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Song of Tara |
| I'm Born Of the Earth |
| I don't believe in ... |
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Irish Cowboys |
© by Blackbird Hollins
The song of a people is written in the land
Each adds his own melody, weaves her own strands.
If you sit for a while upon Tara’s green mounds
You’ll hear rich-spun harmonies swell from the ground.
The swift sparkling rivers, the towering trees
Remember our stories in droplets and leaves.
While Tara, a voice from the deep, distant days
May be silenced forever if Dick Roche has his way.
The soul of a people is carried in the land
The hills hold our spirit in ancestral hands
What hope for the land when it’s stripped and destroyed
For carriageways, concrete and motorway noise?
Tara sings softly of glory and gold,
Of High Kings and great halls and heroes of old.
Fierce fighters in battle and People of Skill
All woven with word in the breath of the hills
The pride of a people is deep in the land
Our roots strong in story, we stood and we stand.
What hope for a people who sever the thread
Of blood, bone and harmony strung out in red.
This music is fragile, it cannot endure
The language of short term investment, the lure
Of money and power, all bought at great cost
And worthless when measured with what we have lost.
© Blackbird Hollins March 2006
www.paganpoetrypages.com
Next editions May 5th and June 25th
I Am Born Of The Earth
© J. Evans 2006
I will die on the wind
I will Live my life in water
Heal my heart with fire
From the earth I came
Strong, solid, willing to learn
Rivers flowed through me
Shadows passed over
Fields were ploughed, battles fought
Forests planted, mountains sought
My life is spent beneath the waves
under cobbles, in waters calm
I ride the rivers and the streams
Swim with the fishes and ride with the sharks
Drops are formed, waves crash
Storms are brewed, lightning flash
A heart like mine
as strong as stone
never falters, never fades
broken once, and healed by flame
passion strong, fire burns
longing devotion, body learns
A death upon the winds of the earth
My ashes spread upon the breeze
The ghosts of time and ancestral dreams
Western showers, southern heat
Eastern calm, northern sleet
I am born of the earth
I will die on the wind
I will Live my life in water
Heal my heart with fire
I Don't
believe In Heleflumps
© Stormy 2006
with the stupid longy nose
with their flappy wappy earseys
and their big fat squishy toes
I do not believe in heleflumps
I never seen one yet
On my travels to the pet store
And my travels to the vet
I don’t believe in heleflumps
I think its all a lie
like the loch nessy monster and big foot
These stories make me sigh
I don’t believe in heleflumps
In the yeti or ET
I don’t believe in crop circles
But I do believe in unicorns, dragons, fairies, lepricorns,
chickens that can fly, warlocks, angels, flying pigs, mermaids the theory of atlantis...
(online with illustrations http://www.geocities.com/rvnsprwldr/heleflump.htm)
Irish
Cowboys
© by Geraldine
Moorkens
Byrne
The wild west for us
was never the stone walls
and fragments of land between them
the ragged, wild, bog-spawned
west of Ireland
It was a topography, a dialect, a code
as familiar as our parents
or our national tongue
gleaned from Television, old movies
dog-eared paperbacks.
We were born in Dublin
but we all, each one,
roamed the wild praries
hunting buffalo in our souls
spat tobaccy and smoked Marlborough
walked bowlegged - howdy pardner -
or grim and gimlet-eyed, we eyed the
scorching sun
talking in monosyllabic knowing exchanges
about drought, and cattle dying, and crops failing
thwarted in our childish hearts by
near incessant rain
and insolent verdant green.
More poems available both in the members section of the PPP http://www.paganpoetrypages.com and at http://www.poemhunter.com
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