Tuesday 02 March 2010 at 01:39 am. Used tags: , , , , ,

Selected works of the Brophy/Mitchell Family


(Dedicated to cousin John F. Mitchell 1927-2009), vice chairman Motorola, inventor of Wireless



T’was W.B. Yeats, the Irish presby-patrician patriot-poet from Sligo;[1]

Aye, t’was He, Himself,[2] highborn, heard whispering to plodding passers-by [3]

From His ghostly [4] grey gravel grave at Columba Ca-t’edral christian cemetery [5 ]

Close t’Colmcille’s Celtic Cross [6] ‘n Cropped Cracked Cylindrical Colum’[7] Lookouts:  fore  for  flying faeries from t’ white high hinged haunted door; [8]

Gardáils, guarding  gussied gates t’Bundoran Way N15 [9 ] per perplexing piebald Penumbra conundra [10] o’ Ben-Beacon[11-Bulben’s Baskets, [12] n’ e’en t’e’er

Encoun-t’ring east’ly eye o’ quiz’cal queen-Queen, t’ wand’ring white maven-Maive[13]

ÓMáthair Mebh’s trun-cated-temple[14] top Knock-narea[8]  or roun’ mason moun’?[15]  

Whis-p’ring “m’Maugherow [ 16] Mitchell ÓMhor ÓMaoilmhichil[17 ] men - t’is t’inning [18] -

M’ namesake: His-self, William mcMhor ÓMaoilmhichil[19] set-out, set-sail, set-free![20]

Little land ‘n wee work ‘n dole depleten, aye ‘n harp hidden ‘n political prison: Gone!”[21 ]


Gone Digging![] ‘Butte’ Montana Michael mcMhor, [  ]  ‘n Journeyman John Jake[  ]

‘n Chastened Colorado Charles mcChar-less [  ], ‘n in-turn, He, Himself, William,[  ]    

The prodigious principled penultimate o’ a tight-t’ick transient tribe o’10[  ] ,

All Gone Digging t’find fortunes ‘n copper ‘n Montana mountain mines.[  ]

Cat’rin, Mairy, James, Bry’n t’emselves tracing-traipsing to t’ 2 too-tall towns.

Paddy ‘Denny’: heart’ing t’hallowed Homestead haunt wi’h Da-Mhor ‘n Madadh; [  ]  

‘Ole Tom’ t’first: frugal, a frail fibrous field-fisherman o’ fish freeway [  ]  .


Wiser William left 3 bros digging down, t’join t’ gratify: grace, genr’als ‘n God

T’en join: t’grace ‘n gratify city cousins-siblings in Chicago City wit’ bride Bridie

Wiser William made his fortune as a Chicago Copper  wit’ Bridie Keane o’ Listo’ell:

T’ Brood o’ Bros: Bill Banker, Rough Red, James Jay, N’ed-ucator,  

Known by num’rous nomen n’otability– each exceptional’n ev’ry ende’vor.


Yeats’ angst allayed: clever copper-red John Francis Mitchell, t’ Harp: Sang-out.

Probes, patents, pagers, phonics, portables, promotions, pan’gyrics, princehood!

T’ Boot  t’ toot, ‘n Brick ‘n Slick; ‘n Six-Sigma Stats; ‘n seventy-seven sensor Sats.

T’is  penny-w’istl’n  p’destr’n piper e’en planted Moto’s micro mobil’n green groun’[  ]  

n’ soon sent 77 spaced sensor star-some spherical  silver-Iridium satellites soaring,[  ]  

So 66, sans spares, synchr’nous stations should send sequencing signals

‘n 6 solar polar planes; toggling teltacht[] the whole world-wide-wireless o’er:

Electromag’ic waves [  ]  that “dance like a wave of the sea” [  ]  


ÓCopper-less John O’Erin, o’new digger  o’new copper-less, o’new wire-less  [  ]  

Óccomplishments n’er conceived by Carton’s Char-less-Mhor nor Cat’rin Cairns,

Ór William Butler Yeats Ór Gugli’mo t’ Gael MacRony[]  for that radio reason!

ÓJohn Francis Mitchell! Aye! t’ prodigious pioneering pacesetting paternal patron.


Seosamh ó Bróithe

Poet’s Notes: this poem is dedicated to John Francis Mitchell,  one of the great innovators of the 20th century, formerly vice-chairman, Motorola, and prime mover in the development of worldwide wireless telephony,  quality improvement processes, aka Six-Sigma, and the Iridium Satellite Constellation, and engineering marvel, which serves the world in extreme conditions and saves lives in the military.


This poem is a literal poem, and not a figurative or symbolic poem.  Every comma, space and word is placed for a specific purpose, meaning, sonic or speech effect.  Unfortunately, the poem requires a lot of inside knowledge about parts of Sligo, its history and the Mitchells of Cloghboley who scattered.  The poem emphasis is on John F. Mitchell’s genealogy on his Mitchell (Sligo) side.  Many of the pictures shown here will be or have been replaced by similar pictures taken by the poet.  Hopefully these notes will help in the understanding of the poem.

by First Cousin Joe Brophy 6/15/2009


Fair, blazing hair, prescient green eyes: Celtic matriarch, mammy in disguise with insecurity and guile to muse our journey, nurturing on trial.

Remember your gaeltalk with me of your descendancy from Erin's Kings and Queens, and leprechauns and things of fantasy, to be, or not to be?

You suckled me. You challenged me To be all we can be, assertively. descendant of nobility! Celtic genome and peasant fantasy.

Remember when your mother died and why you cried? You cut the bosom tie, to venture far away from Sligo Bay to build the castle in your eye.

