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Long Ireland Poems

Long Ireland Poems. Below are the most popular long Ireland by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ireland poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by liam mcdaid | Details

Truth is all an act in government exposed

One small little country which houses 
one of the highest paid governments 
in this modern world joke ran upside down

A big part of our life existing reality 
when the backbone is gone snakes appear with light surely 
we spend working for slave masters who get rich of our toils quickly

Paying us poor wages beneath worth middle men 
when fat cats do little honesty whips out 
fairness in the way of work very shy who cares

Because of what the banks done bonuses where paid 
to them that destroyed the building of our country 
highly qualified tradesmen left on the street

Without a shred of pity unemployment has risen 
all our young have left to foreign lands few have returned
tens of thousands I mean addressing it truthfully

Unemployment has not changed hidden secrets spill beans 
there is few jobs in our county facts on the streets speak 
job seekers they call us now with branding irons

Builders can build this country to glory again
yet now we are classed of little worth sent out to sweep streets 
picking up the rubbish where we belong former taxpayers

Corruption when you feel the sadness of truth 
involved in the structure of thousands of homes 
hotels petrol stations even the construction of prisons

Now we are worthless on the streets of our own land 
at a time we were the highest taxpayers of this state 
we now pick up the bankers tab and effects from Europe's deal

Honesty has a funny way of drawing pictures 
lucky our state does not protect innocent people anymore 
without evidence I was arrested on German hear say

My family suffered seeing what I was going through 
long gone is the days of our state justice 
not one person of the state said sorry when I won my case

Held in chains this is my truth If my country would of stood 
up for me as there was no evidence to support such claims 
In my battle kept down made me smarter opening my eyes

Claiming higher ground class beggars bowl out 
hands on now I am a builder one noble profession 
hard working people like us stand the test of time

Paddies we built the cities a legacy stands in concrete 
handed down from our forefathers trades 
hard working men and women of Erin

Sons and daughters worked the green land over
for centuries we have been raped and plundered 
cruelty our sovereignty has been stolen away from us

State owed by the people oil under our soil talk of gold 
enough gas to heat our little island sold out shame 
with out the consent of its citizens power of attorney give

Setting wages to suit elite bodies opens the eyes closed 
non profitable businesses paid by taxpayers government 
Unfair grounds bared selling rights away trail of tears

Keeping people at the lower end scales silver justice 
slaves unto the organ grinders note forced correct term 
There goal is so undemocratic politically set falsehood lies

Forced down so they will not rise the poor struggle 
uneducated fools behind veils we see Holy smoke 
Minimum wage a complete and utter joke

Unlivable as prices soar out of control insurance rockets 
for toughest jobs beneath suits employed struggling 
be realistic we receive a pension at seventy respect

I cannot stop laughing at stupidity when it strikes a funny key 
bones aching approaching middle age life's labour exposed 
wore done from years of sweat even blood dripped

Joke of the century double standards stop for a moment 
hiding away with your secret pacts undisclosed truths reveal 
for the workers vote government bodies take note think

Should be the same all around lead by example set down 
we fought against slavery once before our forefathers 
freedom and civil rights for the working class to speak

Middle class has almost been deleted from society 
as monies are less and the work load doubled 
for peanuts a third of the value meaning work until death

Logic rents in cities increase backwards peddling rotten apples 
as the vice like grips society happiness is rare and beautiful 
Long hours less holidays in most cases very true

Homeless has risen to an all time high 
hospitals people are dying on trolleys fact 
even cutting funding to the disabled beneath par

Grants are cut in the arts field to virtually nothing 
roads are in disrepair in dark wet nights dangerous 
without cats eyes a safety risk to motorists meeting

Motor tax is daylight robbery only new cars have little tax 
hitting those less well off playing the game 
property tax laugh a minute after paying tax on materials

Now water tax another con to control natural energy 
our seas are being plundered as quotas are enforced 
by Europe on our seas controlled without out consent

Do we bend over as a people backwards as our riches are stolen 
do we know or learn any lessons from past tense democracy 
taxes make it better for our children they say

