Long The irish Poems
Long The irish Poems. Below are the most popular long The irish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long The irish poems by poem length and keyword.
I am who I am
Were you to ask where I’m from my past my tale my next of kin
the answer lies in who tells my narrative my twist what kind of spin
My autobiography is quickly shown in who I am will be in time
past present future blend in context and contingency overt and sublime
No doubt the product of genes and socialisation is rather pertinent
thus mixing and mingling draws frameworks but is also quite reticent
German ancestry Lower Saxon and East Prussian born after the War
struggling with Genocide Holocaust trans-generational down to my core
Grew up in Hamburg somewhat lonely understood by not many but few
too young in my school year a class clown a rebel a critic because I knew
Teachers could not reject or downgrade me since I got full marks in exams
so I carved out my niche opposed authority of Messieurs and Mesdames
A late child of the Student Revolution an exchange to California ensued
where hot love struck me like balm on my wounds with Gigi from Peru
After graduation I rejected being supported by my father and joined the Army
to gain independence yet the method to gain freedom now seems very barmy
Could not leave the Forces despite pretty vigorous conscientious objection
did my best to help others as a medical doctor in humanistic inception
My duties brought me to Wales by the Irish Sea with five children and marriage
country medic and farm house guiding my kids and then nuptial miscarriage
Depression struck no light at the end of the tunnel just darkness and void
too much drink downcast in my mental wheel chair and almost destroyed
Went to rehab in South Africa for treatment where God-incidence came
where I met my wife best friend lover soulmate who had suffered the same
Now I sit in the sun in South Africa stopped medicine write story and poem
reinvent my life some inner child stuff self-actualisation and certainly growing
New awareness novel perspectives pacifism philosophy and many questions
but the knowledge that kindness love and compassion are more than suggestions
My most intimate companion apart from my gorgeous wife is depression
both showed me my path journey and meaning my own life’s repossession
So few words about where I come from who I am will become and will be
so if you wish to explore more of my roots and my future please read my poetry
Dragon sat in the bushes all night long, for he wanted to catch himself a Leprechaun.
See Leprechauns have gold by the buckets full, and Dragon wanted himself… some.
So our sly little Dragon had put a lit up rainbow, on our garage door, to be cast on…
St. Patrick’s Day was in the morning, and he wanted some of those golden charms.
He’d read: You gotta get up, so very early, to be able, to even a little, trick those guys.
For those wily Leprechauns are the cleverest critters, which were ever seen… to arise.
So Dragon had dressed up in the Irish green, topped with a cute little Leprechaun hat.
You see, Dragon believed he was, the slyest thing, put on this earth, here… ever… yet.
Sure enough, at the break of dawn… a Leprechaun came snooping, stealthily around.
Strangely, he looked about 3 years old, the same age of our Dragon, or there, around.
They hit it off immediately, with so much in common, at that tender age and time.
Finally together, they dug up the pot of gold, which the Leprechaun’s magic did rise.
They had decided to share the wealth, of any gold, they did hope to some how find
But darn, the Leprechaun was unhappy, at the small amount of gold before his eyes.
He swore our Dragon had dug it up early, and already taken his own share… after all…
Dragons were known to be the greediest things ever put on this earth, he did recall.
Yes, he’d seen thru Dragons disguise, and had seen the wily-ness of it all… so true…
So the Leprechaun threw a crying hissy fit, the likes of which Dragon had never knew.
He raged on and on, how his new best friend could ever think to cheat him, Boo Hoo!
Now, Dragon began to feel very guilty for what he had originally, truly, wanted to do.
So in the end he gave it all away, to his newest best friend, who left without an adieu.
At that our dear little Dragon, felt proud for what he had finally achieved and done.
That is until he looked at his own little bitty horde of gold… that was suddenly gone!
Yep the little Leprechaun, had stolen it fast away! With his magic he had transferred…
Dragons gold to the Leprechauns beloved pot! Now Dragon became enflamed at it all!
