Erin
This is a poem inspired by an Irish cousin of mine who was a bit of a "wild child" in her youth.
Erin
by Michael R. Burch
The Celtic Cross at Isle Grosse
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch
“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains
There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .
There was relief there,
without remorse,
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
irish souls-long monoku
my ireland when us of your blood come to pass.....our living
shouldn't yearn
our wakes reunite irish souls.....on an emerald road in eden
Emerald Queen
Emerald queen of my longing heart,
where my thoughts of her are lovingly kept,
my worship of her and her shamrocks,
dewy long grasses, bellflowers.
In a spring slumber,
I kiss the Wild Irish Rose,
I adore her fluttering lashes of
otherworldly gentian blue eyes,
with her soft brogue of April melodies,
and place the silver Claddagh ring
on her ivory finger,
as her wavy, long deepest red hair
blows gently around her white lace
draped shoulders,
and this breathless cherished
of moments,
bides it's time in the
great love of a young man's dreams.
Celtic
fields of Eire's graceful gorse......March ghostly winds swirl into castle keeps
Scars On A Beauty
Clover and moss adornment,
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained smile.
Yet, North of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.
My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?
My beauty, the souls, and shamrocks
in the dew,
weep just as much as you.
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained smile.
Yet, North of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.
My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?
My beauty, the souls, and shamrocks
in the dew,
weep just as much as you.
On leaving Ireland 1969
Time is going quickly..
soon we'll have to part
from families, friends and neighbours
the thought near breaks my heart.
Landing on a foreign soil
English soil at that!
I wonder will it be like home
with a welcome on the mat?
People say, "It will be a change
you'll like it, wait and see,
London is terrific,
that's the place to be.
It will be a change indeed
to live near London town
Fashion! Frenzy!