Poems for All Occasions (3 page)

From Sneem’s own lovely vale,

His name it was Steve Casey,

A wrestler of great fame.

His name will live in his native Sneem,,

As long as birds still fly,

The list of famous Irish men,

Would fill folders, disks and files.

Gentleman Jim Corbett,

Heavy weight boxer with class,

His Dad from Tuam in Galway,

His Mother a Dublin Lass.

Boston Strong Boy,the great John L.,

Tralee was home to his Dad,

Who married a girl from fair Athlone,

Ten years John reigned as champ.

From Kiltimagh in lovely Mayo

Gene Tunney’s Parents came,

World heavy weight boxing champ,

A champion full of dare.

Last , but perhaps the “GREATEST,”

As often he himself declared,

Muhammad Ali, three times world champ,

His Grandad,O’Grady from Clare.

In the Rebel county of Cork,

Evicted from home one day,

Was a man and his wife, heartbroken they

‘Cause they had no where else to stay.

In a coffin ship from lonely Cobh,

Thomasina and John set out

To brave the broad Atlantic foam,

A new land they dreamed about.

The Fords though young and gullible,

Worked hard and luck came their way,

Gave birth to the gifted Henry,

In Michigan one fine day.

His name will live forever,

While the world’s roads run by,

His cars are sound, reliable,

A motorist’s pride and joy.

Many names of Irishmen,

Are in the book of fame,

Inventors great in every field,

For deeds, with world acclaim.

Who built the the very first telegraph line,

Henry O’Reilly, his name,

The inventor, Morse, of telegraph

Was grandson of an Irish male.

The submarine was invented ,

By a Clare man, a Fenian too,

His name was John P.Holland,

An Irishman true and true.

The great relief for farmers,

Was the machine to reap and bind,

Invented by Mc Cormick,

His Grandad an Irish boy.

Roger Bresnihan,a Kerry man,

Baseball’s finest players,

Invented shin-guards, put to use

Saving Men from cuts and graze.

John Howard Kyan, A Dubliner,

Around eighteen thirty four,

Processed wood, named “Kyanising”

The likes never seen before.

Though Times were hard and tedious,

Those men from Ireland’s shores,

Used their brains and intellect,

More precious than priceless gold.

MAUREEN O’HARA

And other film stars of fame

Fiery red head,

tall beautiful,

Dublin’s daughter,

eighty years young,

Still charming,

With her Irish lilt

And sea blue eyes.

“The Quiet Man,”

The strains of

The isle of Innisfree

Won all hearts

At home and abroad.

Bringing laughter

Re Mary Kate Danagher,

Whose teasing flirtation

Stole John Wayne’s affection,

Her wild Irish customs

And her childlike mannerisms

Mixed with innocence

So beautiful long ago…

Her very first Movie

“Jamaica Inn”

When Hollywood realized

This Irish maid

Was there to stay

until to day,

Fifty plus films later.

Hollywood’s Irish Greats.

Irish wit, good humour,

Made actors second to none,

Frank Quinn produced young Anthony,

He proudly called him “Son”.

The
Cagney
Dad, a barman,

In New York, he filled the jars,

Fathered our childhood idol,

James
the man for spars.

Martin Sheen’
s beloved Mum,

She came from Borrisokane,

In the county of Tipperary,

A county of hurling fame.

Delaney was his Mammy’s name,

Kevin Kline
from Louis, Missouri,

Harrison Ford
had an Irish Mum

Catholic and good humoured.

How many tears of joy we wept,

At
Charlie Chaplin’
s antics,

From his Mother,Hannah Hill from Cork,

Inherited his gifted acting.

Walt Disney
, who gave us Donald Duck,

As well as the mouse named “Mickey”

Was born to an Irish country lass,

Mary Richardson young and pretty..

Then
Patrick Duffy
, the gorgeous Pat,

Hitchcock
from Emma Whelan,

Maureen O’Sullivan and Tyrone Power,

Gregory Peck
sent hearts a leaping.

So proud we were of the
Crooner,Bing,

And the smiling
Barry Fitzgerald,

We loved to hear the former sing,

The latter brought such laughter.

I could go on about many more,

Who proved their worth as actors,

Their fame has spread in many shores,

Erin’s lovely sons and daughters.

GRACE KELLY

Beautiful Grace, Princess of Monaco,

Swan like in shape, actress supreme,

From the County Mayo, Ireland’s western coast,

Her ancestors sailed in a foul famine boat.

They were hardworking people, loyal to their faith,

And in the Old land of Erin, the name ”Kelly” was great.

The blonde, beautiful Grace, Monaco’s uncrowned queen,

Met her death on the road, ruined her life’s dream.

St. Patrick‘s Day is blooming around this lovely globe,

But it can be a lonesome time for parents on their own,

A family stays close with you, when they are young and small,

But all too soon they disappear, sweet memories we recall.

I guess it‘s just what life entails, from the beginning of this life

Parents rear their children and like birds they learn to fly.

And float away far from their nests and find friends and foes alike,

Forgetting the old birds at home, who miss their fledglings bright

To day I feel nostalgic, I miss my kin and home,

I watch the parades through out the world, and still feel quite alone

But I am only one of those many lonely beings,

who sit at home in silence,

And slumber in by gone dreams.

(Croagh Patrick , where St.Patrick spent 40 days and 40 nights)

In the eerie light of early dawn,

Standing, one gazes in awe.

One’s spirit seems to falter

At the glimpse of the summit tall,

Soaring high into the open sky

On this the final Sunday in July.

