West wind

 The wind from the West

The wind from the West

Dances and skips

Caresses the waves

On a South Wexford beach. 

September has served us

And how we shall miss her!

October stands knocking

Unsure whether to enter. 

The summer birds leaving

Making space for the sea gulls

Squawking and calling

Above the waves’ chorus.  

The heat is escaping

To far southern shores

Six months now confront us

And perhaps a few more. 

The Winter seems longer

As our years roll before us

As our days pass in numbers

As the hours become shorter. 

The seasons mirror life

Once carefree and vibrant 

Now measured and fretful

Ahead of the Winter. 

His Universe

 His universe

A bedroom in the nursing home

His entire universe

All things physical contained

Within four yellow walls. 

An illness in mid-life

Made him a prisoner

Lying on a bed 

Both kind and cruel. 

Able to think but not to speak

His mind still vibrant

His moods have mellowed

From Buddhist chimes and practices. 

The nursing staff 

From round the world 

Kindly care for him

As if he was their own

Round the clock

They watch and wait

Round the week

They feed and bathe. 

Over the years

Friends disappear

It’s normal

And it’s natural. 

Half an hour 

Once a month

We chat, at least I do,

While he smiles and nods 

It’s a moment of grace,

A gift from the universe

Though mute, communicates

And gives all things perspective. 

He thought his love

 He thought his love

He thought his love for her would die,

Parted for many years

He thought he could move on from her,

Separated by the seas. 

Who says love is not eternal?

That we carry it to the grave?

Only unrequited love can last 

For an unlit candle will remain

In the sanctuary of affection

On the altar of missed chances

Down the aisle of cowardice 

No one to blame but self. 

The delicious pain of self denial

The anesthetic of convenience 

The mixed emotions of the heart

That often break in fragments. 

A mosaic of a thousand pieces

Glistening in the sun of memory

Making sense, not making sense

Moving forward, then behind.  

Our mixed emotions would enslave us

Lead us down a path of peril. 

We shall walk back from the waterfall

That would drown all those who enter. 

When the tempest runs it’s course 

When our breast is in repose

Then, and only then, perhaps

Can we save our battered souls. 

Bishop John Shelby Spong

 Bishop John Selby Spong

Happy to take the road to truth

No matter where truth took him

Sorry to leave the text he loved

Faithful to his mission

To preach a simple Gospel 

Unadorned by centuries

A tale stripped down 

As first heard back in Galilee

Before we added and subtracted

Projected and reconstituted. 

To naked truth it does not matter

What fine clothes are now in fashion. 

Though sadly passed at ninety years

His words and voice ring on and on

A beacon and a light

To those who would believe 

In a God who is believable

To a Spirit running free

In the heart of every man

Beyond a special clique or party. 

He preached a Gospel where the Temple

Was the hut or house 

The hovel or the palace

Called home for every family. 

Soft misty Sunday

 Soft misty Sunday

It’s a soft misty Sunday and the rain

Is as fine as an infants hair

Nature breathes in and breathes out

On the path that leads through the fields

And down to the sea at the end

Where a deserted beach lies waiting 

For walkers and dogs in the morning

A Sunday service for believers

It’s the beauty of nature and its power

Thats heals the sad and the wounded

While all the time the drumming of drops

As they fall on the grasses and flowers. 

Washes the weeds and the brambles

The blackcurrants slowly mature

Turning from bright red to deep black

Food for the birds and the hikers. 

Now the rain’s pouring down

As the weatherman promised

But dry as a duck in a bright plastic mac

The harder it falls, the better I feel. 

The dogs sniff the air, their noses a twitch

For the perfumes released 

From the plants and the flowers 

Now that the shower is over. 

It’s a ‘soft day’ they say in the west

It’s a blessing that’s come in disguise

I’ll wander the laneways of Carne

Feeling happy, contented and blessed. 

Twelve plumes

 Trails in the sky

Twelve plumes scrape the early sky

A dozen airplanes heading south

Sleeping passengers unaware

As they destroy God’s morning canvas

Pristine planet ravaged

But they only seek pleasure. 

It’s six thirty a.m.

The most precious time

Another half hour

Til the sun shows it’s head. 