Long gone are the days people trading from their toils 
organic healthy food sold in small shops from local farmers market 
past tense fresh milk in a bottle was always beautiful to drink

Even milk is not the same as they fill it now with substitutes 
no such thing as fresh eggs in the supermarkets or meat 
everything has been sold to big co operatives

My granny told the same story struggling away back 
our country is going backwards in time controlling food 
people have lost the meaning of life

Poisonous goods sold in shops Gmos 
next it will be steroid filled meat nothing healthy anymore 
even farms have shut down emigration so many young gone

Why a country is beginning to cut the elderly 
leaving it cold a cruel blow in truth for those now retired 
They believed the lies but i don't

Now seeing so many of the straws that breaks a camels back 
looking through the needle eye of greed no remorse 
instead we struggle on in our every day hardships right

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Donal Mahoney | Details

A Trick My Father Learned in Prison

I’m not saying my father hated the English, God forbid. If he were still alive, he’d hate to hear me say that. He’d correct me right away and say he didn’t hate the English. Truth be told, he despised the English, especially the Black and Tans. They were the troops the English sent to take over Ireland before, during and after the Troubles in 1916. That was the time when the Irish first fought seriously for their independence.

My father would tell me often about what the Black and Tans did to him in 1920 at age 16 when he was captured while running guns for the IRA through marshes in rural Ireland. He knew the marshes in County Kerry very well because he was reared there as a farm boy. The IRA thought a boy like him would never get caught. But a boy carrying guns was not a common sight in the marshes of County Kerry.

The Black and Tans put him in a cell with a dirt floor. He sat on that dirt for a month after they broke both his legs with rifle butts. They were in no hurry to summon a doctor.

A cellmate gave him a pad of paper and he would sit on the dirt writing his name backwards with his left hand until his signature matched the normal one written with his right hand.

Decades later in America, after he had been expelled from Ireland and had married my mother and settled down with a job in Chicago, I heard many stories not only about his life in a jail cell but his life milking cows and goats on a dairy farm as a young boy. He had to do that if he wanted his oatmeal for breakfast.

I was in grammar school in the Forties when I heard a lot from my father about the Irish seeking their independence. His stories were a lot better, I thought, then paying 25 cents on Saturday afternoon to see a Western with Gene Autry at the local movie house, even if the movie was followed by 25 color cartoons. 

One day after school I had some friends over at the house. My father, a man of many moods not identified yet as PTSD, took a pad of paper and with a pen in each hand signed his name forward with one hand and backward with the other simultaneously. He then held the pad up to the long mirror in the hallway and, of course, the signatures were identical. My friends and I, crowded around him, were very young but even if we had been adults we would still have been amazed.

After my friends went home, I asked my father how he learned to do that and he told me about the Black and Tans, their gun butts and that pad of paper the cellmate gave him. Rather than write letters to his family and upset them by letting them know he was in prison, he practiced writing his signature backwards with his left hand. This was one of a number of odd things that my father had mastered, all of them interesting to a child, but not worth going into at the moment or I’d be typing for a long time. 

Eventually I grew up, went to college, married and moved to another city and my father wanted to come and visit us and see his first grandson. Fine with me, I thought. I just hoped his affable mood would last and not disappear during the visit. I didn’t want to impose on him the nighttime crying of an infant since he had lived through that with me as a colicky child and my mother said he didn’t weather it well, having to get up early for work the next morning. So I decided to get him a room at a nice hotel. However, I picked the wrong one.  

I made the mistake of making a reservation for him at the Henry VIII Hotel, named after the English monarch. I can still hear my father yelling when I mentioned the Henry VIII Hotel over the phone.

Indeed the Henry VIII was a nice hotel decorated in an English style that would truly have enraged my father. It was torn down not long after he died. But he had never been a guest at the Henry VIII, having stayed at another hotel free of any English taint. And his visit went well, all things considered. No outbursts or commotion.

Had he lived long enough, however, my father probably would have been far more upset to learn years later that his grandson, after graduating with honors from the University of Chicago, went to England to study at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar. 

