St Patricks Day
March 17th is one of the best days of the year.
In Chicago the river was as green as grass.
The Irish were celebrating like it was their job.
Everyone in my family was together having a blast.
The Irish were parading for it was their day.
The potatoes and corned beef for dinner were mouthwatering.
The shamrock was everywhere I looked.
Green was swarming the city.
Everyone celebrating their heritage or just trying to have a good time.
I didn’t care who’s celebrating it’s the day where everyone’s Irish.
I hardly slept because of the great day.
Too bad I had to get up for school the next day.
poem by Mike Kearney
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Related quotes
Irish
St. Patrick's day is with us,
The day when all that's seen
From right and left
And everywhere is green, green, green.
I'll wear an Irish shamrock
In my coat the glad day through,
For my mother and Grandma are Irish,
And I am half way Irish, too!
poem by Autumn Howard
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My Irish Granny
A Tribute To My Irish Granny
By Marie Hurst on 17 June 2011
land of my grt grt grt grandmother beckon to me
Lure me home over the Irish sea
There with eyes of pure emerald green
My granny once walked, my Irish queen
Mary I never knew you, I wish I had
You died long before for that am sad
All I know is you where my granny
my Irish queen.
from County Derry, Where I have never been
Let the Irish music play so sweet
let the shamrocks be crushed not by my feet
For I am the outsider, born in the UK
yet I would love to be Irish Just for a day
Mary Glendenning born in 1836 I love you
I have never seen your home land
But May God Bless You
poem by Marie Causey
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I'm 39
What's the purpose of writing down something,
So as not to forget
When doing so is forgotten,
And remembering it one quits!
Or...
How about this one,
Looking for a sock that is in your hand?
And walking around with it,
Then throwing it in the trash can!
Not saying I've done this...
But I know these things 'someone' has done!
Afterall,
In my mind I still think I'm 39!
And I'm sure the day will come when I am reminded,
I will soon be 61!
'That' too 'someone' will put into the trashcan to find!
I'm celebrating anniversaries these days.
And I'll be celebrating my twenty-second time,
Of being 39!
THAT I do remember!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To The Irish Dead
’TIS a green isle set in a silver water,
A fairy isle where the shamrock grows.
Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter—
Out of the Fairies’ hands She rose.
They touched Her harp with a tender sighing,
A spirit-song from a world afar,
They touched Her heart with a fire undying
To fight and follow Her battle-star.
Too long, too long thro’ the grey years growing
Feud and faction have swept between
The Thistledown and the red Rose blowing
And the three-fold leaf of the Shamrock green;
But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never:
With rifles grounded and bare of head
We drink to the dead who live forever
A silent toast—To the Irish dead!
’Tis an Irish cheer on the hillside ringing,
Where, checked and broken, the vanguards reel,
But on and upward and forward swinging,
The glittering line of the Irish steel!
Like points of light ’mid the boulders lying
Gleam and redden their bayonets keen.
On, thro’ the hell of their dead and dying,
Forward, forward, the Shamrock green!
To Ireland, set in the silver water,
To the fighting blood that is proved and tried—
Our sharpest sword and our fairest daughter—
Who saved the Empire and turned the tide!
And Wisdom comes as the days grow older,
We are done with the faults of the past, I ween,
Standing together, shoulder to shoulder,
The Thistle, the Rose, and the Shamrock green!
poem by George Essex Evans
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The Green Above The Red
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen-
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.
Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene-
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled-
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
'Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.'
And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood-the Green above the Red!
The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
poem by Thomas Davis
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The Luck Of The Irish
Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,
The world would be like galway bay.
Let's walk over rainbows like leprechauns,
The world would be one big blarney stone.
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with god on their side!
Blame it all on the kids and the i.r.a.
As the bastards commit genocide!
Aye! aye!
Genocide!
Okay!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
One more time!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead,
Hey, yes, you'd wish you were english instead.
- "thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Radio Station: Chico, Irish Tuesday
there is
a place
in chicago,
hidden
and open
only
to the irish
lonely
only rare lonely irish girls.
hey iris,
hello irish,
little natty
nato
bateau
couteau
coto
costo
boulo
bella bellissi si mo
deli isso mo
es ki mo who mo mo mo (s)
so lady
why you are a lady
if you are
only
lonely
and left alone.
so irish
lady
why you are irish
who hates the brit- esh and not the brite-esh
who bit itches and iches
behind the walls.
