Where trees embrace the sky

Where trees embrace the sky

Along his woodland walk

Enjoyed the birdy talk 

Feathered friends on the wing 

Knowing much more than him

'Bout trees 'n things.  

They taught him how to sing

The silent forest chant

Lifting spirits in a dance

A trance of mystical delight

With wordless hymns

And soaring leafy chords

To high infinity

And far beyond. 

Grave words 

Sitting hunkered on the granite surround

Along the grave of mother, father and dear sister

Lives once laughing breathing loving

Now speaking wordless love and memories

Remembering the windhover

How it sailed and soared

Far above souls in a quiet graveyard

Forever still, forever eloquent 

Sail on dear hearts

Deeper into the Milky Way

Further closer deeper

Forever on a maiden day in May. 

Slow down, for feck's sake!

Slow down, you're going to die

Why then make the hours fly

What's the hurry, what's the rush?

You'll  get to die, no need to push. 

Why not saunter? Why not stroll?

Looking forward never round

You'll miss the beauty that is found

Stress and hurry takes its toll. 

Stop a moment, gently linger

Absorb the magic in your finger

The simple things are the best

To see a miracle at rest

The heaven's stooping down to kiss the shore

Where time and eternity conspire 

To weave a seamless cloak

Visible only to those who stop and care. 

You're in the car, he's up your tail

Wave him on for he'll be there

And you enjoy the extra moment

Some day 

Our Ladys Island Sunday Afternoon

Lazy September noon on Our Lady's Lake

The early autumn breeze rinses the rushes

That guard the isle to Our Lady's crown

The Sunday faithful have melted 

And the silence enters again.

 

A shrunken lady with a tiny dog

Walks the pilgrim path in peace. 

The ugly loudspeakers fallen quiet

No need for loud calls to prayer

For it has gently landed on our hearts. 

And still the Sunday breeze makes ripples on the lake

That whisper of summer dreams

And keep away for another day

Cold thoughts of coming winter. 

At this time in our lives days rattle

And whole weeks disappear

We accelerate on the final lap around the island 

awaiting the winter shadow of death 

And holy deliverance. 

   

September morning

The schools have opened 

The anxious children sit in benches 

And still the September sun

Says welcome to a lonely beach

Gone are the shrieks and cries of little ones 

In one small weekend the world turns 

But not the sea or tide. 

Waves Crashing gently on the shore

With dappled sunshine dancing on the eddies

And little birds sing in parting chorus

Ahead of travels south to milder climes 

 

And here I sit in silence 

Pensioned off and welcomed in

To natures treasure

Always here for all our pleasure. 

Jesus and Buddha

Smiling Jesus

If Buddha and Jesus were friends 

They would smile upon meeting

Exchange a man hug greeting

Share a meal as the day ends. 

Rising early next morning

Jesus is praying while Buddha is sitting

Awaiting the dawning

Both in love with mankind

Sharing compassion with healing

Feasting and fasting in turns

Sadly the friendship is cut short

By a death Jesus would want to abort

No pleasure for him in the pain

Or the agony of the cross. 

But happy their deaths do not define 

Their teaching of love and of care

Far outlives the mortal coil they shared. 

So when I think of Jesus at table

Through his broad smile I am able

To see his friend Buddha

And his humanity. 

Though he died on a cross

He lived smiling and most

Of his time was spent laughing with friends

On the winding paths of Galilee. 

So people of God in your chapel

Along with cross put the table

Where Jesus broke bread every evening

Loving the good world that god gave him. 

Many people wrote the Bible

Many people wrote the Bible

Some were busy, some were idle

Caring God managed the odd look in

Though many were obsessed with sin.  

Some were happy, some were sad

A few were sane but most were mad 

It wasn't easy for a God

Who gave men freedom and allowed

The freedom to describe the indescribable. 

He must have smiled and laughed at times

When we described in terms of human 

The infinite and the eternal. 

Some humbly closed their books and prayed

At the awesome world that God

 had made 

While others faked the drawing plans

With silly stories that were man's. 

Why would authors go to trouble 

Describing God in a bubble?

When all that's needed to encounter 

Is sea or sky or solemn mountain ?

The altar boy

The altar boy

The incense filled the morning air 

His long soutane and rebel hair

He gave reply in Latin verse 

His simple soul felt it might burst

With happiness. 

So very young and yet so wise

He sensed an unhurried peace

In the old priest's eyes. 

A life of quiet prayer and contentment 

What more could young men wish 

Following a higher pitch?

Heaven met earth

And time stood still

His young clear eyes 

Beheld eternity. 

White starched surplices

Black shiny shoes

Heads bowed in humble adoration 

Happy in unchanging faith. 

