Long Dublin Poems
Long Dublin Poems. Below are the most popular long Dublin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dublin poems by poem length and keyword.
she came from Carlow, wee caitlin girl
one of three sisters gave you a twirl
ancient bridge, river Barrow
she was long, very narrow
still glimpse her glance where wild waters swirl
legend of Dublin lived all alone
yes, you guessed, it's our Molly Malone
Howth to Dun Laoghaire
she hobbled home weary
heaving her wheel-barrow, skin and bone
bareback beauty from Kildare of course
the equine county, she rode a horse
the Curragh and Church of Oak
Hill of Allen, she met a bloke
fell from her mount far into the gorse
wee ossory cat from Kilkenny
he lived in a castle with many
his marbles were off the grid
on festival floors they slid
lost them all, he couldn't find any
sad lad from Laois, brains short of an ounce
escaped from prison hard to pronounce
nailed tight down inside a crate
trickling blood betrayed his fate
men with batons were ready to pounce
canny Longford Lil made you quiver
banjo playing by Camlin River
laid-back lady, bluegrass hair
fortress town and country fair
tickled and plucked she did deliver
this talkative halyon hailed from Louth
he robbed two banks then headed down south
stopped at Dundalk to have a drink
garda grabbed him in a blink
that Drogheda gaol did shut his mouth
Meath mini minx, curious and slim
from Navan or Kells or was it Trim?
crawled into a passage-grave
all by herself, very brave
one leg out, you can still see her limb!
tall Tullamore youth from Offaly
he played around so awfully
he zoomed right in on Zara
next kissed his cousin Clara
then cuddled Brosna unlawfully
Westmeath chancer in boot of his car
some hooch for the folk of Mullingar
for Athlone, fancier grog
illegal still from the bog
smooth smiling man who smoked a cigar
wretched banshee on the Wexford beach
collecting pebbles within her reach
the sea then stole her ardour
he left from Rosslare harbour
lifting her eyes she started to screech!
wild Wicklow wag went out to play
the Arklow shoreline and on to Bray
Sugarloaf, Lugnaquilla
Glendalough, wee tequila
back to Greystones, he's had a good day
Everything seemed secure
Inside the crystal palace safe and pure
Welcoming the claret wine
For a taste testing and dine
This evening’s match
Featuring best grapes from Burnley’s vineyard patch
Such a glorious exhibition
Sit back, watch and listen
Deciding seating places at the table
Both having positions that are stable
Winner will enjoy a fruity high
Loser will find themselves in the bottom half reading a PS ‘nice try’
But if the result is a draw
Movement up the ladder will be small
Stated in the scoring rule law
When the sipping began okayed by the starter
A communication was written like a charter
“This wine is very tarter!!”
“It is green wine!”
One server defined
Identification decided to decline
Giving it a few swirls
To those wearing pearls
“I must get my red card”
An affluent said headed to the bar
But none was giving
“You must be kidding!”
Richness carried on
And a few minutes later found the one with the magical Dublin wand
“If it was up to me
We could have a toast at the first tee
Then drive a fair way
Enjoying a dessert, a parfait
With a nice shot
Hitting the right spot”
Looking at the Irish steward
A royal tried not to be forward
“Is that the reason for the interesting taste?”
A princess wondered about the luring liqueur base
“That was my goal
Would you like your glass chilled or cold?”
Wanting to leave
These well to dues led out the decree
“That is not all right
Picking a fight”
Putting the plastic chalice down
Showing angry frowns
“You should sample mine
Squirt it with lime
Give time
Your smile will shine”
Hearing that stated
Elite spirits really felt degraded
Going home alone
Needing Napa Valley on the phone
Shrugging his shoulders the young entrepreneur did
Smelled the cork that was the bottles lid
Knowing the whip creamy topping shouldn’t be hid
Mumbling to himself “This needs an honest bid”
Going on to the stage he muddled
Many still around to hear a rebuttal
“A colorful treat for the taking
An eloquent find in the making
For those tired of the dreaded soda bread baking”
Hands went up with many shouts
Wanting the green wine that no one knows anything about
In a little Irish village
Just south of Dublin town
Lies a little Catholic church
With little houses scattered 'round
It was a bright cool Sunday morning
When the bells started ringing
And the people started coming
As the choir started singing
McGee put on his coat
His hat, his tie and vest
For every Sunday morning
He was sure to look his best
Although wifey was away
He could still hear her saying
"No Pub today, My sunshine,
It's in church, You will be praying"
So reluctantly McGee strolled in
And found himself a pew
There He sat in utter silents
Not sure of what to do
Then, no sooner the Mass began
There came a chilling roar
Gods immortal enemy
Was standing at the door
Some people screamed
Some people cried
But they all ran from the church
Trampling one another
While McGee sat un-besmirched
The Devil asked McGee
"Don't you want to scream for aid"
McGee replied " Not really, It's not like, that I'm afraid"
Then Satan asked McGee
"Are you familiar with my name"
McGee replied " Yes indeed
And know all about your game"
"So why aren't you running now
With your heart all filled with fear"
" It's because, Dark one, I've been married
To your sister, thirty years
Recalled sounds take you back to an old land
to a home you no longer need.
Like the soft snuffle of hedgehogs on the lawn
on a summer evening.
Here there are larger less harmless spiny beasts,
here there are robins that are not robins.
Differences, semantics, and misidentification
small stuff, but with larger significance embedded.
Many places here derive from Native American names
or English cities and towns, a few Irish places,
French or German other European words.
