Long Erin Poems
Long Erin Poems. Below are the most popular long Erin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Erin poems by poem length and keyword.
Once upon a time in Erin land,
the sun smiled on the people
the rains communed peacefully with thunderstorms
Erin flowed with palm wine and palm oil,
And her children drank to their fill
Oba Adeniran, was a great king,
loved by both the gods and his people.
Providence favored Oba Adeniran
Oba Adeniran had two healthy sons.
Now, Oba Adeniran must name a heir out of his two sons,
Or, he may lose the throne upon his demise.
The happy Oba had no worries.
His two sons were hale and hearty.
Omo-oba Adedayo loved his younger brother above all;
but he was nothing like his father in nature.
To him, the throne is his birthright,
So also are beautiful women and sweet wine.
Omo-oba Adegboye unlike his elder brother, was a hater of law and lover of war.
He too wanted the throne and so spilled his father's blood,
Somehow by providence, his mother and brother escaped.
He’d crossed the thin line between love and hate
Omo-oba Adedayo raged with vengeance.
He must avenge his father and reclaim his rightful throne
He rallied allies and built an army
His mother scraped her knees, and washed his feet with warm tears of love
But he won't yield to her plea for peace and truce.
It's better to forgive and rebuild, than to revenge and perish, she warned
Too late, the battle had begun.
The two princes came upon themselves
One fighting a just course and the other fighting a lost course.
He who lived by the sword, died by the sword
The good prince defeated his younger brother, and reclaimed his possession.
The queen mourned for months.
Husband and son dead, yet the throne lived
The victorious prince celebrated his victory with wine and women.
Thence, the die was cast, he must be crowned.
But then, tradition must take it's due course.
No coronation for a king who has no heir.
Omo-Oba Adedayo must beget a heir
Years upon years went bye, but no cry of a baby
Alas, Omo-oba Adedayo has a dead manhood.
A disease, his souvenir from women and Alcohol.
Now, the crown must move on, to another bloodline.
And it happened once upon a morning
Erin land awoke to see Omo-oba Adedayo’s body dangling from a tree
A deliberate escape from the shame of failure.
Till date, no one either remembers Oba Adeniran
Or any of his two foolish sons.
But then, the crown lives on, and has never been forgotten.
THE ARRANGEMENT
It's a dull, grey afternoon in the middle of October, with nothing much to commend about it. Last of the autumn leaves are falling from trees with the icy breeze, too chill for even the ardent gardener to be out and about, where streets are deserted, and children are not yet out of school. Clouds are softly framed in bands of charcoal grey.
Our heroine, Erin McCarty can't distinguish whether the distant rumble she hears, is a brewing storm, or her empty stomach. It occurs to her she hasn't eaten a thing, except for the quick granola bar early this morning at the bus station.
As she approaches the old house she sees that the garden needs weeding, devil grass taking over the wind-whipped faces of faded, dreary, old chrysanthemums. It is so unlike her mother to let it go untended. Seeing it so unkempt, makes her a bit uneasy.
A suitcase heavy in her hand, she hesitates before turning the knob, or ringing the bell, taking a moment to compose. She waits a moment. What will they say, ...what will they think when she tells them everything that has happened, and where she has been all this time?
The old place seems strangely *****, as if she’s gained new insight
As if another eye had sprouted new, to view the past more clearly, and the present, more objectively. She seems to perceive shade and shadows, shape, as if she were watching from above.
The chrysalis that held her in, has drawn her back here again.
How will they receive this unexpected return? Will she still be welcome?
Have they been able to forgive her for leaving without a word?
Her hand on the knob, the door is locked, then almost without her control, her finger has pushed the doorbell. At first just the silence, .....then the sound of muffled footsteps. Someone is coming.
The door opens...........and she is startled. Who is this?......?
Who is this stranger answering her mother's door?............
Follow Erin's story to the captivating ending...
a story of hope, renewal and rebirth. A story of coming of age, coming to terms with both love and sadness. It will remind you, that love and compassion can renew the spirit...even when the world has turned upside down.
__________________________________________________________
For the Contest Sponsored By Judy Konos: "You Have Written A Novel"
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
Three score and ten:
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
The hours spin into days, then weeks will fly by.
The weeks then quickly dissolve into many months.
The months that fleet and fly by into such short years.
All our average compliment is three score and ten.
Whatever-more is a bonus that God grants us.
We must make good use of the time that is given
Be very careful not to squander away time.
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
Treasure the short time, always making your life full.
Once time passes, we cannot recall it again.
All our average compliment is three score and ten.
Never idle away the precious time you have.
Life is so full of unforeseen circumstances.
Once time passes, we cannot recall it again.
Each one of us will make mistakes along the way.
If you fall, get up quickly, try and try again.
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
The long road, actually is not so long at all.
Before you know it, you will have come to the end.
