Ode to EiRe-union

A poem as the narrator reckons with an upcoming reunion and Irish heritage ….

A song toward that gem, the Emerald Isle,
by a distant son who has never been.
Product of New England learns of biennial
Family Day to be held in the same,
places upon calendar a date to save…

Noted, I imagine the approaching landing
to Dublin, or to Shannon, then to left-hand-
drive. ‘From glen to glen’ as County Clare’s
meadow yields to cliff’s edge.
Over Moher an Atlantic I almost hear

the verse ‘Come ye back’, to summer - not to
meadow, In a Hill park, on the Atlantic’s other side,
where our ancestors long ago arrived.
Its rippling tide I cannot quite perceive,
as first cousins relive the lifelong, and while

most eluded by the smirking Leprechaun
the eldest attest the road rose up to meet,
as famines left so long back across,  
and flaming cocktails – troubles far away.  
Those original siblings on the seacoast became

too many cousins for this humble bard to know.
Second cousins – an awkward conglomerate -
now levels three, four – even five?  Milling until
corralled at photo time.  Knowledge of a few
within the extended branch glues the whole,

wherein families touched by cancer’s wracking
gather with others dabbed with different despair.
A quaint pub culture reveals the village sot,
prototyping my own youthful failing – a finding
far from sunshine – for only shadow in part

as the sun finally sets in County Kerry,
the trip leads dreaming bard toward Kenmare,
touring the Killarney Ring– a nerve raising road
gives way to a rest among generous locals –
peace and inner smile felt even

through the commercial celebratory bustle
surrounding Southie’s flowing parade for our
patron saint. Patrick, taming fifth century
snakes with Christianity, converting Ireland
to same, he left those on Eire with a faith   

inherited, but how to own what I did not cause?
I watched in childhood technicolor, yellow
school buses ward off thrown brick and board,
from those with own rules, unreceptive to  
colored teenage children in South Boston.

While at the secondary level, this bard was taught  
of 1954 decisions prompting 1974 court orders,
rain falling in shame upon Boston’s fields. To
speak nothing of journalists’ uncovered Black Mass.
Far too many to come and kneel ‘Aye for thee’ , letting

a rich culture of writers, poets, playwrights and song
approach these brackish spots to counterweigh.
Lost from this bard’s mind the young Daedelus,
and so much unknown beneath the literary portraits
revealing the struggle and the light pivoting toward today.

But why dwell – as I hike to a photo spot near Torc.
The mist bathes while the falls cascade through,
airborne streams following a heavy, cleansing rain.
Later, I walk the central cobblestones of High and Main,
Forgetting to consider each somehow put in place, by

One… tray of corned beef at sunny Hill Park
Hot dogs – potato salad, soft drinks available for all.
Here no hard k-Irish-culture -Celtic,  
rather soft-s-American-sport-Celtic[s] - jerseyed
Russel, Cousy, Bird, McHale, Tatum, Brown.

These not among people that long ago Need Not Apply,
Via Grace ancestors found standing, places to serve…
scrubbing wealthier laundry, fighting fire,
walking the beat – to make a way to public square -
building New England, leaving a sentiment of pride

to generations living beyond those gathered at Hill Park.
We share photos of cousins captured much younger,
saved images of those passed - of our cherished who
left too soon – a long moment’s grief pinned
deep inside hearts closest bound. We - a people

seeking that not possible, to unify these beams
of deep emerald, the beautiful, tragic, and joyfully ironic.
Upon this fertile soil such meant not to know.
The Hill Park bathes in the waning natural;
we cheer the family letters out,

Leaving truth that as younger cousins greet younger
cousins - the Family Day biennially meets again…
until then may God hold you all in the palm of His hand.