Wednesday, October 09, 2019

Che Guevara

Once again... October 9 2019 marks the anniversary of the fall in combat of Ernesto Che Guevara, freedom fighter and legendary guerilla born: June 14, 1928, Rosario, Argentina.

His father Ernest Guevara Lynch said "The first thing to note is that in my son's veins flowed the blood of the Irish rebels", he said in a 1969 interview. He went on: "Che inherited some of the features of our restless ancestors. There was something in his nature which drew him to distant wandering, dangerous adventures and new ideas".

As an Irishman I must again reiterate my immense pride in the fact that Che Guevara has family connections with Ireland.

a toast to Che... y hasta siempre

Sunday, February 24, 2019

the israeli terrorists & gutless Irish

so let the gutless Irish go support the israeli terrorists
the abuse of power
the killing of children
the theft of land
over the top of Lebanon
in amongst the child killers
the 'brave' israelis
how far does Europe extend
who took the bribe in the first place?


Monday, February 18, 2019

The Famous Dangerous Yamila Cartannilica

Used with permission: thanks Y of Avellaneda

Cartannilica the Dangerous

the grainy wanted poster not doing her justice
but then it did say dead or alive
I carried it in my wallet for 10 years
her elusiveness running with the reward
searching now among the statues
evidence of her abounds...

Cartannilica la peligrosa

El granulado cartel no era suficiente para ella.
pero entonces estaba vivo o muerto
La cargué en mi billetera por 10 años.
su elusividad corriendo con la recompensa
buscando ahora entre las estatuas
La evidencia de Cartannilica abunda


Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Far Away Nails

A seriously talented artist on the West Coast.. Lizz Lopez..

One of the most interesting things about the global network is to see art that one might never ever find in the old linear life.

Check out her work here;-

Used with Permission... thanks Lizz :-)

Far Away Nails

far away nails

scratching at my existence
I ran out to the spaceport
sweet talking a lazy rocket girl
Take Me to the Cuban Dependency aka America
she laughed... 
right up to the point of the gun

Monday, January 01, 2018

Saturday, May 13, 2017

The Refugee

The cracks and groans of the house in the wind
like an old ship tied up dry.
The shrivelled dreams and shreds of flag
flap their last goodbye.

To foreign lands in a paper boat,
I’ll seek compassion there.
In shackled chains and shanty camps
I’ll find a home, beware.

Our blood it runs from Yankee guns,
seemingly mysteriously delivered. 
NATO there with a cold hard stare,
contemptuously conniving in the killing.

In secret cells near worn out bells
we’ll plot and plan for homecoming.
Though such a thing is a journey far,
in a world turned mad and loathing. 

..we have a problem... people cowed down / hiding in their kitchens so politically correct and not able to act :-(

Karma.. "tell masa I'm coming back"

Dominique Christina

Thursday, May 11, 2017

Remember Fontenoy Always

May 11
By Thomas Osborne Davis (1814–1845)      

THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst,        5
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.        10

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast,        15
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and steadiness, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks.        20

More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
“Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried:        25
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein;
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.        30

“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish—there are your Saxon foes;”
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry,        35
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.        40

O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
“Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind—        45
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.”        50
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang.
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled—        55
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!

A village in Belgium. Here, on May 11, 1745, the French under Marshal Saxe defeated the allied English, Dutch and Hanoverians under the Duke of Cumberland.

The Irish fighting alongside the French (as 500,000 Irish did for France) covered themselves with glory.

more on Thomas Osborne Davis