Tuition, room and board and books were free but Oxford, of course, was in England. And it was England that had sent the Black and Tans to Ireland and it was the Black and Tans who had broken my father’s legs.

Sometimes I think about what it might have been like had he lived long enough to learn that my son had won that scholarship. I imagine calling him to tell him the news. And suddenly I can hear him yelling louder than when I told him about the Henry VIII Hotel. This time he would sound like a muezzin in a minaret on top of a mosque. Only he wouldn’t be summoning the faithful to prayers. 


Donal Mahoney

Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brendan Simons | Details

The Bench in the Labyrinth

Deep in a silva of the Emerald Isle there hides a peculiar coppice,
Shaped in a spiral labyrinth which is seen only on the summer solstice. 

As the sun rises to its highest of tides and the day overwhelms the night,
Those with fairy sight can find this forest where magic is entangled in setting light. 

Inside the twists and turns of the path which winds throughout the wooded thick,
There sits a bench at the center of this maze which was mapped with archaic arithmetic.

Locals call this legendary seat the Bench of Brohan's Boskage,
Named for a fairy who built and grew the bosk as a family homage.

The bench was built with metal and wood made of brass and burdock root,
Blended in an elderberry and copper snood of alloys and the flora's fruit.
 
The root of Thor and the berry of elders ensure that those who sit can stand,
The staccato of lightning that perpetually pours upon the enchanted bench's land. 

For above the labyrinthian garden an unending mystical tempest warns,
Those without the fairy sight who seem to fear the wrath of thunderstorms.

Once a fearless boy who hadn't knew that his blood was brewed in the Brohan clan,
Took a trip on the twenty-first of June and found the forest after he grew into a man.

He took a walk in the night as the sun was still high when he had heard a whisper,
Willing him to follow a blow of a feathery zephyr in the air which had never been crisper.

Although lost he knew the way for the forest's nymphs ferried him on,
Towards the middle of the woods where to the bench he would be drawn.

Lightning bolts webbed above the weaving walls of shrubs,
Whose leaves were rubbed by the static clouds' electric scrub.

An astronomer, the man could sense the occult horoscopy used to map the mazes,
Whose constellated crevices were crafted by extraterrestrial objects and their phases. 

Meandering through the astrological charted garden, east of Aires and Aquarius,
He found the bench which sat in the galactic center, twenty-six degrees of Sagittarius.

The seat, which was half stone and half plant, shined beneath ionized sky,
A copper conductor untouched by the lightning which the elderberry nullified. 

He sat upon the bench and gazed upon a damiana and why he had not known,
He closed his eyes and knew this breathing bench of stone was his own throne.

Memories of ancient celtic kings and queens who reigned in pagan days,
Flashed in slideshow reels inside his racing mind as if he were watching a play.

He learned that the fey could once be seen and that his exponentially great grandfather,
Was a king who laid with a fairy maid before the Church had all the pagans slaughtered.

A war of righteous wickedness had driven the fairies who fled for the hills,
Who can be heard in screams when one of their human kin is to be killed.

After the man watched this history in a celluloid dream filmed in his thoughts,
He sat up from the bench and all he just learned had been immediately forgot. 

He looked down at the bench then up at the sky and for some reason he felt scared,
In haste he exited the woods and wondered why when he entered he had ever dared.

When he returned to the bed and breakfast in which he was staying,
He reached in his pocket for a cigarette,
And found a small note which in written letters addressed to him was saying,
"Now, my grandson, you must never forget."

Copyright © Brendan Simons | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Jerry T Curtis | Details

Finn, Me and McGee

Me un Finn came  'round

In what did we found

The Pub, wid a very large lock

Aye keep the key where no one cann see

Said our find mate, Erik McJock

So, let us awl in, out spurted  Finn

Cus drinkin' is what were intendin' 

Then  McJock with  wide  eyes

Said out with a cry, "Ow much

You intend apon spendin' "

Well don't look at me

Said Wee luck Mcgee

I've been tapped out fur mo than a week

So I looked awl around and instinctively found

No one wanted teh speak

I said "Dats just fine"

