Some Poetry

Ireland

Streets seem narrow, but so are the cars,

Sitting on the wrong side, feeling like the whole world is coming toward me

Feeling at a total loss for helping, or seeing,

The best thing is to watch, and look, and see.

The day is crisp and feeling a little green, and different greens show

And over a hundred greens are there, on the side of that hill,

Above the green waters of the lake, each one soft, and bright,

Covered up moments ago by the mornings fog, as the boats

Lie within their moorings, each a white color, with a bit of the green,

And the trees seem delighted as the sun makes its way out,

The water lapping at the shore, kissing it in little motions

Seeing the bottom, with its growth of green, looking back.

Whisper Sweet Irish

Sitting in the Irish home of the man I had traveled about a fourth the world to see,

Eating the dinner that had been prepared, by his Irish wife, at their table

Eating, just the three of us, together in their Irish home, with the Irish grass

Growing outside. Their Irish son, just home from being abroad for over a year, came in

Said hello, told me a welcome in coming, told stories of his time in Africa,

And Australia, telling it in tones a little less loud than normal, his mother and father

And me, at the table, drinking Irish whisky, and Italian wine.

Tired took the son, and left us there alone, left me there alone, to listen

As the father spoke, in tones so gentle, and feeling quiet, as he told the stories

Of when he raced cars, and traveled to Africa, and Egypt and Israel, and took boats

Across. There was food on the boats, beautiful produce laid out, fresh fruit, and breads

Salmon, bagels, fresh tea, cakes, and everything good on that buffet.

Till that second day, when the buffet was laid out exactly as the day before, and the

Third, and the fourth, and the boat lay in for supplies somewhere in the Middle East.

He managed a crossing to the shore, off the boat, away from the buffet.

More wine, around the table, his wife glowing and seeming to be more than happy,

My hands feeling like they were laced with lead, the drink finding its way in, and he

Being from Ireland, told the story, how the King of Ireland, way, way back in time

Lived there, on his property, rallied his troops there, and told them all, he was to conquer

Those from the North.  His voice in a mere whisper now, the clock making its rocking

Click, much louder than he spoke, and his Irish blood running through his veins, he told

Of the Kings’ run, through the shallow part of the lake, around the enemy, which

He conquered handily, and kept southern Ireland clear and fresh, and forever separate.

These last words, came in barely a whisper, all of us leaned in, all of us, in Ireland.

I See The Irish In Your Walk

Yes I see you.  You are standing there, watching the lights above the

Irish walk, seeing the railcars slide down the line,

Looking at the people, looking at you as you are playing,

Smiling, head cocked slightly to the right, smile all askew

On the famous face of yours, peering out from

Your close cropped  hair, looking smart and smiling, and
Giggling; as you begin to laugh, and those around you

Begin to smile, some laugh, some look as though

You have lost your mind, as your coat surrounds your body

Your pants full length, and at the end, your new Birkenstocks

Glaring up in a color so different from that of your clothes,

And you laugh, and I laugh, someone takes a picture,

And the birds fly up from the plaza.