Life is so full of unforeseen circumstances.
The dreams of yesterday, all but a memory.
Time has gone by like the sands in an hour glass.
The weeks they quickly dissolve into many months.
Live and love and cherish it closely to your heart.
For love will surely live on, even though you're gone.
Before you know it, you will have come to the end.
Accomplish as much as you can, never look back.
Time is unforgiving and takes no prisoners.
The seconds turn into minutes, then hours.
The weeks then quickly dissolve into many months.
Remember to enjoy life and use it up well.
The months that fleet and fly by into such short years.
For love will surely live on, even though you're gone
Whatever-more is a bonus that God gives us.
Steven Beesley (c) 2005-11-21
This is my first attempt at writing a poem in the Hybridanelle form, if you notice any mistakes please do email me.
Hybridanelle:
A hybrid of the terzanelle and villanelle form that has been developed by Erin Thomas. A detailed definition can be seen at http://allpoetry.com/Column/1086828
(Written in 1970 when I was a junior in high school)
Kyle’s only three and quite the tyke
And he wants to ride a two wheel bike
But his mom and dad say he’s too small
And they’re afraid that he might fall
Now on his cheek a tear-track’s stain
He’s suffering from growing pains
Jill’s just thirteen and she can’t wait
‘Til she goes out on her first date
She finds it hard to bite her tongue
When her parents say she’s still too young
She feels this treatment is inhumane
She’s suffering from growing pains
At twenty-four Paul’s a broken man
He went to college with big plans
‘Til he gave in to that young girl’s charms
And she stuck a needle into his arm
Now his plans revolve around cocaine
He’s suffering from growing pains
She’s thirty-five and should have it all
Because Erin was always the belle of the ball
But four kids and a job have taken their toll
And now she is feeling far beyond old
She once was a beauty but now she’s just plain
She’s suffering from growing pains
He’s forty-one and Bill had success
But now his life is a real mess
He thought to be rich, but he hadn’t figured
That he’d end up married to a gold digger
He has everything to lose and nothing to gain
He’s suffering from growing pains
Just fifty-six and in Jean’s once sharp mind
Her thoughts and dreams are so intertwined
That she doesn’t know which ones are real
Or what emotions she should feel
The doctor’s say she’s quite insane
She’s suffering from growing pains
Sixty years have now come and gone
And Bob sits staring at his lawn
He once took great care to keep it neat
Now it hurts too much to be on his feet
And he tries so hard to not complain
He’s suffering from growing pains
She’s seventy-one and Laura finds
Herself alone again in time
She’s lost her husband of some fifty years
And now she has nothing but her tears
She feels her heart has split in twain
She’s suffering from growing pains
At eighty-seven, Ed looks out
His window and wonders what life’s all about
Everyone he knew is gone
And he dreads facing another dawn
Now the organ plays a sad refrain
He’s suffered life’s final growing pain
Spirit of the ancient isles,
Of Erin and of Albion,
I call to thee,
Please come to us,
Ancient spirit come to me,
I call to thee,
In moorland wind,
And highland glen,
In summer meadow,
By Greenwood tree,
I recall bluebells in spring,
Autumn rains in Irish hills,
Long winter nights by firesides,
The places where the hidden brook glides,
A deer in a forest glade,
The Standing Stones the giants made,
I recall that mystic land
That lies unseen,
So near at hand,
Where ancestral beings,
Weave out time,
And listen to the voice Divine,
I recall the bards of old,
Of endless tales that they told,
Of Bran and Branwynn,
Of Taliesin and of Merlin,
Of beacons burning in the night,
And the forests of the light,
I recall the other folk,
That live inside the hills and mounds,
Enchanting us with magic sounds,
I recall the paths we trod,
To the sacred groves,
Of the great God Lugh,
Of Dagda and the Goddess Danu,
Of Bridey, Herne and Ceredwin,
Gwion Bach and Finn McCool,
Of Beltane, Sawain and of Yule,
And of this and so much more,
That grows inside the Celtic soul,
It rises up inside us now,
Like the young sap in the old tree,
Like a root that grows,
In you and me,
And at last learns to be free,
With these words we do invoke,
The ancient masters of the Oak,
The Ash, the Thorn and every tree,
In our secret ancestry,`
To every soul to be awake,
To rise up and see whats at stake,
The root race that we must save,
The seeds and grains,
The life you gave,
In the isles of Lugh and Math,
Now is time to rise again,
To know the Sun and feel the rain,
To meet again,
The brethren of the Celtic Ray,
To come together come what may,
And never lose our will to be,
Nor the hope that comes through thee,
Through the Earth and through the trees,
Through the balmy air of a summer breeze,
That comes to you in the Sun that ripens the corn,
And harvests the crop of this ray,
And takes you to the ancient way,
So we can dance anew like blossoms in the month of May.
