other writing

Rachel’s poem 
The irish lips of Rachel O’Grady
Point down to the boots on her feet
The sides curve up to the wrinkles around her eyes
Curls, just gray, neatly swept back.

She lifts her feet to cross the field
Through the brush to her prized logs
Drive the tractor and clean the spade
Every morning her bed is solely made. 

The irish lips of Rachel O’Grady
have long since uttered Catholic prayers
But her irish eyes train on the fields
Good-will lives in the logs she spares. 


The session 

I wish to put my back to the wall
Tuck away eyes and greatly withdraw
            She fiddles her lips a deep red
            And looks side to side as inward they tread
He pulls up his flute in two hands
A champion of this innocent land
            Her wrist must swell as she works
            Her shoulder in tow as the music asserts
His foot is leading us all now
Upward it lifts as a breaking bow
            Where is the bower in the commercial creep
            Where is the rhythm of old in the cold street

To Lindsey

A darkness makes another light
The intelligence of a task made light
How I will never grasp the joyous ease
With which you smile and company please



The Irish Woman’s Country Associaton

They have no idea why they have gathered.
The business at hand is clear. 
It more about the bodies in the chairs. 
Nodding and passing, cheering and rationing. 
The swell of distinction has passed. 
Hold tight to the glass and pray: 
May my favorite memories stay, 
May I see another day. 



Terryland, Galway

America sends sweet potatoes
Dried cherries, pistachios
Put the soup up on the stove
Hang up the drying clothes
They make their apple chutney sweet
Narrow shoes on wide feet
Then the fiddle player shows
The old gentleman taps his toes
I walk the narrow two-name streets
counting out the 3-4 beats
Time to boil the tea now
Drink the milk of Kerry cows


Memories drawn out by rain
A sleepless early night
I’m staring out the window
And reliving every fight

Brennan bread and Brady sausage
A few Linnane’s in sight
The Mills are in Nebraska
Spinning tales of their plight

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