Mary Rose’s Mother Machree

Dedication to Mary Rose Barrett Bergin (1933 – 1990)
Including her son, Hugh and grandson, Donovan
State of Oklahoma Short Story Award

In 1957 my sister, Mary Rose, wrote this short story while she was still attending Oklahoma College for Women, Chickasha, OK.  She was diagnosed with Lupus in her early twenties, married I. J. Pete Bergin and went on to raise their son, Hugh.  She got to experience the joy of her grandson, Donovan.  Mary Rose loved her family so dearly and in her memory — this is her unpublished story.

Old Dan Hodge shifted his
crutch and scratched his tousled 
head of hair as he looked at the 
stony path which led up the side 
of the mountain.  It was barely 
discernible for the light snow was 
falling, and the dancing flakes had
begun to cover the path.
He would have liked to stop
for a little rest, but Dan knew that
Mandy would be waiting for him 
on this day.  Forty years before 
he had vowed his love for her and 
consummated it in marriage.  Indeed, 
it was exactly forty years to the 
day that he had repeated the custom 
honored words which bound him to 
the duties of a husband.
Mandy was a good wife, and 
her grief at the death of their only 
child was almost more than Dan
could bear.  He had comforted her by
telling her that in time there would
    be another baby to hold close and love.  
But the years had gone by, and 
there was no baby.
Perhaps that was why a tear 
trickled down Dan’s cheek as he 
began to climb again.  Perhaps that
was why his voice cracked when he
started to sing “Mother Machree”.
Only Dan knew that the
tear fell and his voice failed 
because Mandy was at the top 
of the mountain, buried with her 
first born.
Background Notes:  Original Folk and Traditional Irish Song, lyrics by Rida Johnson Young,
with original music by Chauncey Olcott & Ernest R. Ball, 1910.  Chauncey Olcott was also involved with writing My Wild Irish Rose and When Irish Eyes are Smiling.
“Machree” was not a Mother’s proper name.   Rather, it is a term which means “dearest.” OpEdNews Article by Phil Klein.
YouTube music video of Mother Machree, recorded in 1974 by Michael O’Dwyer from 
Dunmore East, Co. Waterford, Ireland.         
On this Fourth Tuesday of September 25, 2012 – 
Posting for @dVersePoets #OpenLinkNight
Come Read and Share and Post with fellow poets!  
Bar opens at 2:00 pm Central Time.


What about love?
Being loved
Feeling safe
Knowing loyalty
Who doesn’t leave your side
Who will be there for you
No matter what you go through
No matter what
And Forever

You say you’re moving on
Don’t tell me to stay behind
‘In love’ never lasts ~~

A ”mature love” is suppose to
Be Patient.
Care about each other.
Working through hard times.
Steadfast no matter what.
Does not abandon you.

Can we change?
To be an ‘us’
What makes you happy?
What do I mean to you?
How do we work through our differences?
How do we honor the other person in our lives?
How do we deal
with hurt & anger?

Can I be happy?
Are you happy?
Can we recapture
what was and make it
what will be?

Are we really free?



Posting For New World Creative Union
Autumn Kick-Off Event
On the Autumnal Equinox
Saturday, September 22
To Midnight Sunday, September 23

underwater circus blues
shrouds of shadow sticks
a spotted felled leaf

nestled among the drift
safe for a fleeting second
before a new wave rolls in

how amusing is this trend
of you and me changing spots
in this fall


My "Waste Land"

I am very privilege to share a friend’s poetry!  She is from my home town Seminole, Oklahoma.
Introducing Norma Gillespie’s poetry! A wonderful poem in response to T.S. Eliot’s “waste land”.
I hope you enjoy as much as I did!! Thank you Norma for sharing your writing with us!


My “Waste Land
By Norma Gillespie
My “waste land” contrasts deeply to T.S. Eliot’s:
His “Waste Land” poetically
Explores varied psychic
Stages of despairing souls
Struggling for redemption.
Mine consists of a tangible environment—
A canyon sprawled on most of ten acres.
It’s become a haven
For people trapped in a
“World too much with us,”
As Wordsworth would say.
Yes, my worthless paltry pit,
Split by meandering spring-fed streams
Hardly pulls a tax dollar,
But the thick scattering
Of leafy blankets
Over huge and small, smooth
And rugged rocks;
The floral dogwood, stately cedar,
Knurled oak, and
Sprawling hickory continually
Renew the Circle of Life.
From sprouts to thirty-feet
Marvels toward Heaven.
This woody wonderland
Hosts public literary events
In several greenish
Mossy “auditoriums”
‘Mid Fall’s gorgeous
Changing scene, as well as
Spring’s gown of sylvan
Buds and wildflowers.
Heaven forbid, if ever I sever
My attentions to this
Seasonal display Nature boasts.
If I do, then it could truly
Become my own despairing “waste land.”

Louise Hastings’ New Book

Sept 14-Oct07, 2012
Giveaway dates from Sept 14-Oct 07, 2012. Exploring intimate worlds and profound moments, British poet Louise…