Poetry and Art
The Eternal Forge, Architect of Life
In the darkness before time began,
When void held firm, and chaos ran,
A voice emerged, a spark, a call—
“Let there be light,” and light touched all.
The Architect, with hands of steel,
Shaped the cosmos, forged the wheel.
On the first day, light met night,
A dawn-born world—a birth of sight.
The second day, his hammer rang,
And waters rose where heavens hang.
Air was carved, and space defined,
A vault of stars—his grand design.
The third, the earth, with roots unfurled,
He sculpted land, a breathing world.
Green spires grew by whispered will,
And rivers flowed as oceans filled.
Upon the fourth, the light he split,
Two flames to mark the day’s transit.
The sun to burn, the moon to guide,
Through gears of time, through turning tides.
On the fifth, his hands gave breath to seas,
To creatures borne of depths and breeze.
Birds and fish, the sky’s delight,
Wove song and life from endless night.
The sixth day came, and from his forge,
He raised a form—both flesh and torch.
Man and woman, steel and bone,
A world was shaped, yet not alone.
Upon the seventh, his hand withdrew,
And stillness reigned where life once grew.
And now he sits, as ages pass,
His work complete, yet built to last.
The sawblade hums, the hammer sleeps,
A god who forged, a god who keeps.
By – Ashley Curran
Across Ancient Waters
Beneath the arch of times embrace,
A vessel moves with humble grace.
Through Ireland’s lands of rugged green,
Where paths were scarce, and waters keen.
The log boat carried both kin and trade,
Across the depths our hands had made.
Each stroke, a story, each ripple, a call
Of unity binding us, one and all.
For life is a journey across ancient streams,
Of laughter, of labour and of shared dreams.
Together we row, through calm and strife,
Across ancient waters, the river of life.
By – Ashley Curran
The Hook and the Wander
Bound by chain of ages past,
The hook bears weight, steadfast, steadfast
Yet perched above, a figure stands
Dreaming of distant, untrodden lands
He’s on the hook, can’t let go,
The hook it sways, the wind may blow.
Bound by fear, yet dreams take flight,
A wanderer reaching for the light.
The anchor holds, the years have stayed,
Yet courage dares, the path is laid.
The rusted steel and copper glow,
Speak of strength, where dreams can grow
The hook may sway, the wind may bite,
But steadfast hearts endure the fight.
The wander seeks, the anchor stays-
Together they forge life’s endless maze.
By Ashley Curran
The Crescent’s Aid, Harbour of Hope
Through seas of sorrow, famine’s tear,
A ship set sail to quell our fear.
From Ottoman shores, a crescent’s light,
Guided aid through Ireland’s night.
A star above, a light unseen,
Guided ships where hope had been.
The stars aligned, across the waves,
For Irish lives, compassion saves.
In Drogheda’s port, they made their stand,
Their gifts of grain laid on Irish land.
No queen’s command, nor court’s blockade,
Could halt the aid that honour made.
So let this tale of kindness grow,
A crescent’s light from long ago.
In famine’s depths, they brought a spark—
A harbour of hope, in Ireland’s dark.
By Ashley Curran
Penny Soup
In a pot of iron, cracked and cold,
Pennies lie, where dreams were sold.
The fields were full, yet bellies bare,
While hunger's grip held tight despair.
Faith was tested, torn apart,
For crumbs to feed a starving heart.
Copper soft, yet spirits stayed,
Through every trial, they never swayed.
No, you can't eat penny soup,
No food to stir, no life to scoop.
They grew the grain, yet starved for bread,
As Ireland's soul was fought, not dead.
Turf beneath, a floor of earth,
Homes of sorrow, homes of worth.
The pot of gold, a cruel jest,
But hearts still burned within each chest.
For in the famine’s darkest night,
Our culture held, our hearts alight.
Though hunger raged and hopes were slim,
We carried Ireland deep within.
For though the hungertook its toll,
The Irish soul stayed firm and whole.
And through the tears, the loss, the loop—
No, you can't eat penny soup.
By - Ashley Curran
Nailed to Eternity
A cross of nails, both sharp and cold,
Yet in its heart, a story told.
Though the world may bend and break,
My soul stands firm, no doubt can shake.
A cross of steel, sharp and bright,
Carrying love in the darkest night.
The Lord, my God, my steady guide,
Through every storm, He’s by my side.
As faith fades in a hurried world,
Like threads of copper, gently twirled,
In every nail, in every scar,
His love remains, both near and far.
The wheel turns slow, the faith remains,
Unbroken by the world’s refrains.
For in the rust, the wire, the steel,
A deeper truth, my heart can feel.
Though life moves fast and faith seems thin,
The heart remembers where it’s been.
Like the strength in nails, my faith won’t waver,
The Lord, my God, He is my Savior.
By – Ashley Curran
“Rotha Mór an tSaoil”
The great wheel of life
Through hands of women, strong and wise,
Life is spun, beneath the skies.
Their labour turns the wheel of life,
Mothers, weavers, enduring strife.
Spirals carved in wood and stone,
Whisper of lives and hands long gone.
The spokes may break, the wood may crack,
But Ireland’s heart will not turn back.
For though we’ve traded thread for steel,
In every wheel, our past we feel.
The yarns we spin, the lives we mend—
The wheel of life will never end.
By – Ashley Curran
Hollow Hunger
We were once the heartbeat of the land,
With music and stories, and work in our hands,
The soil was hard, the winters long,
But our hearts were full, our culture strong.
Now the tables are heavy, the plates piled high,
But the songs are fading, and the old ways die.
We feast on plenty, but hunger remains,
For the spirit we’ve lost in comfort’s chains.
Once we danced with the wind in the fields,
Our stories were treasure, no gold could yield,
But the voices now silent, the fires burned low,
And the hunger for meaning begins to grow.
For we are starving, though no one sees,
Not for bread, but for roots, for trees,
For the hands that shaped both land and lore,
Now idle, now still, now reaching no more.
Our ancestors bled in famine’s grip,
But held their stories with a fierce grip,
They left us wealth no coin could measure,
But we traded it all for fleeting pleasure.
Now the land is green, but the soul runs dry,
And we wonder where, and we wonder why,
The hunger persists, though the harvest is near,
We starve for the culture we once held dear.
Oh, to touch the earth, to sing the old songs,
To remember the place where we truly belong,
But we stand in silence, our hearts torn wide,
Starving for stories, for spirit, for pride.
By – Ashley Curran