The sky in the east

Lights up with bright colors

Yellow and blue and red. 

The birds are wading in the low water

As the tide leaves the beach high and dry

While up in the heavens 

The airplanes are crossing 

Heading south for good weather

But they might as well stay 

Twelve plumes have I counted 

Criss crossing the heavens 

It seems such a lot - just after Covid. 

The early flights on their way

To France and to Spain

Sleeping tourists fleeing the rain. 

The sun makes a showing 

Appearing so slowly

Lighting the sky in the East

Exiling the faint colors

That signaled dawn was coming 

Thirty minutes ago. 

The magic recedes

A new day takes over

Commerce will have its pound of flesh

Tourism will eat its own

Easter Island leaves us a message

In exotic sculptures of silent stone. 

She relaxed

 She relaxed

She relaxed in the very moment

He dived into the pool of now 

Submerged in the beauty of time

Hours meant nothing then somehow. 

Surfing on the azure ocean

Stretching to infinity

They floated together carefree 

Embracing the balm of the sea. 

Life was stopped in that second

Of harmony and bliss

Nothing could take away

This day of happiness. 

They walked barefoot on the strand

The autumn sun warming their shoulders 

Leaving footprints in the sand

Unseen by any other.  

Waving at the angels.

 Waving at the angels 

Waving at the angels

Dancing with the wind

The giant mills of Carnsore

Maintain a constant whirr. 

At the eastern tip of Ireland

Where the ocean meets the sea

On ancient rocks  which date

Four hundred million years. 

Lighting up the homes

Of Broadway and Kilmore

Saving carbon credits 

With many more in store. 

Don Quijote would be proud

Of mills that throw their shadows

On pleasant lands that meet the sky

Reminiscent of La Mancha. 

Tacumshane will be Toledo

If only for a day

Its ancient mill restored

Where  once the Normans stayed. 

The little lights atop the turbines

Shining through the night

A guide to our survival 

By getting Paris right. 

The Centre cannot hold

 The centre cannot hold 

It seems on days like this

The centre cannot hold

And the earth will spill 

Into outer space untethered. 

In seems on nights like this

Our senses cannot cope

And we fear emotions

Escaping free without control. 

It is a ragged time

When empires crumble

Blind leaders fail to see

Beneath their stumbling feet. 

All is spinning in a vortex

Gaining speed increasingly

Throwing our solar system

Into decay terminally. 

All seems rotten in a system

Where force overcomes the good,

The brazen over-shout the meek

And truth lies burning on a pyre. 

What to keep us grounded?

Who to give us hope?

No prayers to save us

No God to salve. 

Can we find strength

In each mother’s kiss?

In the everyday kindness

And embrace of strangers?

Carry on we must and carry on we will

Under a blazing sun up Calvary Hill

In hope more than belief

In love more than relief. 

The dogs sleep soundly on my lap

As I tap and scribble relentlessly 

Their gentle snores remind me

The world has seen all this before. 

Credo

 Credo

I believe in good

That lives throughout the universe

I can feel the evil

That follows in its absence. 

In the end all things

Shall live and die and change 

And I salute the miracle

Of the tiny atom. 

I still stand in awe at the sight 

Of the mighty far-flung galaxies

That fill the sky at night. 

There is a spirit in all matter

And there is matter in each spirit. 

There is a mystery

We call consciousness

Which I add without great ceremony

To my growing list of mysteries. 

I feel, therefore I am -

Is the call of every creature. 

To pass throughout this world

Avoiding harm to little things

Dependent on our mercy. 

To see transcendence in the mountains

To fall in love with everything. 

To find the spirit where’re we roam

To see community and a home

For every human being that’s born. 

Blind to nations and to borders

Living free to take no orders

From ancient king or crazy despot. 

Passing simply with light pace

Living lightly leave no trace 

Except the glow we leave behind 

The aura in our absence

Autumn

 Autumn

Autumn came drifting

Like the mist from the sea

With a breath warm and gentle

It slipped under the lintel

To signal to summer

It’s reign was now over. 

For the Celts the New Year

Began with late autumn

When new life was seeded

In fields and in orchards 

Seeds slept through the winter

Bursting forth in the Spring. 