And in lew of badd times

I reached  for my purse at my side,

"Bot it 'ad  large 'ole

Wer der money should go

So,I quess I'll be sayin Goodby"

"I say not so fast"

Came MacJocks voice alas

As he magically conjured da key

I'll bye you one drink, an don't be a Fink

"Cause dat awl you'd be gettin' for free

"You're a Lads lad " said Finn

As he barged 'is way in

Leadin' the mob to the bar

MacJock went 'round and set glasses down

Den Produced a very large jar

We all looked at da jar

Und we awl scratched our 'eads

In wonderin' what it moight be

Bot we was unable, for it hadn't a label

And it certainly was"t white tea

Den MacJock took the vessel

Und stringently wrestled 

Da lid dat was on wicked toight

Und as we grew near, we awl shared da fear

Dat it moightn't be enought for da night

Bot MacJock Was agreeing 

Da whot we were seein'

Was aged in an old crock

One of these be, equal to three

Of da best stuff  'e 'ad in stock

So MacJock poured the first

To quench old Finn's thirst

Then he poured one for me and the fellers 

There in my ear he said it quiet clear

"I keep the best stuff down here in the cellar"

Finn was da first

For betta or worst

To shoot down the shot

'E was eye'n

Den Wee luk McGee

Said "As long as it's free

I don't mind a bit dat I'm try'n "

The other lads, now

Pressed a glass to dier brow

In salute to dier Patron MacJock

Dey den knocked dem awl back

Gave the bar a loud whack 

While findin' it to  'ard teh talk

It went down quite easy

Din made us all queazy 

And as soon as I was able teh speak

I ask Ol' MacJock

What da heck's in dat crock

As I stilt felt the flush in me cheeks

MacJock gave a laugh, in his chair he reeled back

And gave a good slap on his knee

Then turned to pour, each member one more

Which almost knocked over McGee

McGee started off

With a wee nervous cough 

Din stuttered out a few words

"As long as you're  buyin' Dere's no use denyin'

I must let a notch out me gird

We all stood there slapin'

McGees back and laughin'

As we slowly lifted our drinks

I'll make a grand toast

Said I to our 'ost

And  gave old MacJock a wink

I said It is true

No utter wid do

Wot MacJock as dun fur us

So let's us salute 

That big tall gallute 

So din pour us another he must

Every time, dat he poured

There appeared a bit more

Of dat nectar, contained by the jar

Bot we didna take notice

Of the chance of sclerosis

There's no way we were leave'in da bar

MacJock kept on serving

Widout need of conserving

Dere seem to be plenty for awl

And he quickly would pour

Not a glass he'd ignored

When one of us lads made the call
.................................................. to be continued

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by liam mcdaid | Details

Seat of kings

A stone round standing fortress crowns forever beauty
The name translated to english Grianan means sunny spot or sun temple
The land bows down inspirational the view 
seat of the high kings dating back to 1700 B.C
Overlooking Lough Swilly and Lough Foyle
Eogháin, after whom Inishowen is named
was baptised at Grianán by St. Patrick
where they imposed Patrick's rule 
Eoghan was a leader of the Ui Néill's 
the northern clan descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages 
Eoghan began a dynasty that brought forth the High Kings of Ireland 
for more than 500 years
our crowned jewel rings in the heart of Donegal

High up on a massive hilltop
it was a place of sun worship 
or the place of hibernation of Gráine
a Celtic sun-goddess

In Celtic mythology Grainne was the sister of Aine 
goddess of the sun, and though Grainne was known as goddess of corn 
or grain (springs from the earth after being nurtured by the sun)
both sisters are said to have been birthed by a sunbeam or “of the sun

There is also a tradition that the temple was built by Daghdha 
the good god or god of the earth 
He was known as the King of the Tuatha dé Danann
a race of supernatural beings descended from the Goddess Danu
They inhabited Ireland before the Celts
This tradition has Daghda building the fort to protect the grave of his son
A variation tells of giants building the hill and the Grianán on top a residence 
for the shining ones who gave birth to the children of the sídhe
All of these traditions link the hill and the fort on top with supernatural beings
to unseen energy and power and a link to the Otherworld

