Fiddling

 Fiddling, fiddling

Fiddling, fiddling while homes burn  

Nero by comparison

Looks busy while we do nothing 

But offer thoughts and useless prayers. 

Why save a world for those

Who do not care nor lift a finger

To help or heal a dying planet

Stewing in their poison? 

Is the world worth saving

And if so for whom?

The unborn child?

The baby gosling?

Should we try to save the world 

For the thoughtless and the thankless?

Or for the weak and innocent 

The sinless and the blameless?

The useless Sunday prophets cry

The end of world is nigh

Where are you now of little faith 

Now that the noon is high?

You are flying on your private jets

Burning up your children’s futures

You’re eating food meant for the kids

And all future generations. 

You are all a waste of space 

Laughing loudly in the face

Of man and God

You whitened sepulchers. 

Find me ten just men 

To save this planet

But it will take more 

Than just ten men. 

In the long run

Weakened nature will dictate 

Who will perish 

And who are cherished. 

So mankind will in part survive

In villages removed from heat

In countries safe from cyclones

In hidden valleys and rampant jungles. 

Down the lane

Down the lane

Down the lane I went strolling

As slow as prudence permitted 

Fearful of breaking into a stride 

Or something resembling exercise. 

Anxious to avoid burning calories

Or achieving anything  worthwhile

My objective today is to blend in 

Without disturbing the poppies. 

For nature is busy as work

With weeds and grasses a blooming

With bees and insects a humming

As June stands aside for July.  

The wind is caressing the lane

The lane that leads down to the sea

To a beach known only to locals

Where waders and seagulls abound.  

Spring and summer combine

To encourage a furious growth

There’s a riot taking place in the hedges

Where everything jostles for space. 

The farmers have done what they needed

Silence reenters the land

Today South Wexford is singing

A warm and beautiful hymn.  

A hymn without words rising higher 

Than Our Lady’s beautiful spire 

Across  from her island and lake

Where pilgrims circle in prayer. 

The sky’s a pale China blue 

The clouds ride high in the heavens 

The soul is tethered and nourished

In the heat of the early summer. 

Marky

 Marky Robinson 

Marky would come then go

Conceal for months then show

Unable to stay for long 

Then unable to keep away. 

Tossed like a cork on the sea of life

Living homeless but with many beds

Painting for his supper

Drawing when needs required. 

Obedient to a higher call

Serving his art above all

Too many works and yet too few

To realize their true value. 

He traveled far and yet

Tethered to his native land

A student of the school of life

A master of the lonely hour. 

Women in shawls, boats and houses

Simple, distinctive and authentic  

Clear and honest lines on the pages

On paper, cardboard and wood. 

A self taught artist who first could see

And then could paint with honesty

Clarity of line and structure 

Usually serene and poetic. 

Mostly huddled Irish peasant women

In front of Connemara cottages

With sailing boats on seas

On cloudy evenings after the storm. 

A vagabond life that none could copy 

A tough old road that few could follow

A life lived in all its seasons

Faithful to his muse when called. 

Born in Belfast, where the road ended, 

He returned back to where it started

Rootless yet tethered, 

Living and dying, leaving a mark. 

Parables

 Parables

We met for coffee after six

To discuss his life and his work

I thanked him for the interview 

It wasn’t easy, now that he’s famous

To grab him for an hour or so

I promised to be succinct and brief

‘Take all the time you like’ 

And seemed to really mean it. 

‘Your parables are a big thing 

With the ordinary people of Ireland 

Your popularity is sky high

Do you think you’ll run for President?’

He gave me a wistful smile

And gave me a pat on the shoulder

‘I’d far prefer to say something 

That lasts beyond the election cycle.’

‘Something that people will remember 

A hundred years from now 

Ideas that resonate and stand

On their logic or not at all. 

Something than all men can agree

No matter their language or custom,’

He was generous with his time

And I offered another coffee

‘Perhaps we deserve a beer’

So willingly I joined him. 

We shared some stories of old

We laughed at all the pettiness

Of the musty passport office. 

Later on we were joined by fans

Who somehow discovered our corner 

We chatted and laughed into the night

As we sought to put everything right. 

When we went to pay for the drinks 

The barman said it was covered 

By the parable teller, the miracle healer

Who slipped out an hour before closing. 

