A new chapter

  A handwritten note A handwritten note you have to admire The commitment to write and to visit The deep quiet lanes of Wexford.  These missionary souls Seeking to convert And lead us to Jehovah.  The letter in an envelope Sodden by the rain  In a post box shared by four.  Half the words washed off Leaving only references  To the Holy Bible.  I sat down and I prayed For these courageous souls Far from home perhaps.  The sun is shining down As September slithers out  For another eleven months.  The world is turning in a spin  The Galaxy glides fast Through an open space.  They thought of me So I shall think of them  Wherever fate shall bring us. 

  God’s likeness Three thousand years ago They fashioned Gods as Lions Birds of prey and Serpents Theology developed and religion Changed course and made man central A God with human traits and reason This God was mostly peaceful A Father to his flock, trying but unable To explain the mystery of evil.  Evil lurks in every man Across the twinkling universe Black holes devour bright worlds.  Ying and yang in symmetry  Good and evil dance a tango To the music of the Milky Way.  There is more to heaven and earth  Than our poor minds can grasp We fail to catch infinity At the heart of all is mystery That will not fit a simple theory  Only partly explained by theology.  Along with beauty is decay After birth comes death  In a lonely spiral.  Man alone across the heavens Has the skill to laugh and sing Lives spent explaining everything.  For God is wave and particle  Far distant yet intimate  Always present yet far distant. ...

  The Wedding The wedding garlands on each pew  That lead up to the altar Of the Church of the Assumption In Our Lady’s Island, Wexford.  No tell tale sign, no signal If the wedding’s in the past  Or waiting for the nervous couple This September afternoon.  Sitting on the forward bench In front of Mary’s statue All is quiet but for the song Of a noisy thrush in bushes.  Birdsong and the buffeting  Of winds that travel miles Across south Wexford plains Born in the Atlantic.  A silence broken on occasion By a tractor on its way To the golden fields in Carne It’s a day for making hay.  Old men chatter outside the pub Still closed on a weekend morning Swapping tales of lobster fishing As the catching season’s ending.  Beneath her statue a single light A candle bought by a morning pilgrim All is peaceful and serene Stain glass depicts a saintly being.  I look back on my childhood  Grateful for the faith and piety That enriched the y...

  The grey green sea The grey green sea prepares for autumn The summer heat nests beneath the hill It’s a soft moist day past mid September  When day and night are neither longer.  Long grasses dance in gentle breezes The tide below sucks and seizes The browny sand below on beaches As summer takes her yearly leave.  A season now that’s soft and gentle No torrid noonday sun Green grasses coated in a dew That lasts the whole week long.  A smattering of fallen leaves Skip along the path regardless All is good and all is wonderful Peace is harvested by the grateful.  Above all else tall trees  Provide a forest cover For man and beast and birds For youth and older lovers.  Holding hands they walk Grateful for the chance In the second act of life To fan the flames of old romance. 

  Given a month to live Given a month to live At last he decided to give What he had kept and hoarded In a long and miserable life.  Friends at the bar who never had seen Him open his wallet to buy any drink  Now openly marveled at his generosity As every last one lost their sobriety.   Money was sent to missions far away, To causes at home, to widows and orphans No charity too small no request too tall After eighty six years he at last found his call.  Alack and alas the news filtered through  His doctor mistaken, a bit of confusion   His medical files confused with Jim Meek Who died of a sudden only last week.  It turns out he’ll live another ten years Perhaps even longer as his drinking gets stronger  He insists on buying his new friend the doctor Whatever he chooses be it whiskey or porter.

  Her final journey Her final journey all alone From the hospital to the mortuary  No one there to hold her hand That grew pale and cold at dawn She felt the company of her parents Around her casket in the funeral home A short lived home for next day A special mass with lovely singers.  They lowered her casket gently Into her final resting place She could make out the prayers The old priest recited by the grave.  And then the loneliness that comes The first night in the cemetery  Where older souls have with time Accepted their fate for eternity.  But younger souls are restless Acceptance comes much harder When aged barely twenty Her whole life was taken from her.  Little comfort to be told  That someday her friends would share This shady patch in the corner Beneath the elms now grown taller.  Her parents came and changed the flowers Every week for thirty years Until they came at last to join her One winter morning when snow lay deeper.  ...