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(5/18/38 / Covington Kentucky)

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Luck Of The Irish


Calloused hands
On plowshare grips
Chapped and cracked
Tight drawn lips

Frowning brows
atop pale blue eyes
Scan grazing cows
And cobalt skies

Bowed of spine
From hard work bent
Plows the line
His life nye spent

Oxen be his driving force
The loam his very vale
His view not the best of course
Of oxen arse and tail

He’s mine own great grandpaw
Farmer man and proudly so
Poor and Irish, says it all
Passed e’er so long ago

Never knew that Irishman
Twas long before my time
But he had the brass to board a boat,
To a strange and foreign clime

A lucky man
So I came to be
in a wondrous land
With a wondrous family

A lucky man am I indeed
To begotten by such a man of brass
To have been blessed
And much impressed

By that man of the sod
…And by his Irish lass…



Submitted: Friday, August 30, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 03, 2013


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Comments about this poem (A freudian slip (who nose?) by David Whalen )

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  • Aftab Alam Khursheed (8/30/2013 9:27:00 PM)

    Always luck is with them who don't blame Irish...many poets, dramatist, novelists has given of course they are lucky one nice poem thank

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