Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Though semitic thru and thru
yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish
trumpeting hoople linked with
the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle
juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull
o' Eire rush deuce cent)

I remember when the moon was small;
no larger than your soccer ball.
That's how old I am.

That jumping cows could clear its height
and puppies laughed to see that sight.
That's how old I am.

There were no birds, just nests of eggs.
T'was long before snakes lost their legs.
That's how old I am.

I watched the rocks each climbing high,
becoming mountains in the sky.
That's how old I am.

I felt a goodness grow in me
that promised life eternity.
That's how old I am.

There is no spring without a winter,
You can never appreciate sunshine without the rains.
You can never climb mountains without a fear inside you,
Of what you will lose or could possibly gain.

To become a man takes virtue. Not just rules or that gentleman's touch.
Descent into danger, just choices by far too many or maybe one to much.
The wisdom of my success was always around me. I'm my mind, spirit, heart and soul.
But failing life, it's beauty and my expectation. that's my sin and that I should of controlled

I was no different than anyone else. Not really unique;
in that I was made, in part, from pieces of others I’ve known,

friends and family mostly. Those still here,
and welcome spirits who seem content to stay.

Also, there were a few women I loved at one time or another.
Although, some of them took a few pieces with them.

Vision of Blue Elk

You see it with your eyes closed,
After meeting the woman who
Feeds the
Deer,
Adam’s
Mother.

It is electric, a buck.

You chat with her first, she tells you
Her worries and you listen.

One Winter, by then, stressed,
Much later, the blue elk appears,

You have lost him already.
The elk fades, you made a
Wrong turn,
In the woods.

Neopoet Contest: What my best friend gave me

Love from the "get go" on day one!
Do not remember I only heard tales
of the happy hours spent awake with you,
you smiled at me, fair winds set my sails.

You picked me up when I stumbled and fell
dusting me off, you wiped away my tears
assuring me I had done no wrong.
You were always there to chase away my fears.

If she could, she’d help butterflies
arrange the powder on their wings
just so, and they would thank her

with brightly colored performances in the air.
She envies the exhilaration the young ones must feel
the first time they alight after their first flight.

She wears a colorful dress trimmed with lace.
The butterflies accept this effort to be like them.
And they’re okay with her inability to fly with them
because they know she does this in her own way.

It takes so long to let her live,

From way down deep, of herself, she shall give.

Innocent, unaware, helped with most care.

My love or my hell, to be done so well.

For weeks I sat and thought of her.

The words I write for her do say,

My love through night and through the day,

You surely live a lonely way.

You visit for a moment,
Accept a breath of hospitality,
Then dash away again.
You share your company briefly.

But in that time, oh,
The magic you bring.
From tiny eggs to instars
To gloriously patterned wing.

I watched you hatch and crawl,
Grow, shed and wriggle.
You change your dress. Your
New look makes me giggle.

You give me joy and delight
With your aerial ballet.
My royal friend, magician,
Harlequin at play,

Sometimes, when I sit down to write,
a blank piece of paper in front of me,
I see beautiful words already there.

But it was always going to be you
who helped me put them on the page.