Faith of our fathers

Standing straight in pews

That filled to overflowing 

Faith of our mothers 

Cleaning, sweeping, toiling 

endless, endless cups of tea 

Look, on the stove the water's boiling. 

Not for them the shops of London 

Not for them the break or pause

Martha's sisters fret and spin

Serenely for their faithful cause. 

Insane

Only the insane

Are the truly sane

In this mad savage world 

Of contradictions. 

At the end of a bough

Not knowing how 

A friend saws the branch 

Just imagine our surprise. 

We come tumbling down 

Like a silly old clown 

We couldn't doubt our fate

Just a question of how late 

So it's not if - but when 

This world we borrowed

Comes crashing below. 

Tomorrow's no show. 

We've locked them all up

Lest we half hear the truth

That we're wearing the world thin

As we promise 'just one more spin'. 

Pat Welby from Camus Iochtar

Pat Mairtin Welby

Poor farmer Pat kept his cap
On day and night in rain and bright
He'd push it back when lighting pipe
While chatting in the cottage.

A quiet man, not full of stress
With a wrinkled smile of happiness
He'd puff and play the baccy
At end of day, contented.

Cait the wife and mother
To children now long gone
To far off shores and lands
Her's the voice and life of Camus.

Every day a loaf or two
Cooked in the trusty range
Butter spread churned last week
And cups of tea to beat the band!

Oh simple, spartan, happy days
Protected on the wall
By photos of the pope
The sacred heart and all.

Sundays after mass spent dozing
Half listening to the game
That hissed from ancient radios
But precious all the same.

Now the little feet
Of great grandchildren
Echo on the floor
Resounding out the open door.



Kevin Andrew Murray 1920-1980

Cut down cruelly by a stroke
Though not yet fifty one
He never once complained
But accepted his fate with faith.

Blessed at school with good results
But lacking father, mother
His career never achieved quite
What with good advice it might.

Lily said he'd have made a great priest
A bishop or a cardinal
Without direction fortunately
He duly formed a family.

Stern but fair, he didn't know
What hadn't been shown to him
Losing father just aged four
While mother moved to Britain.

Raised in part by sisters
Who kept an eye on him
But must have worried plenty
As he attacked life in his twenties.

But meeting Lily slowed him down
And having family steadied him
Being a father suited him
How he enjoyed his garden!

With an intellect as wide
As the Barrow in full swell
He read and studied avidly
The 'good' room was his library.

Devoted to his God and church
Learn-ed more than many
So called experts in the cloth
Peerless intellectually.

Devoted to his rosary
On the carpet floor
The evening prayer with trimmings
Always room for more

For one more prayer or cause
An unwell friend or Africa
Nothing too small or far
The gate to the spirit left ajar.

For eight years more
He soldiered bravely on
Things were tough at times
But he rose above them.

Till at last he passed away
On the floor of a grocery store
Buying chocolate as a treat
For my younger sister.

The last cheque he made out
Was to Bunny Carr, a charity
Lily questioned why the wealthy
Didn't pay as much as he
'Lily' he said 'it's simply
The rich, they can't afford as much as me!'

My poetry

My poetry

My poetry is bad I know
But then you haven't read my prose!
With poetry at least
There's little room to wander
It's careful as we go.

Poetry is half there
Between the books and silence
A tension between what's said
And what is left unspoken.

Poetry suggests and sketches
What readers then fill in
Like listening to the radio
It whispers more than conquers.

Free at last to dream and sigh
For days to come or nigh
It's an aural coloring book
It's cultural DIY!

Brevity

Brevity

Every poem should be short
And sweet and memorable
Brevity is what's needed
That's it

Stepping Stones

Stepping stones

A poem is a stepping stone
That brings us cross the river
A poem is a steady rung
That brings us up to heaven.

A poem gives us the time and space
To join up all the silences
Beguiling with soft cadences
Suggesting with mild sentences.

It springs the inner self
It mines the deepest treasure
It scales the peaks and valleys
A constant lifelong pleasure.

Alive today!

It's great to be alive today
It's better than being dead
I say that as a patient
Who's been in and out of beds.

The slender thread that keeps us here
Is extremely thin and tiny
Just one per cent here or there
And you've cashed your chips finally.

When you've woken from induced sleep
You count your toes and blessings
Life never is the same
Nothing can be taken for granted.

You bless the doctor and kiss the nurse
Life is so exciting!
Smells and colors no longer seem
Dull and uninviting.

In memory of Kevin and Lily Murray

Kevin Andrew Murray 1920-1980

Cut down cruelly by a stroke
Though not yet fifty one
He never once complained
But accepted his fate with faith.

Blessed at school with good results
But lacking father, mother
His career never achieved quite
What with good advice it might.

Lily said he'd have made a great priest
A bishop or a cardinal
Without direction fortunately
He duly formed a family.

