Reblog of Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2020 at 10:12 pm (History, News, Poetry) (, )

A poem I wrote 5 years ago today.

Dracul Van Helsing

Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

On the shores of Galilee a certain Carpenter did teach
oh how to Tara’s golden halls would that message reach
A lad was in his 16th year when into pirating hands he fell
and carried across the Irish Sea to an Emerald Isle to dwell
sold as a slave to the chieftan Milchu
so what did this young lad do?
For six years in County Antrim he tended his master’s flocks in the Valley of the Braid
this boy becoming a man who was captured in a raid
After six years he fled his cruel master and bent his steps towards the west
His journey of 200 miles was really quite the test
At Killala Bay he set sail towards the land of his birth
but as a future Bard once wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…”
A new master did young…

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What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2016 at 8:33 pm (Folklore, Horror, Short stories, Short Story, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

Connor McFinn stumbled out of his house on the way to the pub.

Usually most nights it was the reverse.

But his brainless Irish-American nephew from Boston was visiting.

And to mark Saint Paddy’s Day, his brainless nephew had bought some bottles of American beer and laced it with green food dye.

“Faith and begorrah,” his nephew brutally murdered the accent of his homeland with the same severity that MacBeth had stabbed Duncan, ” ’tis a fine Irish tradition to drink green beer on Saint Paddy’s Day.”

“No, it isn’t, you moron,” Connor said in an exasperated voice, “maybe in America but not here in Ireland. Here in Ireland, we toast Saint Paddy with Guinness or Murphy’s or some fine local stout. This beer is an abomination and blasphemy against the Holy Saint Patrick himself.”

“Abomination and blasphemy against Saint Paddy himself,” his nephew spewed green beer out of his mouth all over the brown sofa with the same velocity as an ex-DARPA employee would spew bourbon and coffee all over his computer screen after reading a humourous blog post, “surely you exaggerate, Uncle.”

After drinking several green beers, his nephew lay passed out on the floor.

Connor had been forced to drink several pints of the abominable blasphemous substance to please his sister’s brainless son.

Once the misfit lay on the floor snoring away, Connor got up and stumbled out the door to head down to the local pub to drink a pint of Guinness and toast the Apostle and Patron Saint of Ireland the proper Irish way.

As he stumbled his way through the meadows and forests to get to the village, he hit his head on a low-lying tree branch.

As Connor sat there dazed under the tree, he noticed a bunch of giant snakes approaching him.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Connor made the Sign of the Cross, “this is what comes from drinking a witch’s brew of green beer.”

The huge giant serpents with giant fangs approached him.

This couldn’t be happening, Connor thought to himself.

After all, the Holy Saint Patrick had personally driven all the snakes out of Ireland.

“Get away,” Connor shouted, “you’re not real. You’re a figment of a warped imagination brought on by drinking that Devil’s brew of green beer.”

Seeing as how the snakes actually proceeded to eat Connor McFinn in literal objective reality (although that concept would be disputed and denied by a great many modern and post-modern philosophers), his brainless Irish-American nephew’s green beer was a Devil’s brew from a witch’s cauldron indeed.

-A short story
and vampire novel
chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday March 17th
2016.

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Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2015 at 7:37 pm (History, Poetry) (, , , , )

Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

On the shores of Galilee a certain Carpenter did teach
oh how to Tara’s golden halls would that message reach
A lad was in his 16th year when into pirating hands he fell
and carried across the Irish Sea to an Emerald Isle to dwell
sold as a slave to the chieftan Milchu
so what did this young lad do?
For six years in County Antrim he tended his master’s flocks in the Valley of the Braid
this boy becoming a man who was captured in a raid
After six years he fled his cruel master and bent his steps towards the west
His journey of 200 miles was really quite the test
At Killala Bay he set sail towards the land of his birth
but as a future Bard once wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…”
A new master did young Patrick find
a sweet master so Divine
A new master who said, “Make the Irish mine”.
So the new flocks he would tend
those whose broken hearts he’d mend
were the same people who had taken him captive
a people he set free by saying “Believe in Jesus and live.”
And now every March 17th, Irish hearts are filled with mirth
toasting a lad whose Master arrived in a stable at birth.
And while in Tara’s halls an earthly harp is mute with its soul of music shed
an heavenly choir sings of He whose heart, hands, head and feet had Bled
a loving Master who called Patrick to the test
and through Patrick’s voice and Patrick’s hands caused the Irish to join His people blest.

-A poem written by Christopher
on Saint Patrick’s Day
Tuesday March 17th
2015.

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Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2014 at 6:36 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, News, Poetry, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

Magog Rhys Petley
A Welsh werewolf he be
and British Labour MP
swept across the Irish Sea
landing on Irish shore
receiving kisses galore
from a pretty young Colleen
that was on the scene.

This revived him to life
after severe weather’s strife
so he took it on life’s chin
and headed off to Dublin
a fine old girl of a town
where pint o’ Guinness erases frown.

He spent many a fine and carefree day there
complimenting the ladies on their hair
He happened to meet Ukraine’s former PM
and thinking of Solomon’s concubine gem
He mistook Yulia Tymoshenko for a hooker
who walloped him with full force of a James Joyce booker
and so wearing Ulysses for a crown
sporting a black eye all around
he headed off to another town
where this time Murphy’s erased his frown.

He wandered across Ireland far and wide
said Hello to Galway’s tide
kissed the Blarney Stone and a young bride
as he ran to escape the angry groom
he tripped over a witch’s broom
in a strange place full of gloom
not far from Blarney Castle
so found this Welsh rascal
a place where the Druids did sacrifice
and we’re talking humans not mice.

Their best laid plans may go astray
in this wood where night swallows day
Magog saw with his very eyes
and heard the anguished cries
of a victim tied to a stone
the colour red was not jam on scone
The Druidish priest lowered his knife
and took away the Church clergyman’s life.

May Saint Patrick’s Faith be gone from this land
Restore our ancient religion so grand
the Druid priest spoke as the earth did quake
Magog looked down- at his foot a snake.

-A vampire novel chapter
written in the form of a poem
written by Christopher
Monday March 17th
2014

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