At what the Leprechaun had done… Until Grandpa Troll reminded him with the moral:
Don’t be surprised… if you get burned… when you play with fire, my little friend!
The End!
Written 3-17-2017
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Stashed with programs recorded, which, condensed on universal files
Will tell them very little of what they don’t know and may never know
In this lifetime or the next heaven, in this orbit or the next
Treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
Will lead you no where’s at all, empty, with your mind well past insane
For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
Without ever having known it’s cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, shepperd’s hand
Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land
The mystery of death and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
Without any real light here or plant photometry, only luminescence
Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it’s rhythm
Going to some other world set in it’s own path, with it’s Keplerian hum
Beating out some different drum, set in a blinding sphere of light and sound
Like blended whiskey with the Irish; or Navajo, without the calendar round
Sans irony, the starmen will consult their astrologer or star-chart for this logic
Countin’ the days before they land again when the stars are [csmo]allo-genic
Since this cosmos has revealed no light to them, the starmen going forth
Eager to jump off of Earth’s orbital path, bend and trajectory
Their spacesuits, ships, tanks, sabres, and thrusters made from the factory
Everything printed like plastic in hazy glow and in false dimension
In light and low gravity, with false smiles and fat charms hanging in suspension
How could the new age begin completely unaware, one might ask ?
With no real knowledge of how the past one ended, without a task
This high level of dimness, this naivete, and ignorance unknowing
Much like blind men on the river styx, or perhaps, along with Homer rowing
Going from one ruse to harbour next shenanigan—look into the Cyclop’s Eye!
No land in Egypt and with Dido elope, with the Siren’s despair, intoxicants in Libya
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
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.
In my New York suburb, I’m mildly fond
Of Helvellyn Road, and Gracemere pond
But the original Helvellyn called...
Ravenglass too, even the name enthralled.
Of Lake poets, I eagerly read
And I found what Alfred Wainright once said:
[chorus]
His words echo across time’s bridge
That always there will be the lonely ridge,
the silent forest, the dancing beck
Though we have fleeting time on a cosmic speck.
Wordsworth thought the loveliest spot ever found
was near Grasmere Lake so I walked it around.
I beat the crowd to the top of Scafell Pike
Saw crags on all sides, what not to like?
Saw the Mourne mountains across the Irish sea
Snowdonia in Wales, steeped in history.
Wordsworth liked walking when mists veiled the sky,
Mists add variety, they distort, they magnify.
Hugging emerald meadows and tarns and becks
The mist lifts, to glorious backdrop effects.
I've often gone to where the grapevine led,
And I remembered what Wordsworth said:
[chorus]
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
than all the sages can.
I'd like to be on an airy ridge, seeing far
It would be cool to climb steps up a limestone scar
then stride to a big-sky panorama
Maybe join a fell runner, in nature's drama.
Follow Wordsworth where the rugged trail led
Recite once more what the poet said:
[chorus]
A deep delight the bosom thrills
Of these fraternal hills:
On top stones like bones the earth left alone,
But on those stones lichen has grown
Colored between the rocks and sky
The Lake District kind of high.
At the foot of Saddleback, while its brow appeared
A sad purple before cloud-shadow cleared
To the left I saw the jaws of Borrowdale
On the pure lake a standing man with a windswept sail.
There’s a confession I should make
The trip to Cumbria I could not take
I could only watch videos on my PC
Experiencing the region vicariously.
I make room in my mental space
For the good times of those who visit the lakes.
I think of sunset on a ridge, a hiker’s face aglow,
And that somewhere this exists is comforting to know.
An imagined eyrie where spirits fly
And fell runners reach that Lake District high.
Thelma Leeson.......
is in a nursing home, dementia will take her,
and I will recite this at her funeral.
Thelma Jane was a Leeson and she was premmie born
Size of a sauce bottle to a tent her tiny form
Oh thy bathed her in olive oil, good for her premmy skin
And mother Eva said to Tom no tent for it’s a sin!
