Song of Eire

 
The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

I stand at the cliff
and look across
the wide Atlantic
to see a steel monolith rise.

The depths of the ocean
can no longer conceal
the pain that I carry
in knowing past and future loss.

I sit by the crystal Shannon
and feel the wildflowers
break beneath my weight
to become a bushel of waste.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

The lush fields once crossed
by the free Finn McCool
and his band of poet-warriors
have been crushed by machines.

The old woman of Ireland
calls me home to fight for liberty,
but her sons reject me, a mere American,
and I comply to colony life.

I fly back to New York
with a hole in my chest
longing for the identity
of my starving ancestors.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

loss

the day after
mother’s death
I find myself cringe
at any noise similar
to a painful moan
a sigh, a laugh,
a seagull’s cry-
all strike a chord
deep within
my tangled heartstrings twang
out of tune and longing
for the perfect pitch
of the past