Miles From Wicklow

Damp spirits from damp weather, then sunshine appears like the shamrock at St. Patrick's feet. Sad pipers at funeral procession for fallen brothers march down Fifth Avenue's invisible green line, sure-footed like the Fightin' 69th. Somber mood venerated by Nancy O'Dell's propagation of our proud species.

In Brooklyn, blond hair like gold at the bottom of a prospector's pan shines upon a milky wool sweater beside red hair battling a green scarf for supremacy in the glare of almighty Farrell's. My Ireland wells up ... writers, fighters, igniters of warmth beneath the threatening clouds.

Bills and cigar reviews take precedence, put off from exhausting travel through the Tuscon desert to the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame where The Clash speak to me as do the broad shoulders of Jimi Hendrix and the sublime philosophy of Roger Waters.

Years past spent on parade route and Emerald Society pier party, but this year brings a slow start til U2 rattles and hums the reminder that we are poets and scoundrels, salt of the earth conquerors in ancient taverns with quick wit and welcoming smiles beneath the glow of melancholy eyes. The world is on loan and we Irish thank you, Jesus, in the name of our intrepid saint.

Write, right to the bar, hoist, hoist a cigar and whiskey, whiskey in my jar-o, two, two pints of brew before the day is through, through with these words, I love you.

Weird Long Beard Press, Brooklyn.


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