May the rising sun warm your path,
And the whispering leaves sing wisdom to your mind.
May the waters flow clear with peace,
And the oak stand steadfast beside you.
May Awen inspire your heart,
As flowers unfold gracefully and joyfully.
Let the morning greet you with renewal and strength.
May your journey forever be guided by gentle light
And purpose!
Why the Irish Sing and Dance
by Frank Daub
Which the merrier – a speech or song?
One moves men to freedom
the other dances the soul along.
If they could, the Irish would
Transport their freedom to all the world.
From Parnell’s fire and flame
To Pearce’s sacramental offerings seldom heard.
Yet it is their music, the dreamer’s lively feet at dance,
That makes them known best.
Its poems set to music that brings the good unrest.
Then why their gift of blarney?
Why their speeches set to life?
They’ve made their songs their army,
to combat tears and strife.
The Irish are not selfish, and radiate from sea to sea,
The message that their music makes?
Every freedom fighter
Free.
Irish Toast
Dhia Duit
the Irish love a good páirtí
and go at the craic with gusto
the Guiness and Jamesions flow
musicians gather round: bodhran, fiddle,
guitar, concertina, the hall
reverberates to the sounds of a lively ceili
lasting till the wee hours of the morning
enough to keep the fairy folk awake
when all is finished before leave takin’
a toast is hoisted with glasses all around
Slainte mhaith to you all
a man of few words~ can’t be an Irishman
When we dream of faraway places and peeps, in leaps of faith, we’d never think of the reality of those who’d scathe—Poetess
Always darling, is dulling,
d
r
e
a
m d e e p l y
There once was a time I was an Anglophile
Once I wished I were an Hibernophile
I simply cannot relate
to those with a snubbers hate
Here’s to American nostalgia and its style!
There once was a lad with a spray,
Who snuck out at the end of the day.
On a house near the park
He scrawled in the dark,
the words “Ur gay” for Vinnie to bark
Went to see an Irish band
For a late St. Patrick’s day
In a little local restaurant
Not very far away.
The fireplace was crackling,
The menu Irish-based,
The Guinness fresh and flowing,
All just perfect for my taste.
The 3 piece combo sang and played
Guitar and pipe and flute.
A banjo and a concertina
Joined the fun, to boot.
We rarely get to do this
But as time makes it advance,
We should grab each opportunity
While we still have the chance.
In honor of St. Patrick's Day and for the Daniel Henry Rodgers' "Green To The Gills" Contest, I chose a poetry form to describe briefly at least seven of the most familiar of Irish creatures. I find the belief they must have once had in these myths to be fascinating. The poem form Debide is strange and a bit difficult, but I thought it worked well for what I wanted to show because each one is a little poem for the creature being described. See in notes above how to do the form.
The Banshee
delivers a death decree.
Her scream is horrid to hear
near.
A rabbit
could become Pooka’s habit.
With mischief he makes a swift
shift!
If maybe
a changeling were your baby,
that stand-in is not a mild
child!
In water,
the Selkie’s not an otter.
On land, is he still a real
seal?
The creature
*Dubh-Aos’ horrid feature:
Is he carrying a head
dead?
A fairy
is not Tinker-bell airy.
Leprechaun’s type is a tad
bad.
Of terror
Fear Darrig is a bearer.
Cause you nightmares? This Red Man
can!
*Doubh-Aos sounds like Doo-Ace and
with apostrophe is three syllables
We're jottin' down our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poem
From old Bombay to Galway Bay
We're jottin' down our poems
All wannabe Byrons just step aside
We're the best bards on land and foam, Aye!
We're jottin' dowm our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poems
Irish Cream Cake
I stir and mix
rich ingredients in forty shades of green for kicks
inside our T-castle by the bay
shanty sea songs we shall play
he sings along, blare’n A Pair of Brown Eyes and Wellerman
Celtic tea cake zesty
raspberry tea tickles my fancy
energy light and airy
a treat of nostalgic dairy
màireach brings bákús blessings!
Chocolate dallops and drizzles stuck
and four-leaf clovers for good luck
kindly do indulge
each bite pure decadence to divulge!
St Patrick’s Day Eve
3/16/26
St Patrick's Day POTD
3/17/26
there was a anxious young lass from Darry
who thought the world around her is scary
everything she trembled and shook
even pages from a picture book
it`s so funny how her name is Merry
----------------------------------------------------------
there was an Irish duck called Taffy
was a second cousin to Daffy
tried to impress other ducks
but become fresh out of luck
rejected by lady duck, Daisy
-----------------------------------------------------
there was a pretty young las from Portrush
with a strapping lad she had a big crush
he gave her a bright red rose
with words he then did propose
the colour of the rose, became her blush
--------------------------------------------------
there was an old man from Dublin
too much guiness, started stublin`
falling on his skinny bum
after slippin` on some gum
he went home, all sore and babblin`
--------------------------------------------------------
the irish lass from county kildare
when out ice skating, told to take care
tried a twirl and jump
but fell on her rump
and broke the part that sits on a chair
soft feather
bog winds whisper on heather
where the soaring eagles fly
high
stones upright
stand frozen long to incite
from high cliffs leaning on sea
free
lakes misty
blue morning shrouds reeds twisty
slow swans turn into cloud tuft
fluffed
breeze saline
blows on Moher cliffs marine
grey waves pound on basalt stone
lone
bay twilight
white gulls traverse with delight
dark night folded by wan tide
dyed
Beneath moon's pearly milk-white might,
the Sidhe dance in silver light.
Their laughter lingers, laced with lore,
whispered wish, a phantom door.
The harvest hinges on their hand,
they bless barley, blight the land.
A chalice filled with honeyed mead,
sway their favor, sate their greed.
The moon, a mother, mounts the sky,
her phases flicker and fall.
She marks the time for tilling true,
and paints the dusk in pearled dew.
Áine treads on the treetops tall,
her lunar glow engulfs all.
The Sidhe arise in robes of air,
claim the night, to rule, to dare.
A man once met them, mad with moon,
their melody now his tune.
They stole his shadow, spared his sight,
left him hollow, husked by night.
Beware the wane, the waxing glow,
Sidhe will reap what mortals sow.
A crust of bread, a cup of wine~
or lose self to their design.
They ride moons rays, they weave the wind,
their realm starts where ours has thinned.
The moon, their mirror, masks their might,
bridge of bone, a path of light.
So leave them milk and lock your gate,
Sidhe choose fate to bequeath.
The moon may grant, the moon may take~
dawn breaks; hearts will ache beneath.
I heard an old Irish refrain
rising to make my heart long,
bringing me some kind of solace
and kinship in a sad song.
Tree climbing to where I belong -
by God, I have Irish roots -
Roddy McCorley, breathing
my dead last breath in my boots.
I’ll reunite with my sister -
see her in heaven so sweet,
buying fresh cockles and mussels,
my Molly Malone to meet.
But let us not rush to judgement -
just like Tim Finnegan said,
I’m not ready for the Devil.
Don’t you decide that I’m dead.
Irish slave got forced to obey, to sign, to comply with things that were so NOT okay.
Irish slave, was forced to go many places, to work, to slave, to produce, to have children, to preform acts that are still being learned of today.
Irish slave was called indentured, this was a way to make it sound like they agreed to be a slave.
Irish slave did not agree to get treated like a piece of commodity.
Irish worked hard for America and loved and will always be remembered for many things.
Irish will celebrate America's 250th anniversary, and will recall all of the many acts and inactions of others to remember the Irish today and forever in history.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
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