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Marion Ueckermann  (email, website)


About the Poet:

MARION UECKERMANN didnít discover her writing talents until she was forty. Her passion for penning poetry was sparked in 2001 when she moved to Ireland with her husband and two sons. Since then Marion has been honing her skills and has published inspirational poetry online and in a poetry journal. She has recently authored her first full-length Christian Womenís novel, Prodigal and is looking for a publisher. Ms. Ueckermann now lives in Pretoria East, South Africa. A member of the South African Christian Writers Group, you can visit her website http://www.thecolouredquill.site88.net.



Irish Mosaic


Rolling green hills blanketed in mist

Beauty so rare created only by Godís hand

As dawns first light the earth has kissed

Awakening the sights and sounds of a land

Where dwells a people of such different culture

With strange quirks theyíve managed through ages to nurture


Misty mornings down narrow lanes

Winding roads lined with majestic old trees

Rain falling softly on window panes

These are the images one frequently sees

In this land that has so much beauty to show

If you know where to look, know where to go


Like a banshee wails the wind through the cold

Across hills and moors, fields and meadows

Tiny green leprechauns dance Ďround pots of gold

Found at the end of bright colored rainbows

These are the myths and the legends of Eire

Land with a history so sad and so dire


Old men in caps on bikes still ride

Peddling through villages neat

Stopping for a pint of black Irish pride

In pubs lit with fires that are blazing with peat

This is the way theyíve been taught from of old

Where friendships abound and stories are told


Bold bhodrans drumming, melancholy flutes playing

Haunting music stirring the soul so deep

Feet tapping and dancers swaying

The Celtic Song is Irelandís beat

A sound to which one cannot sit down

Where your hands and your feet find a will of their own


Painted doors line the Georgian way

In Dublinís fair city where old now meets new

And sweet Mollyís wares of yesterday

Are forever entombed in a bronzen hue

If you listen closely you can hear her ode

Of cockles and muscles, alive, alive O


Much of these Irish sights and sounds

Are not really seen in the daily grind

Often this romance can only be found

In the silent dreams of my mind

Where Ireland to me is by far the best

In these my times of quiet rest




Blame The Moon


Your fingers caress my moonlit silhouette

And gently your kisses brush my neck

Softly you touch my skin

Oh baby if this be sin

Then Iíll blame it on the moon

This sweet abandoned passion

The dish running away with the spoon

Iíll blame the moon


Touch me every night, it feels so right

Your body next to mine Ė entwined

I feel your hand upon my back

You have the knack to make me feel so good

As moonlight falls across the room

Iíll blame it on the moon


As your hands caress my silhouette

And your kisses brush my neck

I feel you gently touch my skin

And I know if this is sin

Then I know I must confess that

Iíll blame the moon

This sweet abandoned passion

The dish running away with the spoon

Iíll blame the moon



Fragaria Ananassa


Soft heart shaped flesh

Make my watering mouth sigh

Love your fat dimpled thighs

Tender, so tender, you easily bruise

Perfectly red

Lying exposed in your rich earthy bed

Watercolor object of the artistís brush


Want to hold

Need to touch

Ovarian flower

Wrap my lips firmly round your dark ruby shape


Bathe you in cream

Preserve you



How my lips desire your luscious, plump form

Fragaria Ananassa

What a glorious sight

Odorous fruit

My strawberry delight




Poisoned Apple


Your cheeks were the last thing

Adam and Eveís lips touched

Before innocence fell from the earth


since that moment in time

consistently follows your name


Did Snow White taste your poisoned flesh

when the witch cackled in her ears?

And does Williamís story Tell us far more

when looking beyond the disguise?

Did the same arrow that split your core

kill the governor who ordered your demise?


Mischief surrounds your appellation

O apple of discord

Is this why naughty boys apple-pie beds

and take delight in upsetting the applecart?


An apple a day

keeps the doctor away

Your feeble attempt at redemption?



The Marinerís Wharf


Bright coloured hulls
A myriad of names
Nauticat, Ventura, The Mistress, Calypso
Bobbing lazily in the busy bay
Masts stand tall
Nets piled high
Soon will be teaming with fish
Slippery black seals glide through waters deep
Entertainment of the day
Like black hounds of the sea
They follow the trawler
For a meal to come their way
Seagulls squawk
Fishermen work
The daily routine of the marinerís wharf