Shadows creeping near you,

Movement as pilgrims walk,

Some are bent with sticks in hand

Faces serious, minds in thought.

The three hour climb is starting,

A head, a line of pilgrims talk,

Tapping with stick on stone and twig,

Following the footsteps of Patrick’s walk.

They kneel and pray, then climb with dare,

Two and a half thousand feet above,

Here Patrick cared with love, his sheep,

Gazing down on the desolate moors.

The fields of Murrisk, to Erris Hill,

Clew Bay so far beneath,

forty days and forty nights,

St. Patrick prayed with zeal.

O’er the wind swept crest in Mayo,

Midst the Baa Baa from the sheep,

Demons in shape of black evil birds,

Swooped down by the young boy’s feet.

He chanted psalms to beat them,

Then rang his bell, they say,

Angel Victor came from up above,

The demons fled in haste.

An Angel came as a pure white bird,

Illuminating fair Clew Bay.

Easter time in Ireland

Is a time of love and peace,

Sharing all our dreams with you,

And wishing you good cheer,

Sunshine‘s rays o‘er Ireland,

Brightening glen and dale,

Baby lambs are bleating,

Welcoming Easter Days.

Daffodils, like gold dust

Adorn each dyke and ditch,

Chickens and cuddly ducklings

Shelter ‘neath Mother‘s wings.

Joy is in each feature,

Easter is in the air,

Streams like layers of silver,

Adorn our land so fair.

Ireland’s Bean Shee, our fairy woman,

Greyhaired spirit,long haired and crying,

Her weird loud scream sends many shivers

Through minds still wondering whose next to die?

She only comes when true Gaels are leaving

Their earthly world to go on high.

The old weird woman comes a calling

For the Macs and O’s, the Celtic tribe.

Her shrill Ochone speeds past the windows,

Mournful, keening, her gown long and white.

A face so withered, with wrinkles many,

This weird old lady, death’s own guide.

Twice I’ve heard her wail and mourning,

Scared to death, indeed was I,

Some hours later, two of my neighbours

Went forth to God,’neath a midnight sky.

Six grey steeds trotted by,

Stately, noble, their heads held high,

Lying in a coffin, which they bore,

A president silenced for ever more.

His voice still lingers in memory lane,

His smile we see, his thick brown hair,

That Irish twinkle, that won all hearts,

The sense of humour of President Jack.

Each home is mourning the world o’er.

Each heart is praying and feeling sore,

All humans shudder with sad dismay,

The loss of that statesman from the U.S.A.,

A wonderful father and husband is gone,

Leaving his loved ones to carry on,

Tears are falling like lashing rain,

Two little orphans are waiting in vain.

Their darling parents bade them goodbye,

Mammy returned with tears in her eyes.

But where is their Daddy they loved to greet,

An Assassin’s bullet ended his deeds.

Lonely, a beautiful girl in black,

Her loved one is gone, and will never be back,

She gazes upon him, longing to say,

We’re parted a Stor, we’ll meet once again.

When God in the heavens will send out a call,

“Come forward my friends, I welcome you all”

The graves will send out a loud clear Hurrah,

Once more, we’ll see Jack from the great U.S.A.

Jack, you were orator, statesman, and friend,

Irish in heart, in carriage, and lilt,

Loyal to America, the land of your birth,

You died true to duty, all nations admit.

Generals, presidents, journeyed by plane,

To breathe a prayer calmly o‘er your mortal remains.

The volleys rang out, the Cardinal blessed,

Leaving President Jack to his eternal rest.

Peace was his motto, peace was his song,

No matter what colour, what creed, or what throng,

He died like a soldier, making all people one.

Witty and jovial, clear headed in strife,

An exemplary character, torn from this life.

Gallant, courageous, brave, thoughtful and kind,

Jack Kennedy sleeps, his soul towers on high.

Heaven rejoiced, when he sat on a throne,

More elegant far than this earth could bestow,

Pope John, by his side sent out a Hurrah,

Welcome young Jack from the dear U.S.A,

For black men and white men, and red men and brown,

Statesmen and governors all throng around,

A home for the blest, no sorrow or stife,

Peace livest there in that heavenly shrine,

His motto will live in this globe of dark clay,

Let peace be our watchword, till the dawn of the day,

Let God be our leader, our love and our light,

All brethren our kinsmen through this dark dreary strife.

Our goal is far greater than mind can conceive,

To live with the angels in perpetual sleep,

What nobler greeting, after life‘s dreary test,

Welcome Jack Kennedy, you gave of your best.

In future years, the question asked will be, where were you when you heard about the attack on the World Trade Center, New York and the Pentagon, Washington. I was in peaceful lovely Glendalough, Co. Wicklow the one time home of St. Kevin.

In the peace of Glendalough,one time home of St.Kevin,

Whose monks sent melodious strains of chant and music

Across the multi coloured woodlands, intermingling with

Sounds from the nearby glistening lake and rippling stream.

There peace was at its glorious best, as we roamed carelessly

Enjoying the peace and quiet, until suddenly, we saw people

Rushing to their cars, and the noisy sounds of many radios

Floated across the Loch, disturbing the quiet of Kevin’s abode.

The strained voices of visiting Americans will long live in my

Thoughts and memory;

“My God, my God! “ they shouted, ”In New York and Washington”

Their faces were pale and drawn and ashen, eerie looking.

We rushed through the open door of the hotel bar where people

Stood, their faces transfixed on a television, which glared

From the pub corner, people looked as if in an eerie trance,

Disbelief on their pale countenances, perplexed looks ,as if

Trying to make sense of what was happening in their homeland..