Poems for All Occasions

Many thanks to my grandaughter Michelle for her work on the cover and to Garrett and Steven at Original Wrriting for all their help.

Why the White House should be painted green

Tyranny of Landlords and Penal Laws,

Drove our people from home, abroad.

O’Briens and Murphys,O’Neills, Mc’Quaids,

Maguires, O’Sullivans , the Celtic Race.

Late eighteen hundred, they left their homes

In Coffin ships to distant shores,

Some landed in the U.S.A

And built their homes with pride and dare.

From New York fair to San Francisco,

From Seattle to New Orleans,

Those Irishmen built railroads, canals

But as soldiers, the best e’er seen.

Who signed the Declaration?,

Offspring from the Emerald Isle,

Who founded the American Navy

John Barry a Wexford guy.

How many American Presidents

Have blood from our Celtic Race,

They have kept their thoughts of Motherland,

Back to Irish homes can trace.

The White House designed by Hoban,

Was honoured, his face on a stamp,

He hailed from “the Marble City”,

Kilkenny, a city with class

But last, but by no means least,

The best wine’s left till last,

They brought their culture and Catholic faith

From the hearths and homes to last..

Forever in the land of hope,

The great old U.S.A.

Much loved by Gaels, at home and abroad,

God rest all who left Queenstown bay.

(from the 9th Century Gaelic) I based this poem on the above.

Three things small sustain this earth,

A thin stream of milk in a pail,

A slender blade of golden corn,

Thread in skilled hand of female.

Three signs of an ill bred person;

Staying too long when you call,

Questions long and tedious,

Staring the rudest of all.

Three signs of plenty in Ireland:

The lowing of a milking cow,

The hum of a smith’s strong hammer

The gentle sound of the plough.

Three laughing stocks in the Old Land,

An angry man, vicious with rage,

A jealous man taunting and teasing,

But the Miser despised always..

Three things ruining our learning;

Forgetfulness in youngsters and aged,

Carelessness clumsy and awkward,

Ignorance without feeling or care.

Three signs of a real wicked person:

Bitterness showing on his face,

Hatred for each fellow human,

Cowardice unknown to us, Gaels.

Three things inspiring the virtue of love,

A smiling, kind,pleasant face,

Gentle soft speech and good manners,

Bring joy, peace and love to each race.

The three rudest people in mankind,

A young chap making fun of the Old,

A strong person jeering a cripple,

Wise men making fun of a fool.

Our forefathers knew in their wisdom,

We are all only actors on stage,

As we care and behave in this world,

So shall we reap Heaven’s Wage.

 A FLOURY
I
RISH
S
PUD

Good old potato

was the main food of the Irish,

Maximum yield, this crop could produce,

But great was their grief,

Indeed their worst down fall,

Was the blight and the fungus,

Such mighty bad news.

The “spuds”, as they called them,

Went black and inedible,

People died by the roadside

from hunger and disease,

No rent could they pay

to their cruel English landlords

Who evicted poor tenants

In spite of their pleas.

Soup kitchens were opened,

But the price of this beverage,

Was surrender one’s faith

Or die on the street.

The majority of Catholics

Refused Church of England.

They chose rather to die

Than give up their belief.

Tragedy saved us, millions departed,

Sending home money to relieve

loved ones forlorn,

Those emigrant children

Lifted up their compatriots

Dollars bought food,

And warm Winter Clothes.

So the people of Ireland

Should remember forever

Those gallant young people

Who braved death, wind and wave

To save up their dollars

To support their own kinsfolk,

Saving their dignity from lone Paupers’ graves.

The workhouse, with its cold grey walls,

Peering like a giant sentinel

Engulping male, female, young and old

Into its open claws of rough mortar

Enticing them, too weak to argue;

Their last resort to survive.

Destitute families, segregated,

By age and sex, mother from child,

Child from mother, wife from husband,

Husband from wife, sister from brother.

Thin, tired worn out people,

Those who could, employed for service,

Earning weekly, the menial sum of one and six

To barter for rations of yellow meal and broth,

Thin and tasteless,its salt content

Pierced parched lips, memories

of floury potatoes, now rotten neath

blight's scourge and a foul Winter.

Creating and nurturing fever epidemics

which fattened roadside graves, nearby

Irish farmers slaved to fodder the pockets

Of absentee landlords, whose greed drove

Two million of our youngest and best

in coffin ships,not fit to transport

Bird,animal, not alone human.

Yet most survived to spread their seed

In Australia, new Zealand and fair U.S.A.,

Where today, they proclaim their pride

In Irish blood and Gaelic heritage.

Poverty to new life, island to vast continents

Despair to hope, fresh seed in new pastures

Foul FAMINE THE INSTIGATOR.

Though half a century has passed,

And Christmas time is near.

My memories are as fresh to-day,

In spite of passing years.

The blazing fire of logs and turf,

Red cinders roasting brown,

The sizzling turkey in the pot,

And a pudding dark and round.

Our toys were few, but treasured,

We accepted all with joy,

Home made dolls of rags and wool,

With games for each small boy.

Our Grannies and our Grandads,

We greeted with open arms,

I can almost feel their loving hugs,

Their hearts aglow and warm.

They told us of the Holy Child,

Who was born on Christmas Day,

“It is HIS birthday, Child, you know,”

They said in their gentle way.

The holly and the berry,

From the hedge below the hill,

The lighting candle’s flickering glow,

In dreams I see it still.

Granny told of the little Lord,

With Mary and Joseph brave,

As they fled with fright from Herod,

On a donkey’s back so bare.

We crept into our beds that night,

And watched the stars with care,

Dotting they, the floors of Heaven,

Like gems on a snow white cake.

To day, I close my eyes and dream,

Of my home, now far away,

Memories fair, like pictures float,

And the love we had and shared.

The folks, now gone, are looking down,

On a world, that knows great change,

We had no pomp or riches then,

Yes, Christmas time was great

THEY DREAMED of Ireland’s rugged hills,

Calm response of quiet lakes,

Purple heather in the glens,

Undisturbed the cattle graze.

Yellow furze in bogs and vales,

Lazy sheep rest nearby,

Horses gallop o’er the heath

Bleak and barren the mountain side.

Mother baking round brown Loaves,

Softly shaping with four in hands,

From the haggard poultry sounds

Piglets rolling on mucky sands.

Father with his shirt sleeves rolled

Above his elbows, calm he stands,

Stick in hand his cattle drove,

Into the Jobber’s waiting van.

Memories of long ago,

Loved ones sleep ‘neath Irish soil,

Up above the song birds sing

Like spots adorning the evening sky.