Diatribes focus their galvic courses that run pure elixirs through the festival of blithe soon to become ribbons of unfurling sulfur that putrefaction molts sun-like claws of flames that ensconce the sarcophaguses it is in truth a graveyard and a shift to be had in it, the myriad of barbaric strides just caught in the upwelling, so prance beneath the stellar blue moon that visits so infrequently as sure as the night's first bloom.
In her hair, she placed a rose,
so like her own curling petals;
richly red, her eyes deep blue
A sweet lilt musical as heaven.
In her heart from birth she sensed
love as wide and deep, all seas!
And through her life she sought
her God, only for him to please….
She danced over the rough stages
of life, her leaps resounding rhythms.
She sang a sacred healing Light --
though born late, in a dark eve her
unrelenting Irish never gave way
to night.
Penning in a crimson coloured covered book
at peace one summer in Limerick ,to be sure
Please ... please take a look
you'll see its plot is a bio adventure
aka that day swimming.. I lost ..my denture
A poem by Frank Daub
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The sea is just down there.
I am anxious for the sight
of stone turned to bread by the wash
of foam and the jetting of the salt water.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The spiraling gulls
are sun lighted bright in their play
above the sand,
their startling dive
toward the sea is brief
in time and sight.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The freedom of the coast
was eight hundred years
at taking.
One bold county man’s toast
to the awakening water
baptizes the youth
who have forgotten Eire for other lovers.
I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
I haven’t heard the all
of every song
or the rise and fall
and rise of every story
that set a mother’s son
free to calculate a career.
I stand for stopping; Brendan says, “too late.”
I want to stay
where the past has gone,
old rebel cries and songs.
Yet,
it’s Brendan through the gate,
and gone
and done
and through with old.
scáth fite fuaite le scáthán
scátchscáil nó scáilscáil?
scáil an bháis
Improperly furnished with words alike the proper onstage guffawed and remarked, slighted and sent ribbons for acts that blanket at dusk with the manuscript rack, heaving against the pages like a concubine the throes of these pages batches of wine, like those that are deleterious these are cursed the same but they struck from their pages, the unequal dim range.
My dreams find me,
Walking thru the hills of Ireland.
I hear the serene music,
Of the mountains in the green forest.
I hear the faint tiny voices,
Not quite believing what I see.
All I do is look within my heart,
As I stroll in the forest.
My heart and soul have,
Always been in Ireland,
Deep in our ancestry.
The voices become louder,
As they call to me.
I look upon the branches and,
I see them the fairies and,
Leprechaun smiling down at me.
They tell me of a story,
Foretold long ago of a cousin,
Who is the giant of the family.
In Ireland theres a hero i as suppose.' Understated..Yet definately on His toes.'
Derek Domino's stands like An Irish Geronimo, witty and gritty, he tackles it
All.' Shaming the likes of fianna f 'ail.)
Ireland; coast and bits which aren’t
the Irish; ephemeral stuff of books
words to-ing and fro-ing
chieftains, crooks, priests, poets, playwrights
and ejitts
no more reigning, pontificating
breaking rules or playing the fool
but dark drink somehow surviving
somewhere in special, nurtured nooks
stained by the land
phrases blown and scattered in the wind
remnants here and there
or else off-planet
the island of collisions is heading
for the Arctic when the west will face north
troubles lie behind and beyond the headland
icebergs may congregate along the shore
oscillating to the warming, cooling dance
stump of mountain still surrounding
depleted bog and the sinking flora floor
still hiding lump of ancient wood and men
land bridges may reform
snakes may return
wee shamrocks still appearing
between the craic remembering
With a K or maybe a C is often misspelt
Leprechaun sworn torn from green felt
Billiard baize suit worn with a big belt
Scorn cliches like Romans Cornish pelt
Taffs...the Jocks or Shamrocks smelt
In foreign lands so many have dwelt
Velvet villainy Galician or Brittany C/Kelt
Falter but not at Catholic altar knelt
Riff raffs playing the cards we're dealt
Life & death debacle glued a shoe's welt
Riddles tango with fiddles so heartfelt
Calms disarms always buxom not svelte
Lovers then in each others arms melt
No qualms rascal sparkle charms of a Celt
Irish Toast
Dhia Duit
the Irish love a good páirtí
and go at the craic with gusto
the Guiness and Jamesions flow
musicians gather round: bodhran, fiddle,
guitar, concertina, the hall
reverberates to the sounds of a lively ceili
lasting till the wee hours of the morning
enough to keep the fairy folk awake
when all is finished before leave takin’
a toast is hoisted with glasses all around
Slainte mhaith to you all
In Ireland we see 'groumd heros'
Who will max out.' Against
The clueless; political zeros.!
Belike well known this bean counter,
Full of manure, a mean shouter.' No man
Of the people, i say mount him on a steeple.' Where the brisk winds will turn him..Maybe it might learn him? A blight worse than csn be imagined' his politics
Are so spavined.' Re-start Dommybrook
Fair.' And tar and feather him there.' Better
Still quote this poem, against the way he's
Now going, a foul beast I pursue him.' For
All the wrongs he is doing.' He's not even
Plastic Irish..Plastacine t'would be more like it.'
The west wind walks the Burren stone,
where silence roots in lime,
and whispers through the hawthorn bones
of older, buried time.
A lone crow cuts the salted air
above the Cliffs of Moher,
its cry a thread the ancients wear
when mortal songs grow lower.
The heather bends in purple grief
on bogs that hold their dead,
each step a hush, each breath a leaf
of names the soil has said.
At dusk the Sídhe stir the ground,
their silver laughter near,
not seen, but felt in hollow sound
that chills the inward ear.
A selkie weeps along the shore,
half-heart in skin, half-sea,
her longing stitched to ocean’s roar
no land can set her free.
Old stories hum in Gaelic tone
through stones that will not yield,
for Ireland’s pulse is not her own—
it beats in myth and field.
3rd Place
Green to the Gills
Contest Judged: 4/4/2026 7:35:00 PM
Sponsored by: Daniel Henry Rodgers
Earthen motte mounds and bailey burg
Sludge strongholds severed for siege
Norman castles cut of stone surge
Vowed vassals, the lords of liege
Round refuge tower of ashlar
Lured strums of Celtic cither
While they tend to tiers of mortar
Howling high waters hither
Gemlike blades grassy shades of green
Sailing seas beckon smartly
Hair to partly pare ployed the teen
Pirate Queen awaits Bartley
Homeland hush weave no words but mum
Forum flouters of gainsay
Dark Lady of Doona they hum
Legend of the Blacksod Bay
Fortress chieftain forges her case
Ní Grace unbowed by Bingham
Royalty rises face to face
Let them lie Ó Máille clan
Lyrate luck of her Irish pride
Aside vassal villeins sought
Herstory harmonized resides,
‘pon castles cloaked earthen motte
Ireland Categories
Definition | What is Ireland in Poetry?
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