Stern but fair, he didn't know
What hadn't been shown to him
Losing father just aged four
While mother moved to Britain.

Raised in part by sisters
Who kept an eye on him
But must have worried plenty
As he attacked life in his twenties.

But meeting Lily slowed him down
And having family steadied him
Being a father suited him
How he enjoyed his garden!

With an intellect as wide
As the Barrow in full swell
He read and studied avidly
The 'good' room was his library.

Devoted to his God and church
Learn-ed more than many
So called experts in the cloth
Peerless intellectually.

Devoted to his rosary
On the carpet floor
The evening prayer with trimmings
Always room for more

For one more prayer or cause
An unwell friend or Africa
Nothing too small or far
The gate to the spirit left ajar.

For eight years more
He soldiered bravely on
Things were tough at times
But he rose above them.

Till at last he passed away
On the floor of a grocery store
Buying chocolate as a treat
For my younger sister.

The last cheque he made out
Was to Bunny Carr, a charity
Lily questioned why the wealthy
Didn't pay as much as he
'Lily' he said 'it's simply
The rich, they can't afford as much as me!'


Lily with a 'B' 1919-2014

Lily, Lily, quite contrary
To spell your name with a 'B'
Yes, that's 'B' for Bridget
And the passport man
Is just as confused as me.

Known through your life as Lily
For some strange reason though
Some bills come addressed with the L
And some addressed with the B.

Saving from a school girl
Until you well passed eighty
The prudent virgin in the tale
Like the sailor out at sea
You always trimmed the sail.

Always careful, always frugal
Though generous to a fault
Kind to young and old
Except to yourself of course.

Sitting here in the sunshine
Of my country paradise
How many meals did you forsake
That I might enjoy this place?

How many things did you not buy
To how many things said 'no'
That I might sit in the sunshine
Is it too late to say thanks somehow?

Maybe the secret is sharing
What I've got, what you gave without caring
The bill, the cost or the price  
The only goodness is the giving.

All here because of your saving
That started in Sligo post office
A good seventy years ago
Thanks Bridget, thanks Lily
 We've something special to show!

The nun

There is the quiet courage of the nun
Who makes her troth with God
Forsaking man and men
To be free in virginity.  

To walk the walk not just talk the talk
Within the convent grounds
To scale the doubts that assail the walls
Challenging sanity and loyalty.

No one hears at dead of the night
The silent cries from heart and soul
That yearn for man and child
That every woman knows

Kneeling on cold stone
At the altar of her giving
Can she just picture now
A savior more forgiving?

And yet and yet there is a joy
A compromise with nature
A satisfaction so profound
And sanctity surrounds her.

The returned missionaries.

Let me speak of the few
Though once we thought they were many
Who forsook wife and family
To serve in a faraway territory.

Decades later to return
Health often ravaged and unwell
To an Ireland they can scarcely recall
Which in turn forgets their hell.

Forgets the boyish faces
In photos of black and white
The broad smiles of the sixties
A time of trust and hope.

Yes of course, there were bad 'uns'
As in every walk of life,
But these poor privates didn't make the rules;
They just served in self sacrifice.

Oh Ireland how fast you forgot them,
Honored by thousands abroad
Oh Ireland how slow to remember
How they often shared your load.

Bread eaten is quickly forgotten
By men with  a message to pen
That sell papers and books
Forgetting or choosing to hide
That most coins have another side.

The pale blue skies of Wexford


Oh give me the pale blue skies of Wexford.
The pleasant chill on a sunny spring day
When wisps of white cloud scurry over to France
And all is well in St. Helens Bay.

The air is clear and the ozone cleanses
Body and soul of city stress
Bronzed lobster men head out to sea
Bright fishing boats in blue and green.

A sacred corner, an ancient shore
The ruins stand a millennium old
Saint Vogue looked out in daily prayer
God in his mercy returned his stare.

The dog goes racing to the water
Excited, rushing breaking waves
The birds rise wheeling in an arch
Ahead of flying out to sea.

County of welcomes and the friendly wave
Hardworking and honest as the day is long
What did I do to deserve the good fortune
Of walking the lanes of Carne and Broadway?



God doesn't talk, you know

God doesn't talk, you know
It's only you and I somehow
Who speak to him or her
At times we get an answer.

But the words returning are
The words we framed ourselves
God never speaks
Except through nature and our world.

He never changes, only us
Who switch the channels on the radio
At times we listen well
At times our static dulls our mind.

We find him at the core
He's always there if we only look
He's there in every man
In every plant and being.

Revelation is just the act of finding
What's always there
It's mind bending
He's simply everywhere

But absent where there's hate
Or violent despair
Hope spells his middle name
With love and peace and care

Stepping stones

A poem is a stepping stone
That brings us cross the river
A poem is a steady rung
That brings us up to heaven.

