Erin Poems - Poems about Erin

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...

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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...

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Erin Go Bragh 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...

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'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...

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Erin, for a girl who embodies Ireland by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair— bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children—some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and...

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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...

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It was an autumn day, fresh and crisp, with a slight breeze blowing that made our cheeks rosy. My Aunt Trix and I were on the trip of a lifetime, one in which she had been making plans for almost all of her seventy-five years. Being of Irish heritage we both felt akin to that beautiful country. Our first...

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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...

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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...

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I think that new bras Are actually made of Barbed wire and razors...

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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...

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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...

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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.......

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Oh Mick McGrath, man of daring do What will the family make of you? A forgotten ghost from the past, Standing trapped in a die well cast. Oh Mick McGrath, will they hear your name? Born to peasants in a land of famine You sailed the terrible seas from Erin. A southern land of promise found Only to find the bias still bound. Oh...

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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...

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