Where Are My Fenians?

In critical condition, she lies immobile —
a deep slumber, or perhaps
she has already crept
into a silent death.

How pitiful an end
for one of the most spirited peoples
to ever bless America —
that she should grow so dispirited
in our tenebrous times.

Where are the dinners?
Where are the rally cries?
Where are my Fenians?

They spend their days now in old age,
sipping a pint with old friends,
in old bars,
their old fingers around the cold glass.
They watch the changing streets,
with the changing people,
and drink some more.

The youth — for they are not to be blamed.
They were offered nothing of value,
nothing worth the name of Ireland,
only foggy memories,
and short history.
Perhaps seeds remain deeply sowed within them,
but only a war cry will bring it out.

Our springtime spirit
has been put to slumber
by the spell of this new age.
Spoon fed poison from every direction,
in the hopes of putting to rest the Fenian —
finally, at last, for good, and forever.

In this hour,
Irish America is needed more than it has ever been.
For I do not know whether to mourn her
or shake her awake with the sound of the Carnyx.