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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Folklore · #2246122
A lament for auld spirits

Lost on Route 66

Green Irish eyes uprooted,
goodbye to hearth and home.
Sailing North Atlantic seas,
they didn't sail alone.

Banshees, ghosts, sly leprechauns,
and fairies from the dell.
Tales told in Irish brogue,
these spirits came as well.

A story lives in telling
together by the fire.
Drink inflames auld Paddy,
rapt faces are inspired.

Time weakens Erin's ties
stretched thin across the miles.
Grand children carry on,
forget the Emerald Isle.

Change, the only constant,
sees generations churn.
Lilting brogues forgotten
the eerie tales unlearned.

Old ways rust in disrepair,
reduced to byway bits.
Replaced with shiny modern trends,
like Highway Sixty-six.

Blacktop heartland artery
where new car culture flowed.
A road that led to legend,
shared 'round the TV glow.

Time overturns and turns again,
big screens exchanged for small.
Stories streaming endlessly,
one needn't share at all.

Then what of Irish spirits
poured out on foreign shores,
bypassed by an interstate
of online culture wars?

Age dims eyes, old voices fade,
mythic creatures dwindle.
Shrunk in tablet habitat
deep inside a Kindle.

Dying towns and locked hotels
along Route 66,
banshees wait in graveyards bare,
ghosts don't get their kicks.

Author's note: 44 lines
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