It should feel like home to be in Boston
or as in Ohio,
to be just down the road from Dublin or London,
more often it seems to be even a greater distance
between the original
and those other named-for locations.
I guess the Dutch don’t want anything to do with New York now.
The geography of river-systems forgets the paddle
and the canoe
as modern party pontoons multiply.
It’s just natural for history to forget sources and tributaries.
The North Atlantic is relatively small compared to the Indian ocean
yet in our measuring minds, language, nuance, and common usage
create a much greater divide.
As for this deep rooted dandelion I have become,
I keep digging deeper into a foreign soil
finding where all these nomenclatural seeds arrived from,
and why they still keep a lighter than air memory
of faraway windblown lands.
May 1974
Why do you need to waste your time today
Writing an elegy no one will read?
Add the half-cent to the cent
And text to shivering text
For you were born to text
And save-
But let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
Yet they were of a different kind
They didn’t text
Their lives they didn’t save-
But let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
Was it for this you came to Warsaw?
To write poems about the dead in Dublin?
Not today but 40 years ago-
Does it matter where they died
Or when?
Does it matter where I live
Or when?
You can come to the party
At the Irish Embassy
The minister will be there
The ICC will pay their share
Forgotten by their own race who
Fumble on the greasy keyboard
Making money and texting tinkers
Skypeing and phoning in the temple of Midas
Please let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
But should we not know
Who her killer was?
Or at least know
Who connived at her killing…….
So was it for this you wrote your dirge?
To hold up the hatchet-
To puncture the peace process-
To live through that pain
All over again
Yet could we turn the years again
And be in that same month of May?
Could we just delete that day
And save ourselves from all that pain?
Just let her be
She’s dead and gone
She’s with her baby in the grave
She’s surely dead and gone
Yet justice must be done
And we must go on
You might cry-
(Like after the Stardust fire)
‘Why?’
And I would answer -
Between neighbouring nations
That have good relations
There are no secret files, no classified information
Telling the truth is no delirium of the brave
It is only what we owe to those in the grave
13.05.2015
To experience the Great Pyramids of Giza
see them with my own eyes;
To experience Italy would be a dream,
or just eat my way through the city;
To experience the streets of Dublin,
I’d love to finally find a four leaf clover;
To experience the playground of Sin City?
The Excalibur was overwhelming,
like the Strip filled with snake eyes energy;
But for me? I’d drive 3 hours from home
to experience the Big Easy over and over;
There’s so many places still to discover;
To experience the Northern lights
glamping inside an Aurora Dome,
to experience an African safari
what a way to see such majestic animals;
But for me? The U.S.
I’d travel the entire country,
make amazing music festival memories;
The goal is to experience,
not simply write a bucket list.
Pangs of exile
In the season of the fallen leaf
Pangs of exile, pangs of grief
Should I join the expat web?
I will still receive The Sheaf
Pangs of exile, pangs of grief
I listen to a foreign tongue
The sound goes on the evening long
Oh to hear the name O’Keefe -
Pangs of exile, pangs of grief -
- Murphy, Kelly or O’Reilly,
Barry, Binchy, Casey, Miley
- Pangs of hunger, rhyming monger -
Oh to hear the Dublin scouse
Or to see St Margaret’s house
In Kilbarrack, Dublin 5
All gone now but still a hive
Of people from the past
In Warsaw I may be the last
Remembering………
In the season of the fallen leaf
Pangs of exile, pangs of grief
I can’t go back
I must go on -
Like Beckett
I will go on -
In exile….
Tommy fell off his bike and broke his bum
When he set off to find a new one
Big, tall, or one size fits all
A man he met at the mall,
offered a new bum but for a large sum
Tommy looked here, there, and everywhere
Even the stores where they sold underwear
To venders who had his back
But his bum still had a huge crack!
Something was still wrong, how very unfair
His bum was so noisy it brought him shame
It made weird noises and he got the blame
Tooting, hooting, and squeaking
when anyone started speaking
His bum sounded like a video game
When he discovered he had the loudest,
his talent made Tommy the proudest,
A butt trumpeting bold,
better than a pot gold
His sound-system backside, the best!
Sonic blasts when Tommy bent over
He picked a perfect four-leaf clover
A gas that blew him away
well into St. Paddy’s Day
A blast heard from Dublin to Dover
Covered in Clovers
With a green pen I scratch out this holiday cheer,
as I chug down another pint of Guinness Green Beer.
Reminiscing with compatriots from our ancestors country of old,
the unconquerable island surrounded by waters of aquamarine cold.
All our blarney and boisterousness of our Irish Ancestors comes out,
no matter what kind or how much beer is consumed pale ale or stout.
Pretending like we we're in a pub in lovely downtown Dublin, Ireland,
acting up like the fools, dontcha wanna know these crazy men?
There's no place on earth as beautiful for I've searched the world over,
Not one place can compare to this island meadow all covered in clovers.
Born a rebel, proud and free,
A hard working man was he.
Stout of heart and quick of mind,
But hot tempered as you could find.
An Irish lad raised in Dublin,
For sure no one there be troubling.
Not one to run from a fight,
In the pub on Friday night.
Till the day he met his match,
A vixen who liked to scratch.
Angered when he made a pass,
Quite the looker was this Lass.
Smashed his head with a bottle,
Grabbed his throat and gave a throttle.
Clawed his cheek just like a cat,
Slapped him hard and then she spat.
All the while he took her wrath,
Chose to take a different path.
On his knees with bleeding head,
Made the case that they should wed.
Shocked with nothing left to say,
Happily married to this day.
Two souls who were once so wild,
Are soon to have their second child.