Mr. O'Toole in trauma sat in front
Seeking mercy from tax assessor stunt.
His Irish luck grace
Full Blown-in his face.
With distaste pay money in full upfront.
3/26/2025
Momentum on the Streets p=mv profit=momentum*volume
“How much do you get?”
“What’s the pay…..
What’s the pay off he said
Not speculating today
Feels great
This location is inside of you
Sugar bored and wont talk
Never through it all a way for a block
Out of my bourbon
Soo clean eyes will come
A thousand armies and a thousand moors
Until you never loud inside my opened poors
They are all gone now,
Heaney, Mahon and Longley
the last to go.
Their words speak
to these troubled times
with a lasting humanity.
Thanks be
to poetry's Irish trinity.
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
Wednesday's the middle of the sandwich
equidistant from weekends -- unhitched
Plenty of room for all those toppings
ketchup, mayo and rain showers -- she's sopping
How unjust, other days' inequitable ways
they'd blanch at my nickname of 'Hump Day'...
Alas, ignominy grinds on; the day's not yet over
~ Tomorrow's Thursday, that four-leaf clover
McPherson, McGregor, McTavish and me
All went out for a wee cup o’ tea.
McPherson took sugar, just one lump I see,
McGregor took two lumps, McTavish took three.
I settled for lemon, no sugar for me,
I don’t like those sweets inside of my tea.
My connection to Irishness is tenuous at best,
So, my habit of getting out of fixes seems to rest,
With my Guardian angel being one of the best.
For example, today I caught the bus to my Friday cleaning job,
Without my keys to do the job,
Not to worry my Guardian Angel managed the situation,
So, when I got to the bus station,
I was in time to step on a return bus to my home situation,
Retrieve my keys and step onto another bus to the right station,
Walk to minutes to my cleaning situation,
And finish the cleaning in time to walk back to the bus station,
To step onto another bus that got me home in time to sort my lunch situation.
Thank you Guardian Angel for saving my bacon.
His name is McGruff, crazy old woman said.
Rolling her silly eyes to the back of her head.
I could tell she had already labelled him.
A really great Irish guy name of Jim.
The Irish are all bad, she said quickly.
Her mind completely made up so thickly.
McGruff was an incredibly wonderful man.
He built our town a brand new band stand.
Donated all his supplies and labor.
Jim McGruff, a fantastic giving neighbor.
I asked crazy woman what she thought now.
She was making fun of people who bow.
Prejudging people was her normal scheme.
Fitting them into boxes, with a crazy theme.
But wait I said, aren’t you Irish too?
Shut up! She said. Or I’ll hit you with my shoe.
So my advice to you on this regular day.
If you see Old Lady McCaffry, try to stay away.
The last thing I heard is she has a new gun.
And she is shooting people from her window for fun.
Green four-leaf clover
Mutated symbol of luck
Nature's sign of hope
Living in a jobless country, thousands emigrating every month,
Long gone are the times of the Celtic tiger and the Irish punt.
The economy has collapsed into a heap on the floor,
A depressing recession is hard to ignore.
Politicians are greedy and getting more desperate,
Now this country is turning into a cesspit.
Honestly dishonesty is at an all-time high,
Profiteering politicians telling lie after lie.
They expect us to believe them, but it’s clearly all lies,
It’s so obvious you can see it without opening your eyes.
Rent and homelessness increasing, too expensive to be leasing,
Health and education decreasing while politicians keep fleecing.
And that phony Simon Coveney is nothing but a clown,
Do you really think he cares about the people in your town?
Democracies don’t become corrupt overnight, this takes time,
Slowly but surely it starts to decline.
The Irish have music and Guinness and tweed
And bright green land dotted with sheep.
There isn't much more that a person could need
But some friends, food and someplace to sleep.
There's lots of tradition awaiting to feed
Both the body and soul, which runs deep
From the ancients to now and that Gaelic-born seed
Nestles just like their tea, there to steep.
I'm enjoying the Guinness and music, which lead
To a memory bank I will keep
In my mind to tap into, for it's guaranteed
That some smiles to my face will then leap.
The luck of the Irish has always been
St Patrick did not preach for men to preen
in great lewdness and less love
but for friends to look above...
with gratitude garnished with touch of green.
Written 02/4/ 2017
Cian careen into Quigley's Pub
for a little Irish whiskey and sub
before long dancing
an Irish jig romancing
the wee fawning lassies lap club
lassies hooting and flapping being bold
with blarney about his pot of gold
money he was countin
while lassies were mountin
full of craic, pole dancing, and few handholds
much Irish brew a sot Cian became
I'm takin my money you can't blame
when he got to his lair
pot did he held bare
shame he did claim but himself to blame
3/26/2017
A leprechaun looking for gold
'neath the shimmering shamrocks of olde
(with the luck of a Gael)
found ten bottles of ale
somewhat green as if covered with mould.
3/15/2017
Last night I heard the banshee,
After a few swigs of whiskey,
And after I heard her scream,
I poured some Bailey's and cream.
Now I cannot hear her nor see.
3/13/17
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