Our castles, knights and moats and flight apart: a prison rampart in our heart for each to hide our pride and fright. To cry inside, and dare to share our hurt,

And cares and fears and tears and years For naught. Intellection and perfection of affection clot the eye connection. Umbilical knot and soul scars.

You know, as Celts, our loves and wars are boldly spoken through the bard who guards our sentiment with strings and things of merriment in songs of gladness, flings

And sadness, - in naked splendor without surrender of guarded treasure, unspoken pleasure of the womb. The tomb, til we loose the knot, bear the bloom

Of affirmation. I love thee. Doest thou love me?

Joseph T. Brophy

Dedicated to his Mother Mary Kate Mitchell, Cloughboley, Sligo 04/23/91

It Clangs It Bangs It strengthens It tires No one leaves the same They grunt They strain It smells Of rubber, steel, and sweat "Two more! Two more baby!" "Get ya backs locked" It pushes It pulls It's always there And it always waits for you

Michael Montgomery Brophy, age 12, 2004 Anthologies of Creative Communications

I have ignored my sister

even I know it was mean

but she was being a pain and I couldn't help it

I, sorry Allison you pain

Kate Brophy, age 7 Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans, 1996 edition, ISBN 1-883931-05-3.

Oh Tree How bad you must feel, Your skin Getting peeled for paper, Standing in the cold Blintering winters, Fried In the burning August sun.

Your back is bent, Your hands frail And weak, When you turn old.

Birds Rest on your Sky stretched arms, Not even asking To stop in for a while.

Oh Tree, How bad you must feel.

Michelle Brophy Fish, age 11 May 20, 2006

A-mazing Place! How sweet the ground Where Grader set us free! Once were lost, but now are found, Were blind, but now we see!

O'Samuel-son and Jake"-o-by, Lee Thurow and Fran-co O'Holy econ'-quad-rinity, Been snow'd but now we know!

Senge provided drink for thought/ Feedback our hope's secure! Beer invent'rysnot for naught. As long as we procure!

When the real and nominal converge Inflation shall cease to be. Pendyck economics then emerge Ed'son condom-ium tranquility.

O'Hekimian! How sweet the credits Tha' kept Will'ms in balance! Once were bankers, but now pundits. Accounting and Finance!

A-mazing Gabe! How sweet the sound Of rain drops on our face! Once were naive, but now profound Management Science now in place!

Rochart beckons.'n Breen pleads. Their vision relieves the gloom! I-S the answer t'all our needs Computers in every room!

O'Scott-Morton taught us fear. And Schein our fears relieved. Compelling did each case appear But who should be believed?

Par'dise was lost to us fellows. Vargish explained it all! How Kafka, tortured, peeled yellow Wallpaper from the wall!

So as the extroverts do pale. The introverts shall seize! Van Maanen'n dynamics then prevail. Human Resource theory, a breeze!

Thru many dangers, toils and fright There is much to endure! Steve Star brought us new insight Marketing grace provides the cure.

Yes, when this heart'n mind doth fail And corp'rate life shall cease, A-mazing Taggart shall prevail! Share options, beta, peace!

A-mazing Chaster! How dour the Brit O'God save the colonies!! Holder, Wilmer, Will'ms, Sel'y-Swift Nouveau M-I-T emissaries!

Allons enfants! De la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive! Quand Alain et Philippe ex-patrie Aux M-I-T d'arrive

A-mazing Nippon! How stron the yen That saved and set US free! Max 'n Moto, man'facturing zen Were blind, but soon they'll see!

Deutschland Schwarz and Aussie Jack Nasra of Kuwait-sak. Afrikaan's Tonkin, Roux, Ulrich Trade balance in the Black

OK Jose and Kjell the Swede Dag Norse and Sam-babwe! Lessard verbosity in deed Macro-linguistic agility
O'Kung Fu! The taiwan stout Dijkgraaf, Indja Pryia! God's grace to all the other louts From the U-S-A! O'Brophy Boy! How sweet the sound The bagpipes do call From Sloan School hallowed ground Throughout ole End'cott hall! When we've been gon 10,000 years, There'll be as much o'lifes span For us to sing M-I-T's praise As when we'd first began. So hail to Harvard's A-M-P! And Hail to Sagan too! Hail Irish Ale-house travesty! Hail M-I-T deja-vu! Joe Brophy, and classmates Senior Executive Class LXIV, Fall 1987 Dad Your arms encouraging Us to wish upon a star. You journeyed this mountain belonging to Us, yielding along the way You smelled the flowers with Us and listened to the birds. You looked to the horizon with Us and let our young hearts prevail. You no longer stood in front of Us to pamper every whimper. Instead You stood behind Us-demanding individuality. All that You wanted for Us, was what we wanted for ourselves. Still You magnified love for Us, through the passing of time. Your actions showed Us honesty while Your words taught Us truth. Your quest for life gave Us the desire to achieve as You stood behind and backed Us up. With vision as sharp as an eagle You watched Us bloom from innocence to intelligence. You now stand beside Us, captured by our love for You through the passing of time. You too seldom hear the winds of praise from Us of the pride we cherish in You! Maureen Brophy O’Loughlin Oct 25, 1883. The Dawning Of The DayOne morning early I walked forth By the margin of Lough Leane The sunshine dressed the trees in green And summer bloomed again I left the town and wandered on Through fields all green and gay And whom should I meet but a colleen sweet At the dawning of the day. No cap or cloak this maiden wore Her neck and feet were bare Down to the grass in ringlets fell Her glossy golden hair A milking pail was in her hand She was lovely, young and gay She wore the palm from Venus bright By the dawning of the day. On a mossy bank I sat me down With the maiden by my side With gentle words I courted her And asked her to be my bride She said, "Young man don't bring me blame" And swiftly turned away And the morning light was shining bright At the dawning of the day.

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