Planning for death

I'm building barns till the cows come home
I'm feeling poorly but I'll keep building on
I can't bring money to heaven, they say
They could be wrong, I'll save anyway.

I'm too old now to learn how
To set aside the rake and the harrow
Not for me sailing or beer
Making useless money is my cheer.

They could be wrong and to be sure
I'll stitch some pockets in my shroud
I'll stuff some dosh an' pills an' stuff
Surely that way I'll 'ave enough.

Haymen

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!