A season of bright ambers, 

A riot of leaves and pink dawns

Til colors slip away

Revealing a naked day 

That’s shorter and cooler 

While evenings come sooner. 

Then the stark thought

This season is short. 

Our lives are a cycle

Like the earth round the sun

But never returning

Time does not rerun. 

So we’ll fill up the larder

With dried fruit and red jams

We’ll drink and we’ll dance

Until morning has come 

We’ll enjoy this autumn

As a very special one. 

Too young to die

 Too young to die

Too young to die ‘though long expected

Beaten down by stroke and heart attacks

A miracle that he lived so long

It must have been his faith so strong. 

In the sunset days that were a bonus

When he escaped the institution

The red bricked Richmond

With more shadows than soft light. 

Where many entered but few escaped

To the tell the tale of best laid plans

That often failed in hospitals

Where God forgot what doctors knew. 

He returned to life a different man

In many ways but still the same faith

In his God and Church

That saw him through. 

He deftly spread the low fat butter

To the very edges of his crisp bread 

His only luxury in a Spartan life 

The daily tale for man and wife. 

His last cheque made out to charity

His last purchase some chocolate

For my sister and then expired

On the floor of the little store. 

He lies in peace at last in a grave

With flowers chosen by his widow

Tended on cold days in January,

Forget-me-nots, always remembered. 

RIP Kevin Andrew Murray 

November 1920 - January 1980

 

 

Tuskar Lighthouse

 Tuskar Lighthouse 

Tuskar Lighthouse shining bright

Flashing warning through the night

Built on rocks far out at sea

Through the night for company. 

When all the world is fast asleep

Snoring softly between clean sheets

When all the world is yours and mine

Til dawn arrives and behind you shines. 

Named ‘great rock’ by the Norse 

You help the sailors keep their course 

Away from reefs that sink the ships

Your name is blessed on sailors lips. 

Fourteen men in eighteen twelve 

Built the lighthouse, gave their lives 

So sailing ships could avoid the grave

That claimed one hundred boats before. 

Above a strong sea rising proud

Standing tall against the waves

And everything the storm can throw 

On winter nights when hope is low. 

But tonight lies still and the sea

Reflects an orange moon serenely. 

The beam that shines for twenty miles 

Lights up my room and helps me while

My peaceful vigil and count the hours 

Til I return the world I borrowed.   

 

Garden Swing

 Sitting on the garden swing

Sitting on the garden swing

Looking out to sea

Now the morning mist has lifted

Revealing sweet infinity. 

Gently rocking in the sun

The gift of August warming

Heart and soul, flesh and bones 

To the hymn of insect song

Sitting gently as I travel

Ten million miles around the sun

Each day a new beginning

In our solar system 

I’m rising then I’m  falling

In a sweet cadence

The sleepy midday heat  

Is softly climbing, soothing. . 

The fields and the meadows 

Fall silent at the noon

As the heat invades and plays

A lazy jazzy tune 

The apples are fast ripening

Their branches bending down

Like nuns in a quiet convent

Their leaves touching the ground 

This corner of fair Ireland

Proclaims a lasting  peace 

Open faces, wide open doors

Neath thatched roofs in Kilmore 

The lobster men sail with skill 

In boats painted red and green

Their bronzed arms hauling

The harvest from the sea. 

Back on my wooden swing 

There’s  a decision to be made 

To finish the grass I started

Or to down a gin and tonic. 

What long lessons

 What long lessons 

What long lessons can we learn 

From a war too long in Afghanistan?

Make curséd war a last resort

Make sweet peace at pace. 

To see the good in Everyman

To understand our brother

To find a common theme

For the enemy is human. 

All wars must end in dialogue

You need only ask the Irish

Skilled in war and drink and song

We’ve learned at last to compromise. 

If we are to make it safely

Into the coming century

We’ll have to learn to live 

In blessed peace and harmony. 

I won’t be round to see it

It’s likely nor will you 

But we owe it to our children

To trace a path anew. 

It can be Jesus, it can be Buddha

Or anyone you choose

To follow on the way

That journey starts today.