A poem gives us the time and space
To join up all the silences
Beguiling with soft cadences
Suggesting with mild sentences.

It springs the inner self
It mines the deepest treasure
It scales the peaks and valleys
A constant lifelong pleasure.

No longer

No longer

Taking for granted, the air that we breathe
Taking for granted, the simplest of deeds
Now we must pause, for time has run out
Last drinks in the bar, were finished last night.

We envy the old woman, walking with ease
We envy the couple, unaware of this  moment
They saunter along, enjoying shared minutes
They breathe without effort, the simplest of things.

For then the simplest is no longer for sale,
The familiar recedes before our eyes,
While the whole world spins without a care
And heaven weeps a silent tear.

To return

To return

To return to the mother's womb
Through death to pass again
From whence we came
Without fears or tears.

Noli timere - 'do not fear'
Embrace the eternal space
Breathe in the galactic breath
Exhale the distant stars.

Atoms flying through the universe
In mysterious symmetry
Surfing with divine geometry
To be and to about to be.

To believe is to welcome
Sleeping naked in God's light
Embracing time and space
Dissolving in divine delight.

Nada te turbe,
Rest in God's hand
The race is run
From raging sea to dry land

The cycle's come
Full circle and we
Join all of creation
In ecstatic mystery.

Jump or fall
Submerge or rise
One question remains
Vade mecum?

The Norman Way

Walking slowly along the Norman Way, Co. Wexford.

I ambled down the leafy lane
Listening to the songs of birds
And slowed awhile to marvel
At nature's brimming treasures.

Free to all who stopped a mo
To drink the charm and sip the fragrance
Of wild wallflowers in a riot
And bluebells tumbling down old walls
In glorious confusion.

Let the ambience sink in
From  whistles and from cries
Of spring time birdies
Calling from all sides.

The pigeons cooed
And blackbirds shouted
Above the melody
Of thrush and blackbird.

Beside St. Catherine's church
Along the Norman way
Eight centuries lie in ruins
By a well kept cemetery.

Old Wexford secrets peeping out
From garlic and from undergrowth
Ancient stones stand slanted
Like aging sentries in their boxes

We who are still alive salute you
Your stories live on in churches
And through age-old cemeteries,
Witness to a half-forgotten century.




The here and now

The here and now

I love this precious moment
This very special minute
I live this now and present
So priceless and so intimate.

It's only now and near me
A second lasts infinity
It's now and forever
Savored eternally.



I'm happy here

I'm happy here

I'm happy here
To greet one flower at a time
To kiss its petals gently
Embracing it eternally.

Gone are the days
Of restless travel
And times misspent
In noisy stations -

Temples to our fear
Stoking our need to flee
The here and now
For greener hills.

Stationed in a sacred space
Tethered to our spirits home
The infinite in unity
Ecstasy is simplicity.

Fear no more competing colors
Relax your ears from many sounds
Draw closer to the one and only
The trusted and the homely.


Less is more

Less is more

A poem with a single verse
Is all I can remember
For me there's nothing worse
Than stanzas never ending.
A line once learned in school
A constant friend, a lifelong tool.

The poetry that stays with me
Is just a line or three
Enough for me a simple thought
A prize for life once caught.

Keep the flipping poem small
Four neat lines should tell it all
In forty years from now
It's all you can recall.

Why did I mention it all?
Why didn't I stay stum?
Why did I blabber on?
I cannot quite recall!

It's easy tripping a poor man
When already down
He seems the useless loser
But guess who is the clown.

To speak no evil from a pure heart
To wish him well puts you apart
From clever jokes and smirks
In purity true greatness lurks.

How deep does kindness go?

How deep does kindness go?

How deep does kindness go?
Out from his lips, down to his toes?
Or does it end as quick as light?
Does darkness make his soul take flight?

Are we Complex beings, confusing souls
Growing in virtue as age takes its toll?
Or do we become fearful and conniving?
Generosity that dries on the surface of living?

The answer as always
Is not black or white
It varies through ages
But hope leads our fight


How dep

Was she always unobtainable?

Was she always unobtainable?
It ever seemed so.
Always perhaps the wrong time
Or maybe the wrong year
First it's you, then it's her
Never a way to bring it further.

Courageous and timid, you lost her
You should have moved slower and faster
She belongs to another one now
Yet hope springs forever somehow.

Oh! how it might have been
When she entered on your scene
Doubting how she might respond
You ducked and dived on the pond
Whose currents led to safety
And out of danger and love
Safe and foolish above!

Yes! Fortune favors the brave
A coward he cannot save
Nothing to fear but fear
Was it too much to say
I'm head over heels in love?
With you.