Next morning I gathered my notes

Written on bar mats and napkins 

I hoped my editor would approve 

Of my article for the supplement. 

He asked if my sources were kosher

I laughed and said it was Gospel. 

 

Mid June

 Mid June

We’ve safely arrived unscathed 

To the happiest month of June

With the family still alive 

And vaccinations soon. 

Some folks are straining at the bit

They want it all, they want it now,

Resenting the extra weeks it takes

To keep us safe somehow. 

They want their freedoms right away

They want the clock turned back

Unhappy to be just enjoying

The simple things we lacked. 

A lesson never learned

By folks who won’t be taught

Why suffer all this pain

If all this comes to naught?

Meanwhile on a Wexford beach

The swimmers brave the chills

And children’s voices can be heard

Amid the thrills and spills. 

June has come to rescue us

To lead us from our caves

Where we have spent fourteen months 

A year and many days. 

Rain and heat are making

Flowers bloom and blossom

The gifts of an Irish summer

With four seasons in a morning. 

And when the sun breaks through

The wait’s been worth it and the patience 

For all things come to them 

Who serve beside their station.

Mladic

 Srebenica’s children

Her body hanging from a Tuzla tree

Her orphaned children waken from their slumber

Their father murdered by madman Mladic 

Who claims a second victim in her sorrow. 

Her name Ferida, her husband Suleman

Butchered with eight thousand Muslims 

In a UN safe Haven abandoned to the Serbs

Who butchered men and women for a holy cause. 

Fatima and Damir the lonely orphans 

Of ninety six when Europe turned its back 

On slaughter in its own back yard

Too close for comfort too far from war. 

We looked each night at Sarajevo

Disbelieving this could happen in our time

Under our watch while over TV dinners 

Deadly snipers count their toll. 

We could not exile news to another era

Or claim it happened unbeknownst to us

For murder happened when they went to shops

And did the common tasks of life. 

Her lifeless body hanging sadly

By her belt she fastened slowly 

She kissed her children and left the camp

She saw no future, no history either. 

Edmund Burke said with wisdom 

Two hundred years ago or so

All it takes for bad to prosper

Is for the just to do damn all. 

Pilgrim

 Pilgrim 

If you’re a poor pilgrim

You’ve never arrived -

The journey that starts

On the day of your birth

Will end on the day that you die.  

You cannot retire

When there isn’t a pension

The summit of virtue

Is never achieved

Let’s thank God indeed. 

Living is striving 

Breathing means moving

Walking means sinning

As Jesus admitted

Seven times a day. 

The just man is humble

For the just man will stumble 

On life’s pilgrim paths

No matter how holy

Must walk calmly and. slowly.  

We cannot give up

Like birds over water

We must flap our wings

Til we take our last breath

On the day of our death. 

The front door to heaven

Cannot be stormed 

We must ring on the doorbell 

False prophets selling false keys 

Should sound the alarm. 

For Newman was right

When he wrote of the evening

Of the Lord giving peace 

As he calls to their rest

The humble, the just. 

Time

 Time

He gambled time at the blackjack table

Time and again he braved the odds

That always stacked against him

Yet he could not leave his gambling seat

Afraid he might never be allowed

To be admitted into the room that robbed 

The time and money of all who enter. 

Time he gambled and hours slipped by

As if there was no tomorrow 

For tomorrow never came

When today got stuck in time. 

In looking back he never thought

To bring his vision forward 

And the early promise of his youth

Vanished  on the cushy carpet

Of the dark casino floor.

Time like luck runs out

The Bank turns off the credit

When he needs it most 

And throws him on the street

Where he’s a total stranger 

For he’s not invested

In the people or the things that last. 

His past

 His past 

His past is now a foreign country

Where names and dates dissolve

In the desert of a mind where once

Clear water flowed and camels sported

In the green oasis of his youth. 

He shall not mourn these memories

Like children dying in their prime 

But celebrate the happy times

And marvel at the things achieved

The daily humble miracle. 

The jobs kept down the children reared

The friendships made the life he led

The commitment and the loyalty 

Remembered in the sculptors words

Cut into granite of the galaxy. 

While memories melt and colors-drain

On an easel now a friend of pain

Half memories light the longer nights

A private world that few can share

Where thanks and joy alone remain.