Sound of silence

Sound of silence 

Day one

A poem I’ll write in seven days

Day two

A poem I’ll write in seven 

Day three

A poem I’ll write in

Day four

A poem I’ll write

Day five 

A poem I’ll 

Day six

A poem

Day seven

A

Deliciously cool

 Deliciously cool 

A day that’s deliciously cool

Cushioned in the arms of October

A stillness that rules in the hills

As leaves glide down on the path

That leads to Killiney Summit. 

The sun breaks through the tall branches 

The dogs feast on the smells of autumn

The birds are busily chattering

Couples pass hand in hand

Young mothers with buggies and prams

Old men sit pausing on benches

Imbibing the mild midday sun. 

Climbing, we catch a glimpse of sea

A curled leaf floats to my feet

Golden and brown, curled like a cone 

A moment of magic, a soft day to savor 

Grateful for moments so sweet and so  precious

Happy acceptance of what the future may bring. 

Walking towards winter

 We are walking towards winter 

We are walking towards winter

Press ganged in a line

No looking backwards 

Of course we’ll be fine. 

Marching in ranks

Far into November 

As the days turn shorter

And the nights turn colder. 

It’s a necessary path

That leads us to Christmas

And beyond to New Year

That delivers new hope. 

The trees in Killiney are losing

Their leaves and their colors

Now the sun breaks through

As a winter sky shows blue. 

It reminds us that heaven  

Is there in all seasons 

Above our sweet heads, albeit unseen

Never too far, from me or from you.  

The Cathar Creed

 The Cathar Creed 

I am happy to reproduce a text I first discovered ten years ago. The Cathars were persecuted by the Popes because they represented a spiritual challenge to the Church's excesses. Whatever about their theology (I am unconvinced by nearly all theology), their spirituality was centuries ahead of its time and possibly more relevant than ever.

It has no membership, save those who know they belong.
It has no rivals because it is non competitive. 
It has no ambition - it seeks only to serve. 
It knows no boundaries, for nationalisms are unloving. 
It is not of itself because it seeks to enrich all groups and religions. 
It acknowledges all great teachers of all the ages who have shown the truth of love. 
Those who participate, practice the truth of love in all their being.
There is no walk of life or nationality that is a barrier. 
Those who are, know. 
It seeks not to teach, but to be, and by being, enriched. 
It recognizes that the way we are may be the way of those around us because we are that way. 
It recognizes the whole planet as a being of which we are a part. 
It recognizes that the time has come for the supreme transmutation, the ultimate alchemical act of conscious change of the ego in to a voluntary return to the whole. 
It does not proclaim itself with a loud voice, but in the subtle realms of loving. 
It salutes all those in the past who have blazoned the path, but have paid the price. 
It admits no hierarchy or structure, for no one is greater than another. 
Its members shall know each other by their deeds and being, and by their eyes and by no other outward sign, save the fraternal embrace. 
Each one will dedicate their life to the silent loving of their neighbour and environment, and the planet, will carry out their task, however exalted or humble. 
It recognizes the supremacy of the great idea, which may only be accomplished if the human race practices the supremacy of love. 
It has no reward to offer, either here or in the hereafter, save that of the ineffable joy of being and loving. 
Each shall seek to advance the cause of understanding, doing good by stealth and teaching only by example. 
They shall heal their neighbour, their community, our planet and living beings in whatever form they take.
They shall know no fear and feel no shame and their witness shall prevail over all odds. 
It has no secret, no arcanum, no initiation, save that of true understanding of the power of love and that, if we want it to be so, the world will change, but only if we change. 
All who belong, belong; they belong to the Church of Love.

An agnostic hymn

 The man who wasn’t sure

Let’s celebrate the man who wasn’t sure. 

Unprepared to hate another tribe

Unwilling despite the constant calls

To join the team of atheists or believers.  

For he cherished freedom

To suspend all judgement 

And his courage to take no side. 

Unloved perhaps but sure

He wasn’t sure and so no State 

Or Church could pressure him

To nail some colors to a mast

That stood atop the ship

That sailed the waters

Of this precious life. 

Unwilling and unable

To swap one creed for another. 

Happy to lay aside the images

And imperium of a God

Unlikely to exist, impossible to justify. 

Unwilling though to deny the kindness

That he found in the faithful

Inconvenient as it seemed. 

And so he traveled seemingly alone

But in truth one of millions

Who nursed their secret doubts

On both sides of a road 

That should have brought us all

Together. 

Only the good

 Only the good die early 

If only the good die early

Even as the old turn ugly 

Singing the songs they first sung

Back at least half a century. 

What is this mad obsession

With rockstars one foot in the grave?

Are we to dig them up in two decades

And persuade them to sing again?

One time handsome young rebels

Now old men in loose baggy jeans 

Have become what once they sneered 

Surely we can find some new talent?

Every dog should have his day

Then every dog should check out. 

If rock and roll is about rebellion 

Then what is this all about? 

Nostalgia demands a heavy price

Aging rockstars don’t come cheap

Who is dumber, them or us?

Seems like madness, all this fuss. 

There is no fool like an old fool

Few voices sound good at eighty

Let’s clear the stage and turn the pages 

And make a space for newer faces. 

Let’s shrink the stages

And increase the venues

Encourage talent young and fresh

And realize that more makes less. 

So now the Emperor wears blue jeans. 

Sparing verses

 Please spare my verses

Please spare my verses from the books

Lying listless in a library 

Or buried in between the covers

Of an unread bibliography. 

Like tennis courts and pleasure craft

Bought with hope but left unused

Like much stuff that lies adrift

Expired insurance, left to rot. 

No, if there is a word or two

That speaks to your condition

An image or a turn of phrase

That anchors your imagination

Then I’m happy, then I’m glad

That this work is not in vain

Then I rest a man fulfilled 

That a few words still remain. 

Where has 2020 gone?

Where has 2020 gone?

Where has my last year gone?

The year of twenty twenty

Twelve months have disappeared

Erased from sight and vision. 

Looking back it’s gone

Left without a trace 

Left without a memory 

Of something taking place. 

A year that never happened

That slipped from my embrace

With nothing nice to show

Did we live some other place?

Did we spend the year in sleep

In suspended animation?

What ever happened

To the Master’s own creation?

Everyone is owed a year

Right now or sometime later

I’ll take that refund now

Or when the need is greater. 

The last day in September

 The last day in September 

It’s the last day in September 

And the leaves are gently laying

A carpet on Killiney Hill

The evening is quiet and still. 

Natures catches her breath 

The midday rains have cleared

This is the quiet before October

The reflective time of year. 

Yellow, russet and brown

Covering the path in color

The green ferns are changing hue

Changing their skin like me, like you. 

Ancient trees bow down their heads

As in an age old liturgy 

Shaped by the wind, looking for light

The quiet evening gives way to the night. 

The damp earth releases the smells

The odors the dogs can enjoy

Good to be walking , good to be breathing

As September shares her spoils. 

We reach the top round a corner

And down below is the sea

Stretching to Bray and to Wicklow

Beyond the cliffs in Shankill. 

The grey clouds are resting on hillsides

Stretching beyond Dublin down south 

Into the depths of wild Wicklow

An escape for weary town folk. 

A moment of bliss in a year

That has seen its share of the plague 

Pointing to a Winter that’s normal 

A season of joy and good cheer.