All the love of it, beauty of the Irish race, and I there too, three quarters Celtic, home at last, home at last, God bless you. JDC Published, Coffee Press Journal, Copyright, J. Donald Coonrod

STREETS OF DUBLIN

I see you walking ancient cobblestones
in Irish morning light, and hear
the throbbing bass thrombones in the
back streets of your soul;
your black haired beauty and
perfect Egyptian sense of death
pivoted somehow across depths of
time.

The sky is full of tumbling puffs,
propeller driven clouds, filigreed
lace on ice blue; mists of angelic
white breaking through and lost
again; your voice serene as sun on
an Aegean archipelago, soft as a
lover'stouch, spider webs and
dewdrops shining brightly in
Georgian doorways.

A silver medallion rests, Celtic
style, on your breast; its
intertwining design magically
encompassing worlds lost, as you
wandered east to west, true to
your destiny, coming at last to
the great Meath, to Dublin.

More than half Celtic, I can pass here
until I speak, and so I say only
what my eyes can say; time wanders
like a stream, finding its way
through an eternity of sighs—
today my soul sings in Joyce’s
choir; a paltry echo in his basket,
but a copper toward my salvation.

Yet the church of Patrick is dark
and dour and wants to know what
happened and at what hour; and
whether I have sinned and sinned
again; but Dublin in its wisdom,
asks only I sing a song intricate
as the woven webs of its doorways;
intricate as those medallions of
yesteryear when I confessed to Love.

Let the tambourines sound again, and
say I have loved and love still and
hear even now Dublin's passionate
voice in my soul, and feel its
abiding peace, as I kiss my love
goodnight.