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.
Don’t Get Me Irish Up
Me glasses were sitting a-top-a me head
the jam I was spreading was next to the bread
my knees were together but me spindly legs spread
I’m either half way in ---or out of the bed
I have to look down when brushing me teeth
and glue them in tight before chewing me meat
and as for the callous that grows wild on my feet
I find sanding them a sensual treat
Me fingers resemble cold, wintering trees
aging icicles hang from my elbows and knees
the slightest of movements puts a scent on the breeze
and to make matters worse I pee when I sneeze
Me back’s slightly bent, me forehead is wrinkled
when reading a menu, me eyes, yes – they’re crinkled
when I fall asleep they say “ the old boy’s Van Winkled”
and me stories they say are all “Blarney sprinkled”
Me slippers are worn, me legs freshly shorn
the skin of me cheeks soft as the day I was born
but when they break out the corned beef and stout
all of me parts start to dancing about
John G. Lawless
© 3/6/2017
My snow boots weren’t meant for snow.
I bought them several years ago
In summer – I was Ireland-bound,
Expecting puddles on the ground.
They’re hiking boots, not very high,
But waterproof to keep one dry.
I’d have no reason to complain
When Irish skies would spit out rain.
My trip was glorious and, funny,
Every day was bright and sunny.
Nestled snugly in my case,
The unworn boots hogged too much space.
Still, I’ve used them lots since then
When stormy weather comes again.
I stomp through slush piles on the street,
No drops or dampness on my feet.
I’m grateful to my Ireland tour,
Preparing me so I’d be sure
To buy the perfect boots to wear
In snowstorms here or rainstorms there.
Joe's Morning News and?
Canterbury spectacles and call
The Irish teleprompt is back
#joescarborough #badreligionband
badreligionband
#joescarborough #badreligionband #jennahaze #kimkardashian #kendalljenner
The residual of question is the remainder of intelligence available to the individual
Orienting ones time owns epiphanies
Persiphonies divorce
Jenna?
Articles
Escorting outer speech is neither free nor legal
Antitrust went true
Sanders Warren Kennedy
Lobby yelps prevent articulate legible report earmarks
Available
I have 150 apartments available for unhoused persons in Ventura county
Between these two buildings legislated for inhabitants none are up to code
Loss of life is eminent domain of budget
Emergency reservations to alternative site as before at motel 6 extension address for minimum two year residence as needed while repairs are made
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
#joescarborough #badreligionband #asmirwin #realdonaldtrump #cagovernor #tonybiasotti #jennahaze #kimkardashian #kendalljenner
Lady Claire of Ireland twasnt supposed of?
Dual citizenship misnomer
She's walking on broken glass
Does your company fancy the lust?
Rhonna Channing was laid to die in a diaper in the streets of thousand oaks California
Emaciated Doe
Served Notice Laws
Unlawful dwelling on a matter
As privilege to collect speech
Against better measure of tenure
~Very Happy St. Patrick's Day~
(Free Style)
St. Patrick's Day
we're celebrating today
folks wear color green
They drink green beer and dance
and throw parades everywhere
people wear shamrocks
St. Patrick's Day
is a day of magic
merry and laughter
people celebrate
drink eat, have fun with family friends
some also dance, have a ball
Might see a Leprechaun
or a pot just filled of gold
at the end of a rainbow
I wish you the best
may you enjoy this fun fare
all the entire day.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2010
March.17.2017
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain
Wishing You And Yours a Very Happy And Safe St. Patrick's Day!
The people of Ireland were suffering a terrible fate
Many of them were starving at an alarming rate
Their potato crops were failing because of the blight
Bit little or no help was given now that wasn't right.
The wealthy landlords fed their faces with meat so lean
Whilst the poor people starved now I call that obscene
They could have helped them but chose to let them die
The horrors that they suffered a grown man would cry.
The heartless landlords didn't care, they showed no pity
More concerned about profits for their masters in the city
They evicted many poor dying people victims of the blight
How in God's name did these landlords sleep at night ?.