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
Form:
Interview – 3-21-24 For Paddy Ch. Quick as a Wink 6/26/2010 – 3/8/24 www.poetrysoup.com › poem › interview_with_the_irish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Interview With the Irish Wind
Wind from the heart of Eire, come abide with me for a moment
before you toss your swirling hair across your ancient friend
for I feel your breath rising inside me - a banshee’s howl.
Are you here to carry my Irish rascal’s spirit on the breath of emerald breezes,
his soft and silky coat waving like fields of golden wheat,
to new hallowed hills of green?
Will you set his soft paws on sunlit winding lanes
rising up to meet him
when he crosses a mystical bridge misted in rainbows?
Will you escort him to that sacred hollow of sunny glens
where he ever runs free embraced in the sparkle of the Daystar,
twinkling with delight like etched crystal -
quick as an Irish wink!
Tell me, wind of Erin, does the beat of his steadfast heart
pulse in your throbbing cadence like the bodrain and Kerry drums,
his bright brown eyes dancing like jigs and reels -
a new star in Eire’s eternal sky?
Wind from the Irish sea, do you ruffle his soft grey ears
with the touch of angel’s breath
sung as a lullaby as he sits upon his Creator’s feet
feeling life surge within him again – a newborn wind?
O Celtic child,
Grieving heart, let your heart rest in the hollow of the Creator’s hand
where shamrocks never close,
forever blooming in eternal light.
Hear the music he left in your heart – a soft breeze across the Shannon,
know his task now finished, blessed, like fine spring rain – consummated by grace –
eternal grace so pleased.
And, when you hear the pipes know in ways he never leaves
but sings the music shared by your hearts
sung from his forever home.
And now that he has been through the fire
out of that dark and cold space
you will bring him home again.
Beannactai!
“The Wolf’s Pockets”
Virginia knows
what’s written
in the mass of a rock
the heaviness of words
not soluble
anchored to life
that does not float
A Wolf swallows Woolf whole
Hungry for something -
“other than” ;
Submerged,
what is not seen
is swimming below
a sharp clean surface
her dissolving shadow
found through slender fingers
wide spread and ink stained
running through shallow waters and
swaying reeds, something forgotten
like touching her child’s hair
combed with a soft brush;
free diving deeper
baptised, she touches Heaven
baby’s breath and
almond scented
Erin lilies like milk,
the sweetest let-down,
she drinks it all in
ignored by charlatans all bored
with their own faux wisdom
apathy flexes fits and moulds
around a body of work
sinks in deep and dry
a sunken treasure
to be found
some time much later
bound to tell a story
that travels down stream
The Wolf’s pockets
weighted with black treasure
open wide and beckoning
arms cast wanton alms
for plenty dreams and
sweet reckoning
infancy embraced again
the sleep of sleeps
and candour
like opium is taken in,
read, edited,
then,
silently missed
a
Final Draft is written
Read again
Read again
;
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
for my daughter
Georgia
https://youtu.be/BpyR9VxRRUo
Freefall/Robin Guthrie
“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Virginia Woolf
1. Virginia Woolf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf
2. The Let-down Reflex.
3. https://projectsemicolon.com/
https://www.facebook.com/projectsemicolon/
https://twitter.com/projsemicolon?lang=en
4. Beyond Blue
https://www.beyondblue.org.au/
"The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man,
(or a righteous woman) avails much." James 5:16***
Believe me I consider myself far from being either worthy
Or righteous! But then again it is the righteousness of
Jesus Christ that is solely responsible for all of my
Answered prayers. It is because He is both the Son of
God and Son of Man. It is He is my intercessor between
God the Father and yours truly.***
For a while I have been faithfully partitioning Erin, our
Lovely and young Community Director for a New
Microwave oven and a new dishwasher. Eric came out
Once again and operated my dishwasher, which by the
Grace of Almighty God is still working!***
However, this time he took a picture of my deplorable
Condition of the rusty inside of my microwave oven,
With his phone's camera. Yes, there were: metal
Ones available, and some white ones that were too
Large and others that were too small! All of which
Were unacceptable! ***
Eric rolled a cart into my B13 apartment unit, and
Simply replaced it with a microwave oven from a
Vacant unit! Praise Be The Lord for answered
Prayer!***
"God bless us everyone!" Is the Christmas greeting
For Tiny Tim in the classical "Christmas Carol" by
Charles Dickens. It was the closing greeting Eric
And I gave each other as our afternoon's farewell
Parting. ***
In addition I would like to enclose Santa Claus'
Farewell December 23, 1823's opening line
"Twas the night before Christmas." Santa
Said, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a
Good night."***
In addition I would like to add the farewell greeting
Of Faith Lutheran's Church, Everett Washington.
Pastor Diane,"Go in peace and serve the Lord."
Congregation, "Thanks be to God A-Men."
"God be with you until we meet again." ***
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
December 14, 2020