With one breathtaking scene 
overlooking spanning miles awestruck
sweeping below beautiful country side our forty shades 
of emerald green jewel of Ireland 

From inside outwards the pen flows golden precious
Here stands a kingdom 
dating back to a time of tuatha de danann
one dynasty sings over centuries
Legend states that the giants of Inishowen are lying sleeping 
but when the sacred sword is removed
they will spring to life reclaiming their ancient lands

Our ancient ring stone clad fort in Irish folklore sings
One such tale relates that Niall Frasach
he was born when these freasa or showers fell 
honey silver and blood
A high-king of Ireland 

Son of Fergal mac Maolduin 
Brother of Aodh Allan 
It is said that, when a famine occurred
they carried off by force the one cow 
that the solitary hermit of that church had 
the hermit cursed the king and his host
there was an earthquake 
people devoured one another there at this time

A great cow-plague existed
he prayed and the famine was lifted
with showers of food and silver falling from heaven. 
(High King of Ireland 743-770 AD)
to me it stands out one fort in a test of time 

On a clear day one can see five of the nine counties of Ulster 
from Grianán's parapets.
A truly magical wonder to behold
still standing in our midst 
sings enchanting sweet beautiful 
magical music to this heart

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Donal Mahoney | Details

Paddy Murphy's Wake

The priest had been here earlier and the rosary was said
and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences.
"Sorry for your troubles," one by one they said, 
bending over Maggie Murphy, silent in her rocker, 
a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket,
the two of them much closer now than they had ever been. 
A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say,
waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace.


But the hour was getting late and still the widow hadn't wept.
Her eyes were swept Saharas and the mourners wanted tears.
They had fields to plow come morning and they needed sleep 
but the custom in County Kerry was  
no one leaves a wake until the widow weeps.


Fair Maggie could have married any man in Kerry,
according to her mother, who almost every day reminded her of that.
"Maggie," she would say, "you should have married Mickey. 
His limp was not that bad," but Maggie wouldn't listen. 
Instead, she married Paddy, "that pestilence out walking" 
as her mother often called him
even on a Sunday but only after Mass. 


Maggie married Paddy the day he scored the only goal 
the year that Kerry took the trophy back from Galway.
That goal was no small thing, Paddy would remind us all forever
until one of us would gag and buy him another drink. 
That goal, he'd shout, was something historians would one day note, 
even if they hadn't yet, and every time he'd mention it, 
which was almost daily, Maggie's mother would remind her daughter
that she should have married Mickey and had a better life.
The final time her mother praised poor Mickey,
a screaming match ensued, so loud it woke the rooster 
the day before her mother, feverish in bed, 
gurgled like a frog and died. 


This evening, though, as the wake wore on, 
the mourners grew more weary 
waiting for the tears the widow hadn't shed.
Restless in his folding chair, Mickey put his bottle down 
and rose to give the eulogy it had taken days to memorize. 
"Folks," he said, "if all of us would holler down to Paddy now, 
he'd holler back, I'm sure, and tell us, 
despite the flames and all that smoke, that Kerry 
winning over Galway is all that ever mattered, even now.
We'll always have cold Paddy over there to thank for that." 


The Widow Murphy hadn't moved all evening, 
but after hearing Mickey speak, she began to rock with fury
as she raised a purple fist, shook it to the heavens
and then began to hum her favorite dirge.
The mourners all joined in and hummed along until
midnight pealed on the mantel clock and then, 
as if released by God Himself, the mourners one by one 
rose from folding chairs and left in single file, freed   
by a hurricane of the Widow Murphy's tears.


