Erin’s face looks like a map of Ireland, I was told.
She had ginger hair with slivers of dashing gold.
Her eyes were as green as the Emerald Isle.
And she lit up Dublin with her darling smile.
Many chased her in a merry happy fun-loving way.
She was gorgeous, funny, and always gay.
Her famous corn beef and cabbage was the best around.
Her tasty shepherd’s pie was devoured to the ground.
Erin go Bragh
We celebrate Saint Patrick.
He brought Christianity.
The patron saint of Ireland.
Bake soda bread and wear green today.
3-17-22
~Tenth Place Premiere Contest~
LIND30SU Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day Everyone!
*Saint Patrick, who lived during the fifth century, is the patron saint of Ireland and its national apostle. Born in Roman Britain, he was kidnapped and brought to Ireland as a slave at the age of 16. He later escaped, but returned to Ireland and was credited with bringing Christianity to its people.
*Erin go Bragh sometimes Erin go Braugh, is the anglicisation of an Irish language phrase, Éirinn go Brách, and is used to express allegiance to Ireland. It is most often translated as "Ireland Forever."[
*The St. Patrick's Day tradition was popularized by Irish immigrants in the United States, who believed that wearing green made them invisible to leprechauns—the classic fairy creatures who pinch anyone they can see.
'Tis said Saint Patrick rid Erin of snakes
If such is true what a great tale it makes
Skeptics claim it ain't true
Others haven't a clue
Could be a scam like the Irish Sweepstakes
BACK TO ERIN
I want to go back
to Erin. I want
to see that green
isle again.
I want to drink a pint
of the Guiness and a
shot of the Jamesons. On
that green isle again.
I want to pick the lucky shamrock
and feel the soft summer rain
back, on that green
isle again.
I want to hear the bodhran thump
and the fiddle squeal as I dance
another Ceili on that green isle
again.
I want to hear the tenor croon out
Danny Boy and belt out
Whiskey in the Jar, on that
green isle again.
Next year, when I retire,
I will board that Aer Lingus Airbus
and wing my way back to
that green isle again
Erin Moran has died at the age of fifty-six.
She was special and a credit to all chicks.
She was adorable when she starred as Joanie Cunningham.
When a person dies that young, it's always hard to understand.
I learned about her death on Facebook and it made me feel bad.
When we learned of her passing, it was tragic and so very sad.
She had a wonderful figure and good looks.
When we watched her on Happy Days, we were hooked.
She died too young and her death has devastated her fans.
Sadly, we have to say goodbye to the talented Erin Moran.
[Dedicated to Erin Moran (1960-2017) who died on April 22, 2017.]
Can we talk about this real quick?
I'm never going to leave Erin.
She...she is my anchor to the center of the universe.
Without her I would fly off into oblivion.
She's is my life.
I live for her.
I live because of her.
My life is hers.
Without her I would lose my life.
Without her I would have lost my life.
She saved my life.
And for that,
I will save everything in my life.
For her.
To produce the words, "I love you",
Would not even begin to whet even the smallest molecule of my tongue as I thirst to death in this desert.
She, rather, is the oasis.
My safe haven.
My life.
My shadows' light.
-Angel Fatale-
-string of thought
I think that new bras
Are actually made of
Barbed wire and razors
At some Sweet Point in Your Youth
Through Travel Guides beguiled
Searching for Existential Truth
You dreamt of Erin Isles
You longed a quite, simple life
Away form Hectic Glances
Attempt to be Free from Your Strife
For Introspective Chances
To visit the Ancestral home
Or even to Inhabit
Away, In Solitude, Alone
And Keep the Mindful Sabbath
A place where land stays Always Lush
In Emerald Enclosed
The site of Inner Beauty Bright
In form of Dear Red rose
I Shall Still See the Pilgrims
With Purposely Bared Feet
While Walking though the Sharp Hills
Their Feet Profusely Bleed
I know the Image of Crushing Waves
The stately,Brave stones
They do not Bend nor do They break
And Bear the weight alone
The Crosses and the simple graves
With names already erased
And stone compesed
As life itself
From Tiny, Pearly grains
At Ben Bulben’s feet Sligo stands
The home of such creative hands
Where poet William Yeats did grow.
The Nobel Prize his poems did know.
On my trip to this emerald isle,
I yearned to visit a long while.
As sun poured through the misty sky
Shedding warmth with its golden eye,
I stood beside the lough in awe
At dancing diamonds that I saw
Near Connemara’s tall twelve bens
O’er lands of ancient souls that wends.
I sense their haunting watchful eyes
And feel my roots where rivers rise.
I hear the voices lost at sea,
They echo on eternally;
As with the thousands who took flight
During the worst potato blight.
Their sadness streams across the seas
Where most souls died with unheard pleas.
Those sad and tragic days long past,
And Erin’s joys returned at last
To verdant Lee and sandy shores
To music heard across the moors,
To people with the kindest hearts
Is what this isle to me imparts.
© 2013
*Erin go bragh means Ireland Forever
*lough means a lake
*Ben means Irish, a mountain peak
Erin
Erin, seeing you last night brought back a bunch of old feelings, feelings I thought were long gone.
You're a beautiful as ever, and, if you were her right now, I'd tell you that.
I realized that I still have feelings for you, and, I'm still a long way from being over you....
From tiny gals with itty-bitty bippies
to larger ladies with super-dooper droopers,
we curse the “men” who design underwire iron maidens.
My “pointers” don’t bounce
(as a friend observed),
so why submit to torturous braziers?
I’m glad they don’t droop –
makes body surfing easier,
though surfboard owners argue, “Rudders help."
Despite chidings from my sister
(estranged now; I don’t miss her),
I saunter through life in comfort.
From 32A to 44 Triple-D,
who will stand unbridled with me
as we create a “bonfire of the vanities”?
On a huge wooden statue of Genghis Khan
we’ll place our bras – strap them on
and dance in a delight only primitive tribal ladies know.
You can add girdles,
chastity belts too,
and every foot-crunching pair of shoes.
On St. Patrick’s Day
we’ll march proud in a parade,
singing, “Erin, go braless” all the way!
If they felt anything,
where are the tears?
For Erin.
Where is the grief?
For a little girl lost,
forever.
Never to be anymore.
The question on
everyone's mind,
will there be justice for Erin?
A littel girl,
who's life is done.
A child, who's life
was so uninmaginable.
So full of suffering,
and pain.
Poor little Erin,
didn't even live, to see her teens.
No freedom, or joy.
Only confinement, and fear.
Her cruel fate,
was in the hands of family.
Little Erin,
is finally safe.
Unfortunately, she had
to die to be free.
And to fine, some peace
(This is a fictional poem)
Last week I felt great fear.
I met Erin Moran and Stephanie Weir.
Erin starred in Happy Days and Stephanie starred in Mad TV.
They joined forces and beat the hell out of me.
They whooped me because I accidentally called them Stephanie Weird and Erin
Moron.
When they got through beating me, most of my teeth were gone.
That ticked me off so I slapped them and told them that they are witches who
should be flying on brooms.
They attacked me again and sent me to the emergency room.
I'll never again be able to watch Happy Days or Mad TV.
If you ever meet Moran or Weir, watch what you say to them or you'll go to the
hospital like me.
I want to go back over there
In sun or rain I dinna care
To drink the essence
Through my pores
To feel steady living mores
With all those dancing shades of green
That fill that isle I’ve never seen
With music and delight
Before I’m dragged into the night
I yearn to walk on Eire
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