Oh! Divine soul,
You are pure,
You are honest,
This is your power,
What if the dark,
Clouds are encircled,
Upon the horizon,
Of life, What if, the
light of luck seems,
Dim dull, the spark
Of you soul one day,
Will lit the sun of
Hope and light will,
Spread all where,
Oh! Divine soul,
You are the hope,
For those who are
Alone under black
Shadow of conspiracy,
Of wicked people,
Suffering badly.
Your story will be a
Moral to those,
Who need light,
In this darkest world.
Don't dim as your,
Light is lighten the,
Fifes of the dark world,
God Made you,
Unique to be stand,
Uniquely in the dead,
Sea like a light, to show,
Path to the ships, who.
Lost the way in the
Darkest stormy nigh.
Roads rising up from Irish mists in merry jigs
To the flowing tenor song
Sung by the River Boyne born from Tara's Keep
As Patrick's paschal fire
Weaves truth from stones of blarney
And lucky charms of Erin's spring
Cloth hills in kilts of green clovers with four leaves
To the Kerry pipers wail of jigs and tiompan reels
When soft sunbeams kiss fields - the wind petals
Of Killarney's rose in Londonderry Airs
Born in fifes and fiddles in soft brogues
Delighting in tea and scones - the clairsel harp -
When clear cut crystal rays
Embrace green fields clothed in sheep -
Faire mischief - the wind dance of the Kells -
In bohdran thunder to banish banshee cries
As pirate queens and lost chieftain kings
Sail from emerald shores
Until they meet again beneath the blessings
Of the Celtic cross
In the north winds of the fair aran island.
Today there won’t be a parade;
Concessions that Covid has made.
With no bagpipes or fifes
It’s befitting, since life’s
At a standstill from which we’ve not swayed.
Still, I’m wearing a bit o’ the green
Though, of course, if I had to come clean,
Being Irish I’m not
But I’ve never forgot
On St. Pat’s to become a colleen.
I love life, that's probably apparent
By the happiness in all my poems
When I make my final curtain call
Want the biggest celebration known
Don't want none of that mourning stuff
No sad songs, no shedding of tears
Just want some joyous good time fun
Great food and buckets of cheer
Tradition says we should hang our heads
In solemn remembrance of life
But the time's they are a-changing dear friends
Bring on the drums and fifes
Not saying you should have a big parade
But it sure would suit me fine
I'll try not to wiggle the coffin too much
As I do my best to keep time!
The bottom line to all of this verbiage
Is that life is a fragile thing
One day we're here, the next day gone
Just enjoy your one last fling!
21 Aug 2017 - Sonnet
When all the joys you ever chased in life
were bait that NEVER came without a hook -
high-market hucksters charming you with fifes
that drove thirst mad (and all done by the book),
the heart seems more a handle and a hook,
and less a dancing fountainhead of joy,
an open door for shysters, whores, and crooks
to dazzle you with bright and shiny toys.
What sort of life are men supposed to live?
Are we the brute-faced cattle of the rich,
well muzzled, grain they're disinclined to give
kept back since our true fate is just a ditch?
Or are we all Salome, shaking tail
to sell ourselves, and others, straight to Hell?
~
The worst thing that can happen in life
Is to be buried alive with your wife
To quarrel for eternity
About insignificanties
While listening to the drums and the fifes
© Jack Ellison 2015
I love life, that's probably apparent
By the happiness in all my poems
When I make my final curtain call
Want the biggest celebration known
Don't want none of that mourning stuff
No sad songs, no shedding of tears
Just want some joyous good time fun
Great food and buckets of beer
Tradition says we should hang our heads
In solemn remembrance of life
But the time's they are a-changing, friends
Bring on the drums and fifes
Not saying you should have a big parade
But it sure would suit me fine
I'll try not to wiggle the coffin too much
As I do my best to keep time!
The bottom line to all of this verbiage
Is that life is a fragile thing
One day we're here, the next day gone
Just enjoy your one last fling!
© Jack Ellison 2012
Christmas eve night coming home
When grand marketing is done
Foot stepping high over stony loam
Heart panting for the merry fun
Suddenly the noise is not the same
The humming of figuring tongues
Changed to bush crackling with flame
The frantic scream of happy lungs
The scampering glee of feet, and there
The lurid lurch of masks, and fifes
Wooing me close to the bantering air
Of drums: jon kunno! A whip of strifes
Lashes out from the past, a sweet peel
Of laughter says hush, we are healed.
Peaceful so he seems for he sleeps now.
Just the sound of his breathing I hear.
Quiet and still is he, just like a soft spring eve.
A blanket serves as his security in a world so uneasy.
Shielding him from fifes great harm.
Soft and gentle, like the blanket he can be.
Just a child,yet a man.
He weeps for the love of a parent yet to be seen.
A child of his own, just for him is what he longs for.
Peaceful is he, that is yet to be seen.
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