Donal Mahoney

Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Julie ann Jones | Details

Give Ireland back to the Irish

The 
familiar 
sound 
of 
gunshots 
rings 
out 
in 
the 
dead 
of 
night,as 
a 
sniper 
takes 
position 
in 
the 
bushes 
outta 
sight,
Past 
my 
front 
door 
I 
hear 
the 
sound 
of 
many 
marching 
feet,as 
II 
Para 
make 
their 
presence 
felt 
upon 
a 
Belfast 
street,  
Gerry 
Adams 
does 
a 
hard 
days 
graft 
and 
then 
its 
homeward 
bound,as 
a 
British 
soldier 
just 
nineteen 
lays 
bleeding 
on 
the 
ground,
Well 
he 
fought 
for 
Queen 
and 
country 
so 
it 
comes 
as 
no 
surprise,as 
he 
draws 
his 
last 
breath,says 
a 
prayer 
and 
there 
a 
hero 
dies,
So 
many 
slain 
civilians 
they're 
just 
casualties 
of 
war,do 
the 
f*ckers 
even 
realise 
what 
it 
is 
they're 
fighting 
for?
Or 
has 
the 
whole 
point 
of 
it 
got 
lost 
in 
the 
mists 
of 
time,the 
I'R'A 
take 
credit 
for 
their 
latest 
deadly 
crime,
In 
a 
safehouse 
miles 
from 
nowhere 
there's 
three 
loyalists 
lying 
dead,one 
in 
a 
grave 
(he 
was 
buried 
alive)and 
two 
with 
one 
straight 
through 
the 
head,
But 
the 
score 
it 
was 
even 
before 
the 
cock 
crowed,three 
Catholic 
civilians 
were 
slain,  
And 
there's 
rumours 
of 
vengence 
and 
fights 
to 
the 
death,and 
calls 
to 
keep 
calm 
from 
Sinn 
Fein,
As 
politicians 
armed 
with 
pens 
sit 
counting 
up 
lost 
lives,the 
Ulster 
Paramilitary 
sit 
sharpening 
their 
knives,
And 
loading 
slugs 
into 
the 
clip 
of 
some 
dead 
soldiers 
gun,"Come 
on 
now 
lads 
there's 
dirty 
deeds 
still 
waiting 
to 
be 
done,
In 
Londonderry,County 
Down,in 
Belfast,Newry 
too,the 
Catholics 
and 
the 
protestants 
keep 
Ireland 
torn 
in 
two,
As 
children 
grow 
up 
in 
the 
shadow 
of 
fear,there's 
a 
stench 
of 
death 
and 
bloodshed 
here,
So 
you 
with 
the 
power 
to 
give 
us 
the 
chance,lets 
find 
a 
solution 
and 
finish 
the 
dance,
Give 
Ireland 
back 
to 
the 
Irish...please!
or 
bring 
the 
whole 
damned 
nation 
crashing 
down 
to 
its 
knees. 

Copyright © Julie ann Jones | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by D'Craig Bursey | Details

A gunshot away


Grandfather played the tin whistle
with Paddy on his knee
for his grandson he played 
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on

on Paddy’s tenth birthday
Grandfather gave him his own to play
Paddy took to it like a duck to water
soon  learned from his Grandfather
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on

every school function when Paddy was there
sweet songs filled the evening air
Paddy played loud and
Paddy played strong
songs of Ireland 
songs that will live on

Paddy joined the army on his birthday
eighteen years and shipped away
he took his tin whistle and he  played
marching songs
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on

the Sergeant said one day
you could hear Paddy’s tin whistle
a gunshot away
when we go to the front lines
you must not play 

Paddy played his tin whistle
on leave to entertain troops 
new found friends and
new found love 
he played 
songs of Ireland 
songs that will live on

his company took  a hill one day 
in the middle of a fight
was surrounded at the base 
late into the night

Paddy  heard the Major say
get your tin whistle 
I need you to play
the radio is gone and
a planned air strike for this hill is on
Paddy get your tin whistle and play
and a hundred and fifty men will pray
they hear it a gunshot away

Paddy got his tin whistle and
climbed the tallest tree
he wanted the sound to carry
it was not a good place to be
he played all night with all his might
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on

when the air strike time had come and gone
a soldier was sent to get him down
but a sniper had found him first
a flag draped end to a man
and as he was lowered into his land 
you could hear
 a hundred and fifty tin whistles play
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on

love made a son far away and
he was given his father’s name
his grandfather brought him home and
arranged for his stay
gave his grandson  a tin whistle 
on his tenth birthday
Paddy  took to it like a duck to water
he learned to play songs of his great grandfather
songs of Ireland
songs that will live on



Copyright © D'Craig Bursey | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details

Song of Saint Patrick - part 2 - flight

II
Flight

One day, Maewyn was in the pasture,
	Tending his master's herds,
		When he heard spoken, clear as a spring,
	These few simple words,
			"Your ship is ready." the voice did say,
				He started then to run		
					And didn't stop to take a break
				'Til long had set the sun.