At the roadside's men, women, and children lay dead
They put profit before people that they could have fed
Landlords exported all the grain to feed the wealthy elite
Whilst the poor starving people were dying at their feet.
"An act of God "said Trevelyan, now that was shocking
To use that as a lame excuse to do little or nothing
And he certainly wasn't alone, the clergy said it too
How simple minded they all were to think that was true.
They all looked the other way, they all had no shame
And did not do enough and found others to blame
One day they'll face judgement and that is a fact
And they can all explain to God why they didn't act.
mighty Finn MacCool, fierce Antrim lad
slung sling-shot Samson right off his pad
shattered mindsets, tilted clocks
swiped Goliath in the docks
gargantuan giants going mad
Armagh apple girl, any topic
she star gazed past the misanthropic
vantage point, two cathedrals
Gullion top, polyhedrals
planetarium, telescopic
clever Cavan man miles from the sea
found the Shannon source down on one knee
tiny trickle, goodness sake
then a torrent, then a lake
in Breffni county coarse fish are free
one from London, the other, Derry
these two wee men were very hairy
bendy bridge across the Foyle
peaceful city soon to spoil
their Sperrin looks were very scary
there was an eejit from Donegal
climbed up Muckish, had a great fall
the scree slopes of Errigal
still alive, it's a miracle
his Malin head had no sense at all
surly curly kid from county Down
lost in the drumlins wearing a frown
city edge, mountains of Mourne
disappeared where he was born
by Strangford narrows acting the clown
wily Fermanagh wench kept two men
each was called Ernie from way back when
overhead in their flying boats
spied her flashing petticoats
ocean in sight, they fell short again
most mysterious Monaghan boy
sibling Virginia, she was his joy
dressed up in his sister’s clothes
sexy Clones, no one knows
'cept over the border, Auchnacloy
Tyrone joker a champion be
chalk in pocket he could hardly see
bendy cue, whipped their asses
fifteen balls, such big glasses
all for his ma and a tidy fee
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the dream felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
I went walking the footpath between life and death.
It was there I first discerned the strum of a harp.
I hastened my step, tracing wooded trail with stealth`
as the resonant resplendent tones grew clear and sharp.
I quickly came upon a figure the size of a mountain.
He carried a manful bearing even as he played.
Smiling at me like he knew me, I felt he was my champion.
“I am the Dagda, god of life and death,” he conveyed.
“I rule agriculture, fertility, seasons and magic.”
Next to him was a cauldron of plenty along with his club
of life or death, and his eyes stored memories both joyous and tragic.
Humbled by this good, great god of Ireland, I felt like a flub.
“Do not trouble yourself,” he paused and said with wisdom.
“You are always most welcome, here in my kingdom.”
The Irish Republican Army
Through clenched teeth will fight,
So all with Irish accents
Will hear "Ireland's call" and unite.
The cowboys sings of the country
Mountains and farms and all that,
Though he is from the city
he'll wear his ten gallon hat.
The American is so proud
He was born on the Fourth of July,
He sings the "star spangled banner"
With hand on heart as he cries.
The Australian larrikin is proud
Of their beaches, forests and sun,
That he is "young and free"
With BBQ and beer soaked fun.
The Scotsman wears His kilt
And recites what Burns may have said,
About the braveheart spirit
That against the Englishmen bled.
Then there's the twelve year old boy
Thinks "in what can I now be proud" ?,
He'll wear his football jersey
With the thousands in the stand with the crowd.
These all have something in common
It's the same thing that drives them all,
It's all about their identity
By this we all stand or fall.
The identity is the powerful force
That drives all of life's decisions,
To understand motivation
The identity is the heart's incision.
For this we'll defend to the death
For that is our fighting territory,
Because it's who we are
Where belief comes from, our identity.
Note: "Ireland's call" is the anthem sung by the Irish rugby team which is made up of both the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland.
"Young and free" is in Australia's national anthem
"Larrikin" is Australian slang for a person who is a bit cheeky
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem