Lost Voice of the Irish

Parade in green
March in green.
The beers, the parties
and the greens.
Revered the Day
but not the Saint.
The world, the people forgotten
their past.
The sons forgotten the faces
of their fathers.
They have forsaken them.

And yet, some of us have not.
We remember our Great Great Grandmother's stories.
Her voice is always with us,
whispering in our ears.
We have become the lost voice
of the Irish.
Her stories were no fairytales
---there were no leprechauns
or banshees.

If the Ladies of the fay
were real,
we would hear their keening
every year,
for the Spirits of the Irish
are almost dead.

There were full of British Oppression,
war and blood.
Starvation and the plague.
My Great-Great Grandmother
whispered in my ear.
She told me about the
potato famine---
our people died from it
and starvation.
They ate grass and died
on the side of the roads
as the red coats
just go marching by.

They stole our lands
and forced young men into
the British Army.
They were not allowed to have
any other jobs.

We remember the voice
of the Irish.
Dead wake,
American Wake.
My Great Grandmother,
she told me,
that it was so bad
she had to leave the country.
She told her mother goodbye
and that she loves her.
Leaving all family and friends.
She was only 18.
Got on a ship,
sailed to the Land of
Opportunity and Liberty.
The room and board were horrendous.
But the journey was worth it.
Until the very first thing
to greet her
in the New World---
A tomato in the face.
Shanty Irish/Lacey Irish.
Brother turned against brother.
United by faith/
Divided by faith.
Help Wanted/
No Irish Wanted.
An American Dream,
An American Lie,
An American Nightmare.
It was almost not worth it.
My Great Grandmother,
she faced hardship.

I hear the voice
of the Irish.
My Great Grandfather
whispered to me.
His father came to the
Land of Opportunity,
struggled to prosper.
When the big BOOM
of the industrialization
happen,
My Great Grandfather
jumped on in
to help build the Chrysler
among Irish kin.
The great city got build
by the blood and sweat
of the Irish.

My Great Grandfather
meet his lover.
They fell in love
and got married.
Life was never easy,
they struggled
but they were happy.
Through bright days
and dark days
they stick together.
My Great Grandmother,
she bore a child,
builds a family---
a big family.
Pillars upon pillars,
foundation upon foundations.

My Great Grandmother,
had my Grandmother,
My Grandmother,
had my mother,
and my mother had me.

Their voices whispered
to me,
they told me---
don't forget where you
came from.
That's what it means
to be Irish