Because she needed better care Jane Tattam took her in
Jane and Morry they were childless, second Mum and Dad did grin
May,1930 the ninth, was when she came to earth
Cool day in a rug , snug as a bug, this tiny babies birth
Her parents then lived in a tent for Tom he was a fencing
With Walter, May, and Henry some of the older kids I’ll mention
Little sister Marge arrived, sugar diabetes so grim
Mum Eva did her best to do the doctoring
Thelma would return to Eva and live in the big old tent
But she was used better things a house and all it meant
Marg was in the Warwick hospital, Thelma drove the sulky in
She clung to the reins, but the horse knew the way there and back again
At school in the forties two Soldiers did walk in
One asked for Fay and Thelma, just brother Walter tall and slim
Nervous Thelma took em to see Tom and Eva at home
Eva said it’s your brother, he’s been a Droving on his own
Thelma would become a nurse, but first she worked in a store
Aunt Jane didn’t like the hair clips in Thelma’s hair she saw
It was in Toowoomba forbidden clips were then a sin
Aunty Jane she made the rules, and Thelma wore em thin .
Thelma was a great Nurse with a timid gentle humor
Prince Alfred in old Sydney, and Mt Olivet would groom her
Michael Lalor of the Irish had captured Thelma’s heart
And Mary arrived a love child, right from the very start.
Then Michael he was called away the lord had taken him
Mary married in the church of Michaels christening….Ireland..
Thelma loved the wedding place, in old Ireland lovely crowd
Mary is her father's daughter, Thelma was so very proud
We always laughed with Thelma for at parties she would cook
At cousin Nell’s the Great Grandkids ate her cakes and sometimes chook
We all miss our lovely Thelma, it’s sad she goes away
But written on the mist of time is Thelma this I say…..Don Johnson
A much loved lady....
The Doberman Pinscher
A Doberman’s known to be picky
With friends so to greet one is tricky
To kiss is a bummer
Undoubtedly dumber
Is to sneak up and give one a hickey
The English Setter
The reason we call them a setter
Is they follow their genes to the letter
When spotting their prey
They will sit down and lay
Till it’s time to get up and go get ‘er
The German Shepherd
For a breed with a dubious rep
How ironic when choosing to prep
A dog steady and wise
To be some human’s eyes
At the top of the list is the Shep
The German Shorthaired Pointer
Pointing…it sounds like a breeze
Just stick out your tail and freeze
The hard work is done
Now wait for the gun
Taking care not to wiggle or sneeze
The Golden Retriever I
Consider the Golden Retriever
Part camel, part Wookie, part beaver
You can leave her alone
In your home with a bone
If you first take the time to relieve ‘er
The Golden Retriever II
Its coat is luxurious gold
Like the crown on a monarch of old
Thick but not kinky
Though occasionally stinky
What a glorious sight to behold!
The Greyhound
Though Greyhounds are known for their speed
There’s a dignified side to the breed
For when given a choice
Between rabbits and Joyce
They are likely to choose a good read
The Irish Setter
He’s Irish not Scottish or British
You forget, he’ll get ornery and skittish
He’ll point to his pelt
Start swearing in Celt
With a splash of some Gaelic and Yiddish
The Jack Russell Terrier
A packet of fizz the Jack Russell
Full of dashing and daring and bustle
With engine on race
And the world left to chase
Any wonder he makes such a fussle?
The Keeshond
I once knew a hound that was Dutch
Can’t say that I cared for him much
He lived on a barge
That was smelly and large
And grinned at the hint of a touch
The Kerry Blue Terrier
You ask, why include a new terrier
Not a hound or a pinscher or harrier?
Include them indeed
Not a different breed
‘cause they’re fun as a bun and lots hairier
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
organ, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Back on the streets, rush to the train.
So many women to choose from! One
in fishnet stockings stands out, tall
calm, still, graceful. No cell, no hair, no hurry.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said is
Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.