They shoot the blackbirds
In locked cages
For singing of living freely.
They say
"No! No! No!
Those birds are insane
Bums
Losers
Dead to society.
Now,
Go to work
Go to school
Stop at stop signs
Marry
Have children
And pay taxes."
But I heard the lunatic chirping
Riding on the echo
Of a shotgun blast
It said
"Nothing really matters
And the people aren't as important
As they think.
The boundaries they set
Never really existed.
Now quit your job
Throw your wallet in the garbage
And run naked in the streets"
It sounded beautiful
And I can't seem
To get its ringing
Out of
My skull.
How long should I
Pluck
These black feathers
Of mine?

I wonder if God
    sees our numbered
breaths, how many
     have been & how
many are left,
millions of digits
    shifting above
our heads;
the old woman
 on the park bench
        with just 500 left. 
The jogger with 100
   between now &
        tonight when he
will exhale
     for a final time.
I should scale mountains,
         stare at the sun
  make my amount
  count, every last one.

My name is Terry Fitzpatrick
I see familiar faces all around
Perhaps some long lost relatives
Still in County Cork who could be found

My grandfather, James William Fitzpatrick
Made his way to South Boston, Mass,
Just like thousands of Irish refugees
Was looked down upon as low class

“We don’t hire the Irish”
Signs posted on many a door
So he played piano and wrote songs
To feed his family of four

Side by Side and Beer Barrel Polka
Were 2 of his most famous songs
He sold the rights for so little
Few dollars, no credit, so wrong...

He had left County Cork in a hurry
Like thousands forced to leave town
His family, I’m told, were horse thieves
But The Famine’s what took them down

The Troubles continued in Boston
Fifty years before the Kennedys were crowned
My Grandfather kept drinking and singing
Grandmother died young without a sound

One of their 4 sons was my father
Clifford Joseph then had 4 sons and me
I’m proud of my Irish heritage
First one back to visit since 1893