And
lady,
please my lady,
why are you
staying alone if you
are in love with another
lovely baby
who always
makes you feel
unique
like an
ancient boutique
inside
the history
museum.
poem by Atef Ayadi
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Ode to Four Green Fields, RIP, in Royal Oak, Michigan
Four Green Fields has closed
That is why I write this ode
For year Joe Borkowski and I
We entertained many a gal and many a guy
After I played bass behind Pat McDunn and the Gaels
Who sung Irish tunes and told many Irish tales
Some were short and some were tall
In this Beaumont Hospital strip mall
Pat was popular at one time in his day
So were we at one time in the same way.
It was packed on Thursdays when we did perform
We were of Polish background, and for entertainers,
- who sang in Irish pubs, that was not the norm.
We were witness to odd things in the bar, things not that smart,
Such as a person who wanted get stuck with a dart.
There were many people who got engaged
Some of the people were deranged
But most of all it was,
A good place to have beer, food your favorite adult beverage,
Some waitresses were caught, buy a sting, serving minors who were underage.
But usually all was well in this pub,
Outside Royal Oak downtown, S/W 13 Mile and Woodward, which was one a many hub.
So farewell Woodbridge Tavern, Hurling Green, Deacon Brodie's Tavern
- and Four Green Fields, I'll see you later in the song Fiddler's Green*.
Joe and I'll entertaining crowds and talking and meeting people that we have seen.
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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Living in Bowling Green (Ghazal)
Excuse me, but my favorite color isn’t green
Even though I live in the city of Bowling Green.
In its history the people played such lively games.
On many sunny days their fun was bowling on the Green.
In his boyhood here there lived a man named Duncan Hines.
One day you might find his colored cakes in Irish green.
Oh yes, this city is the home of the car Corvette.
If it pleases you, you can own one painted blue green.
The school my son attended here was Bowling Green High.
His closest friend in French class was Emily Green.
About once a week I visit our Bowling Green Mall.
There you can plainly see its signs printed all in green.
With pollution and economy the way they are,
I am happy to see the city still going green.
- October 3,2009
Published online Dec.21,2009 by The Ghazal Page in the Color Radif Challenge Issue. Go to: http: //www.ghazalpage.net/
poem by Ben Gieske
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If You're Lucky Enough To Be Irish
If you're lucky enough to be Irish
Then you're lucky enough they say.
I count my Irish blessings,
As I breathe the air each day.
When I'm somewhere o'er the water
Not walking Erin's shore,
I know my resting place will be
In Ireland for evermore.
I have Irish songs on my lips,
And Irish blood in my veins,
So I tell you I'm lucky to be Irish,
And I'll keep telling you over again.
I'm lucky enough to be Irish.
My children who walk by my side,
Will I hope, too feel the calling,
And someday walk Erin's fields wide.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Green Above The Red
AIR--_Irish Molly O!_
I.
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and _scian_,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
II.
But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen--
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
III.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.
IV.
Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene--
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled--
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.
V.
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
'Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.'
VI.
And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood--_the Green above the Red_!
VII.
The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
VIII.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breaking Up
Do not think it hurts me bad
It doesnt hurt me none
It does not mean anything
Im fondling this gun
And I dont hurt that bad
And I dont miss you
I dont eat alone
Wishing I was eating with two
Its like a sad movie
They always get high ratings
In fact I feel like celebrating
I feel like celebrating
And do not think I ever thought that
This would really work
It was just sort of a casual thing
Like trying on a shirt
I dont sit home slone and stare
At your picture wishing that
You were still there
I never get lonely
In fact Im probably masturbating
In fact I feel like celebrating
I feel like celebrating
Oh goody! oh joy!
Im finally free
I no longer have to sit through
Your mothers casserole recipes
Oh joy! glee!
Im finally free
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Team Brother Walfrid Called Celtic
In the Archdiocese of Glasgow
In the city’s east end,
Brother Walfrid sat with his assistant Brother Dorotheus,
The vision they shared
Was that the poor must be fed
As the dinner tables lay empty for the Irish.
Brother Walfrid had a dream
That wore Ireland’s emerald green
And would be saviours to the minority Catholics,
The Irish stood at Parkhead
And the football was played
By a team, that Brother Walfrid called Celtic.
