Poems ✍️

'Twas the August of Summer, nineteen ot three
when me friend read these words 'fore he passed;
Carry me o'er these verdant green blades;
'Tis a journey long just to smell the warm sod.
The black blood of War crusted wounds,
The organdy blue of a belle I once wooed.

Ah, to be back at Riley's Olde Mill
'Twas me first work, me first touch of silver
and, the picnics at Finn's Glenn each June-
took me breath for a heart pulsing ride,
when the gals in their swimsuits smiled,
when sometimes me Irish found Luck,
share some stories 'bout the weather and more.

Life seems fast as an Orb in it's flight,
Death, the ''Crossing O'er Rubicon'';
both, I've heard, can be insane or serene,
all depends upon the worth you've accrued,
if your hoisted Crosses were carried true;
hope my rest 'neath these verdant green blades
be the start of a timeless utopic existence.



FjR-MMXX