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
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
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.
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
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.
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 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.
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 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
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.