One Photo: One Story; a tradition of words and organized irishness

My grandfather was an amateur writer and poet. He inspired my mother to journal and write poetry.

I guess it’s handed down to me for I have thousands of pages in notebooks and various slips of

paper in boxes and envelopes. I wish I was more organized with my musings. The lack of good organization, that was handed down to me as well.

I was lucky to find some of the writing my mom and granddad have left behind over the years. It inspires me to continue my own pursuit of the craft.

Photos inspire me as well, like this one of my great grandparents in Tipperary.

Two generations removed from the famine. Life must have been complicated for them. My grandmother Elizabeth is the tike in the middle, I see my mother’s features in her tiny face.

I wrote this poem about twelve years ago. I know it is a bit cliché but here it goes:

The Fields are empty

Fordson rusting

The weeds are overgrown

Paddy’s too old to tend to the farm

The boys are down in the pub

Irish lads became America’s sons

And raised their sons abroad

Erin’s a dream that couldn’t fulfill

The life of a young man’s desire

The thatch is worn

Tinkers moved on

Michael has moved to New York

Paddy’s too old to tend to the farm

and the boys are still in the pub

Irish lads became America’s sons

and raised their children abroad

broken hearts, sent us apart

home is our only desire

The mare’s turned gray

There’s no money for rent

Danny’s not here to mend the fence

The matchmaker can’t make a match

Paddy’s too old to tend to the farm

And the boys they sing in the pub

Irish lads became America’s sons

And raised their children abroad

Years they are gone

They rarely come home

To know them a mother’s desire

May days have passed

Along with a brother or two

Maybe someday they’ll come home

Paddy’s too old to tend to the farm

And the boy’s are face down in the pub

2010