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.