Beautiful Irish Poem

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Permalink Reply by Felicia on February 21, 2009 at 10:56pm

What a lovely person you are! So glad to know you!

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 23, 2009 at 2:03pm

SUN OF DONEGAL,

Soon in the morning,
As I stroll quietly beside a soft bog,
And a summer meadow,
Unworried,

A sunshine gleam,
Scarcely percing through,
An orange mist and haze,
Spiders webs everywhere
With stings of tears,
Hanging over hay and reeds entwine.

Damp and dew
Schrubs and bushes,
Could melt myself into
The Irish ground,
To feel it`s pulse and be one
Never cease to yearn.

So I slow my rate,to glance
Changing of the sun`s reflections,
And absorbe the beauty of it`s sheens,
By a wiff of the smell
All the greens and wild flowers,
Fill the air, with a perfume rare.

So I put in my mind,as home I roll
And wonder,priceless and sweet to the soul,
Irish fresh air fill with lust peace
Ireland so real,near humble Glenties.
Forgot myself with thee.

Birds whistling,children cries
Wake my senses facing the moment,
Of the rising Irish Sun
In it`s fond blue sky.

This from me to all of you

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Permalink Reply by Felicia on February 23, 2009 at 2:27pm

Exquisite images--thanks.

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 23, 2009 at 2:38pm

Dia dhuit a Felicia,
Thank you Felicia your a great soul

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 23, 2009 at 8:52pm

Dia dhuit a Lady Dianne,
I am no big writer Lady Dianne,but my soul as always been in Ireland
often I lack words and rymes,but try to explain the best I can the way I feel
I`m glad you like it and thank you for your comments that I appreciate so much,Le gach dea beannacht..........with the kindest regards

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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on February 24, 2009 at 4:08pm

Grand, just grand! Pierre -- your soul is guiding your thoughts and your poetic talents and that is what every poet waits for, prays for. Every time you've posted one of your own, the talent has grown.

Isn't it wonderful to be part of this fine family, to so love the poetic form that we are immersed in it?

We few, we happy few, we band of poets!

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 24, 2009 at 6:26pm

Dia dhuit a Frank,
You gave me the urge to do,and make because of my inside,
Need you here,and you are greatly appreciate Frank,
Thank you so much as for all...................Together we..........

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Permalink Reply by Walter on February 24, 2009 at 3:21pm

Pierre,

‘Motherland at Clonmacnoise’

My apologies – somehow I missed seeing this poem. Having said that let me comment. What a wonderful poem! From the opening line one gets an immediate sense of the ‘historic’ past and the presence of that past in the ‘feel of the Elderly Saints.’ The imagery of the ‘soft smell of peat smoke – breath of fresh air – dwellings – fields – as the river flows’ - compounds the sense that this is indeed God’s country – Ireland! The poet is obviously at ‘home’ in body and spirit – ‘no awareness needed’. Delightfully, the reader gets to share in this experience and like the poet has an opportunity to bask for a moment in the ‘comfort of Ireland’ for Ireland is ‘home.’

Well done Pierre!

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 24, 2009 at 6:14pm

Dia dhuit a Walter,
No apologies needed my friend,thank you so much and I greatly appreciate your comments,
And friendship,you know how to read bethween lines Walter and understand,
Thank you Walter......Le gach Dea Beannacht....with the kindest regards Walter,

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Permalink Reply by Walter on February 24, 2009 at 3:55pm

Pierre,

‘Sun of Donegal ‘. . .

Given that your first language is French one has to be continually impressed by your contributions to the Poetry Forum. ‘Sun of Donegal’ following quickly on the heels of ‘Motherland at Clonmacnoise’ bears testament to this assertion. Your poetry colleagues are indeed thankful for the dedication of ‘Sun of Donegal’ and I for one ‘never cease to yearn’ for the ‘pulse – of the Irish ground.’ You certainly have a talent for making us feel the sense of Ireland in the presence of everyday events. Oh to be . . .
‘Soon in the morning - As I stroll quietly beside a soft bog - And a summer meadow - Unworried.’

Do I get the feeling that there is a Trilogy in the making?

Walter . . .

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on February 24, 2009 at 6:20pm

Dia dhuit a Walter,
What made me write those words Walter,is this yearning and love for Ireland
That will never go away,glad you enjoy those simple words Walter,
Thank you for your appreciation,because of all Irish friends in here I feel at Home

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Permalink Reply by kubana on March 1, 2009 at 10:35pm

Well, I was gone for a few weeks and suddenly everyone started posting again. The poems I have been reading as I caught up from page 15 are all wonderful, and as I read them I thought about what poetry really is. Many times, as I read the poetry in this forum or elsewhere, I have two other websites pulled up at the same time and am so busy talking to my friends that I don't always take the time to enjoy the poems. Poetry is meant to offer escape from the rush of everyday life, it is the quiet moment we take to rest our weary mind. Also, a good poem is one that comes from the heart. Last year, when I was required to write five pages a week in a journal for English class, all my best pieces were poems. In fact, I couldn't write much else. I noticed that as my cat and my dog were diagnosed with cancer and slowly progressed to the point where we had to put them down, the poems reflected the dread, sorrow, and tears I was experiencing. The closer their Third Days came, the more my writing reflected my love for them. A good poem is written about what speaks to the heart, what is in the poet's heart. As the day came this year that marked the passing of a year since my dog, Bailey, passed away, I wrote the following poem.

Never Enough Time
One year- plenty of time.
They say it's 525,600 minutes.
That's enough time to learn,
live, love, grow, laugh-
Enough time to
cry,hurt,weep,mourn,frown,or...
DIE.
but it's never enough time to heal.

I still cry.
That night, so vivid-
Cheeze pizza and pizza bones,
pizza bones and Milk Bones,
Milk Bones and bone-thin.
He wouldn't eat.
We offered him his favorite foods-
he couldn't eat.
Why couldn't he eat?
Why did the cancer take over?
Why him?

A bare leg.
A long scar.
An open wound.
No, Bailey-boy, don't lick it,
it'll only get worse.
a large tumor-
more go unseen.

Islept downstairs.
I layed on my comforter,
then that got dirty so i brought down my sleeping bag.
he slept under the coffee table.
I spent all night
talking to Bailey,
my dog,
my brother,
saying what hadn't been said.

It's been 525,600 minutes,
and still I cry.

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