The Dingle Swing Poem by Jimmy Scanlon

I.
It was a Dingle
A charmless Irish word like Tinker
That had traveled across an ocean of fables
On the charming voices of brogues
Paint brushed right into our childhood
It was not a land of shamrocks or fairytales or pots of gold
But a small shaded neighborhood valley
An unopened envelope
Where the wind amused itself with paper bags
Spinning around broken bottles and empty beer cans
A home for trash and firefly's and snakes
And old washing machines
that had walked out of a neighbor's house
Before the last wash was done
Leaving the back door wide open
Stumbling down the spine of a hill
Its rusted mouth bruised and open
Drunkenly slumped against a tree
This Dingle was a kingdom
For us children of St James Ave.
It had a braided rope twisted in thick curls
Double knotted at the bottom
Magically hung off the high branch of
a Maple tree tilting into the rib of a hill
It was to this Dingle we went to measure
our bravery and toughness and earn respect from
this braid of rope you gripped into the skin of your hands
so hard it sounded like the shucking of corn
And we would with a running jump from that ribbed hill
Send our small lives dancing away
our hips bowing and bucking pushing momentum higher
Digging our fists deeper and deeper into
This rope swinging into the bright sky's face
pushing the night away
into a meadow of sky and wind and dreams
where we thought all of life's answers were just above our reach

II.
Somewhere close to the sky
Where light leaves this child's hollow
It will give itself to inspiration
Inspiration to Thought
And thought to hand
hand to pen
pen to ink
And ink to paper
Paper to word
Word to poem
Poem to eyes
Eyes to voice
Voice to sound
Sound to life
Life to soul
Soul to light
Light to innocence
Innocence to prayer
Prayer to faith
And so, it shall be
As it was and always will be