March 14, 2013 #728
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for St. Patrick's Day.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com/week.html/.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Sing of Ireland, that salad bowl!
The greens are tossed with bits of yellow and brown.
Perhaps the tossing might make some folks frown,
Although the taste be tangy to the soul.
There is no past for which the bells don't toll,
Regardless how its ways are handed down.
In time its heroes, once of great renown,
Come faded to the fun house of the whole.
Know, then, that the Ireland of old
'Ere long will be what none alive remember,
Save for remnants treasured by a few.
Deep within the heartache that takes hold,
An ancient ecstasy becomes an ember,
Yielding over years to Irelands new.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for St. Patrick's Day.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com/week.html/.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Sing of Ireland, that salad bowl!
The greens are tossed with bits of yellow and brown.
Perhaps the tossing might make some folks frown,
Although the taste be tangy to the soul.
There is no past for which the bells don't toll,
Regardless how its ways are handed down.
In time its heroes, once of great renown,
Come faded to the fun house of the whole.
Know, then, that the Ireland of old
'Ere long will be what none alive remember,
Save for remnants treasured by a few.
Deep within the heartache that takes hold,
An ancient ecstasy becomes an ember,
Yielding over years to Irelands new.
© by Nicholas Gordon
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