Maewyn's will was iron strong,
	His faith never fell short,
		It carried him his journey's length,
	Until he found the port,
			Out of which was chosen
				For him, back home, to sail
					-But this is just the beginning
				Of Maewyn Succet's tale.

Maewyn Succet expressed his thanks
	For arriving to the ship,
		"How kind of my creator
	To provide me with this trip!
			I see every situation
				As God's intended test
					And, in everyone that follows,
				I shall serve him at my best."

Young Maewyn Succet obtained his fare
	And boarded the vessel,
		But he was fraught with conflict,
	With which long he would wrestle,
			 But, not many hours effervesced
				After the ship embarked
					When the wind blew in, waters grew rough
				And the sky bloomed dark.

All hands were called upon the deck
	To prepare for the storm;
		The pagan fishermen and merchants
	Saw, from the deep, arise a wicked form.
			Each of them tried to appease its wrath
				With devil witchery
					Only to be swept away
				In the seething surgings of the sea

'Til Maewyn stood upon the deck
	Where others cast a curse
		And, in his heart, recited
	A simple line of verse,
			Then he spoke a loud
				A heartfelt, humble prayer.
					Before he finished giving thanks,
				Warm-winged breezes filled the air.

The ship was saved, the storm dissolved
	As quickly as it came,
		The survivors cast off their idols
	Calling Maewyn by the name,
			Father of the People (Patricus),
				Through whose faith unshaken
					Kept the people of the ship
				From being overtaken.

The passengers had a pleasant voyage
	And made it back to home,
		But Patrick had hundreds of miles,
	He still would have to roam
			Before he reached his homeland,
				With his family to reunite-
					He still had many dangers
				He yet would have to fight.

Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details

Song of Saint Patrick - part 5 - deeds

VI
Deeds

Patrick traveled lightly, 
	He carried but his needed load
		And made himself as useful 
	As he could along the road.
			He aided all who asked him,
				Offering a hand where'er he went
					And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
				A blessing had been sent.

He made it, at last, to Ireland
	And saw that he was needed there,
		For, by the tribal rulers,
	Hope in life had been made bare;
			In his Creator's will for him,
				Patrick was most sure--
					That in his steadfast faith in God
				Would lay any problem's cure.

Patrick was a foreigner, 
	He had no wordly protection
		As he wandered through the Counties,
	Which were then tribal sections.
			Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
				For conversion God did send
					Him among the tribes and chieftains, 
				this rarely made a friend.

(Patrick never knew 
	That by the Druids long before
		A vision had been prophesied,
	A piece of their fathers' lore
			About a harsh reformer,
				From whose table would fly impiety	
					And those, who chose to follow him,
				In blindness would agree.)

Patrick preached the gospel,
	Forgiveness and mercy
		And taught the Irish people
	Of the soul lasting eternity,
			Though some would not hear or objected,
				Some could not resist-
					There were so many converts
				With no need to insist.

The people told that Patrick
	Truly loved to teach
		And time flew from his awareness
	When he started to preach,
		(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
			Where ever he went)
				One night he preached so long,
			The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!

Once Patrick lit a fire
	Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
		Billows of smoke filled the air
	And rose above the heath,
			He did this in defiance
				Of Leoghary, who was king
					And through Patricks brave resistance,
				Christ's teachings, through, did ring:

Many pagans hauled up buckets,
	The whole hillside they drenched,
		But Patrick's Paschal fire
	But by him could be quenched.
			It was upon this hillside
				Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
					By plucking the trefoil shamrock
				To illustrate the Trinity.

Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems