverie came to me
- her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams,
I sensed a pitter-pattering of soft rain
redolent of the green hills
of Connemara falling into my mind.
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
She said.
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself ask:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak
in its gently lyrical brogue.
"The living have no beginning or end,"
she whispered over the raindrops,
"and the dead never were."
I thought about this for a while
as I watched her fly a slow silver sky
over her shoulders.
Then I, in much joy,
thanked her for being forever
my crazily named
aunt Anastasia.
I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.
Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.
Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud,
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my placeless patios, my me.
America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver,
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears.
Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.
A snarly-mouthed, cross-eyed, pessimist with an attitude toward mean.
Ann Marie disregards opinions that are not her own.
The town has ignored her for so long, few people remember her name.
She speaks in a pirate’s brogue when she speaks, which is not often.
Mostly to a newcomer who is brave enough to say “hello” to her.
Her relatives parted ways long ago, even though she still lives here.
She is satisfied with their arrangement.
So are the other six thousand and twenty-two residents.
The Thing About Flying
David J Walker
Everyone said it was
Okay for you to fly
It was a good day
And what does dying
mean anyway
if you can’t spread your wings
and try
To reach for higher things
Known only in the context of
A clear blue sky
Everyone said it was
Okay for you to die
While I
And thousands
Remain on the dry earth
Contemplating your
Irish Birth
Your Irish brogue
Your boyish grin
Your pale blue Irish eyes
And paler Irish skin
Your dry whit
Your never quit attitude
About everything and
Everyone you touched
You made us believe in
Rainbows and leprechauns
You were the pot of gold
That everyone could touch
But no one could hold
Except God and your family
So fly my friend
That’s the thing about
Flying
And in the end
You bequeath your love
And smile
To us all
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of dream-crows take off all at once,
the clatter of their wings
a whole symphony played in just one moment.
Grandmother would speak in her Highland tongue;
sounds lyrical and melodic. As a child
I just listened not deciphering or even thinking,
absorbing only the sounds of her rhythmic brogue,
her Celtic chimes.
Mozart leaps up from a nocturnal reverie
stumbles around lighting candles,
lays his sleepy forehead on a keyboard
endeavors to recall a certain harmonic
overheard as the trills of Pipistrelle bats.
When my head swings from the pillow
I cannot find the pencil.
Mind mutely watches a cappella words
wander away from their musical roots,
silence falls out of nowhere into nowhere.
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!
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!
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