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Give Ireland Back To The Irish
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland
Theres a man who looks like me
And he dreams of God and country
And hes feeling really bad
And hes sitting in a prison
Should he lie down do nothing
Should give in or go mad
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A spiral scratched into an ancient Irish gravestone
A centre and an expansion
a life centred expanding
the force of the centre whirls
a life without limit but it says
a centred life what gods the centre
does not tell but a centre
and from there a spiral
which has a beginning but no end
the life shaping the death the death
shaping the life it seems this life
that life could not be told
need not be told
every life drawn here
drawn because it could not be spoken
even in a lilting Irish voice
speaking a spiral sentence for
Irish sentences are like spirals
the centre expands without limit
the life was lived in the circle of the year
that comes round again sowing harvest
yet never back to the same place
as the mind the vision the experience expands whirls out
like a wild dance celebrating birth marriage death
yet passes the familiar place each season
and love love for the world
expands into a holy love
spiralling without limit yet never forgetting the centre
like a child on a gate swinging
knowing it’s safe because of the hinge
it knows but does not know
for others made the hinge
and now we read the spiral on a gravestone
tracing back from infinity to the source
everything that has an outward
everything that has an inward
and so there is no need for words
the spiral like a poem about life
read it forwards read it backwards
read it with thanks see it as grace
the thick green grass curls over it
the lichen yellow orange green
placed like a lizard
blesses this the most eloquent
gravestone in all the world
in a green field the clouds white
the sky blue this is the centre
of the spiral here now and
there is no ending to the spiral
the gravestone says
but a starting yes
poem by Michael Shepherd
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St. Pat's Day
Today is St. Patrick's Day
When little people are seen
It may be a load of blarney
The forty shades of green.
St. Patrick was a gentleman
He was a saint so clever
Drove all the snakes from Ireland
And banished them forever.
I'll wear a four leafed shamrock
And Irish songs I'll sing
I'll toast with Irish whiskey
A Leprechaun to bring.
If I can catch this Leprechaun
And on to him keep hold
I'll go to the end of the rainbow
And claim his pot of gold.
© Hazel 2012
poem by Hazel Connelly
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I'm proud of my Irish heritage and culture and this show will feature a lot of Irish dancing.
quote by Michael Flatley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the Irish Flag Went By
’Twas Eight-Hour Day, and proudly
Old Labour led the way;
The drums were bearing loudly,
The crowded streets were gay;
But something touched my heart like pain,
I could not check the sigh
That rose within my bosom when
The Irish Flag went by.
Bright flags were raised about it
And one of them my own:
And patriots trod beneath it—
But it seemed all alone.
I thought of ruined Ireland
While crystals from the sky
Fell soft like tears by angels shed,
As the Irish Flag went by.
I love the dark green standard
As Irish patriots do;
It waves above the rebels,
And I’m a rebel too,
I thought of Ireland’s darkest years,
Her griefs that follow fast;
For drooping as ’twere drenched with tears
The Irish Flag went past.
And though ’twas not in Erin
That my forefathers trod;
And though my wandering footsteps
Ne’er pressed the “dear old sod”,
I felt the wrongs the Irish feel
Beneath the northern sky.
And felt the rebel in my heart
When the Irish Flag went by.
I tell you, men of England,
Who rule the land by might;
I tell you, Irish traitors
Who sell the sons of light,
The tyranny shall fail at last,
That changeful days are nigh;
And you shall dip your red flag yet,
When the Irish Flag goes by.
poem by Henry Lawson
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One Irish Rover
Tell me the story now
Now that its over
Wrap it in glory
For one irish rover
Tell me you wiser now
Tell me you older
Wrap it in glory
For one irish rover
Bridge:
I can tell by the light in your eye
That youre so far away
Like a ship out on the sea
Without a sail, youve gone astray
Tell me the facts real straight
Dont make me over
Make it come out alright
And wrap it in glory
For one irish rover
For one irish rover
One irish rover
One irish rover
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Celebrating Silence
Celebrating Silence
Alone, alone on the wishful hilltop
Alone, alone on the longing beach
Alone, alone in the silvery garden
Listening to dreams…stealing hopes
Celebrating silence……
poem by Prasanna Kumari
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