Irish Dancing Eyes

This is a poem about my Great Grandmother I wished I had met.

Great-Grandma Irene Donahue,
a dazzling dish from County Mead,
she set men on fire,
making women pea-green.

James, an English Godly man,
her charms flamed under his skin.
He brought her home to America,
introduced her to his kin.

I wish I had seen their faces,
prim and proper, I am sure.
Great-Grandpa might have gotten
more than he bargained for.

After marriage and children,
she'd settle down, be a proper girl.
Then, humming an Irish bar song
her feet danced a lusty whirl.

Since I was just knee high,
her fascinating legend grew.
She had a way of telling stories
that caused a blush or two.

When she was in her eighties,
she would whisper in Dad's ear,
"Carl, take me down to the tavern"
she craved male attention there.

Her daughters were ashamed.
They thought mother was a joke.
Dad said she was a special lady,
and the rest were uptight folk.

I sure wish I had known her.
Irene, both young and bright,
in one badly wrinkled picture,
eyes seem to dance with Irish delight.