Rejected Verses 71-80

 71 Poems escape

 

My poems are my children

I love them when they’re born

They’re funny, awkward, foolish

I cuddle each and every one.

 

But once they’ve left for printing

They no longer belong to me

But must cleave fast to the reader

Mine no more, you see.

 

It matters not what I feel or think

They are married to another

They have gone and slipped the nest

God bless them where they wander.

 

These words you read, no longer mine

But yours, the careful reader

Make of them what you wish

Yours to embrace or to squander.

 

 

 

 

72. Wexford, New Year’s Eve 2019

 

The sun sets slowly

Behind the Saltee Isles,

Painting an orange backdrop

To a grey and white sea.

 

The serried waves come crashing

On ancient rocks and stones

Here long before we came

And long beyond we’re gone.

 

It’s New Year’s Eve in Wexford

Hours before the dawn

Of a decade will decide our fate

While climate waves snarl at our gate.

 

 

 

 

 

73. Kevin’s Dining Room Rosary

 

Kevin from Dublin Street Carlow,

Whose prayers were answered mostly

As we knelt on the dining room floor

Where the ‘after’s’ exceeded the rosary.

 

No saint or martyr excluded,

No virgin or hermit ignored

As we prayed for the poor and helpless

The sick and those at death’s door.

 

Our knees grumbled on the ancient carpet

Our backs seized up as we prayed

That this torture would soon be over

And we could watch tv once more.

 

We felt somehow united

With people living abroad,

The Church and all its missionaries

Saying mass on a far hillside.

 

The wide world shrank when we prayed

We never doubted our care

Would be heard far and away

Now and on Judgement Day.

 

 

 

 

 

73. La Quinta December 2019

 

Santa Margarita of la Quinta

Five hundred years of guarding

The pilgrim souls who’re living

Beneath the pale blue skies of mountains.

 

Looking down upon the island

Of la Gomera that stands as sentry

To Tenerife, capped in snow

This clear December morning.

 

One thousand meters brings some comfort

From the dog days by the sea

Here the birds can breathe and sing

A prayer in heaven’s chamber.

 

 

 

 

 

 

74. Tenerife in November

 

If you’re still in love with life, my friend

You’ll embrace with open arms the Spanish sun

That warms the little streets where children play

In shorts in mid-November.

 

While Europe shivers in its overcoat

These children run along a golden beach

Shrieks of laughter fill the weekend air

Young parents smile and old men stare.

 

Life is lived in the fresh outdoors

Music, laughter, shouts and cries

Cut through the midday heat

Winter to another land exiled.

 

 

 

 

75. On the road to Taucho

 

Exquisite joy, so pure, so peaceful

It almost pains in its perfection

Alone and crowded by armies of ants

And plants endowed so freely.

 

No Angelus Bells sound from the convent

Fallen silent decades ago

All that remains of the story

Now lost in the mists of history.

 

The young women who made this their home

Forsaking family and man for the God they loved

Looking down at the sea, a long way below

Looking up at Teide in snow.

 

Looking down to an ocean that sparkles

Reflecting the late autumn sun

Across at the island that’s sister

Displaying its forest crown.

 

The midday’s all a buzz

With flies and bees a humming

Busy, busy in the noontide

No time to lose or squander.

 

 

 

 

76. Prayers

 

Save me from prayers

And from liturgy

Save me from hymns

And well-meaning clergy.

 

Any good God

Worth his salt

Will know our needs

Needs not our call.

 

No need to remind,

Plead, persuade or cajole,

An almighty God

We can’t control.

 

Better to softly breathe

To wonder at God’s marvels

Not in a granite church

But at the end of garden.

 

There is a spirit,

Perceived, but real

Indefinably whispering,

Not ours to steal.

 

It can’t be grasped

Or wrestled earthward

But released so softly 

And floating upwards.

 

Prayer invites the spirit

To cover others gently

Blowing bubbles of goodwill

Delicate, but lasting centuries.

 

 

 

 

77. If only

 

If only

I was thinner,

Fatter, older, younger.

 

If only

I was over there

Not over here.

 

If only,

I didn‘t wake today

Then all this supposing

Wouldn’t matter.

 

But on balance,

It’s better this way

Than any other.

 

 

 

 

78. The little thrush is singing in the tree

 

The little thrush is singing in the tree

In the hedgerow right behind me

He clearly sings above the rest

Proclaiming proudly from his nest

That Spring’s arrived and so it’s time

For nature to burst open once again.

 

The sun is dancing on the apple trees

Whose buds are growing into blossom

The cheeky robin sits on my table

And steals a crumb before I’m able

To deflect him, not that I’d want to.

 

This is heaven where I’ve come to

Appreciate the exquisite delight

Of growing grass beneath my feet

And watching daisies peek their heads. 

Above the green grass that grows lush

In gentle Carne beside the sea.

 

To travel the world only to return

Whence it started many a year

And many a dance ago

With your partner across the floor

And sway to a tune

Learnt long before.

 

 

79. I’ve gone down this road

 

I’ve gone down this road

I don’t know why

I could go back

But I’m just too shy

I’ll wander on a mile

And then another one

And soon the village

Has been left far behind.

 

And so my life meanders on

A chance decision

One sunny afternoon

In the springtime of my life.

To say it’s planned

Is clearly senseless rot

My choice now made

Turn back I’d rather not.

 

What comes along is providence

More than any clever stratagem

The road ahead seems wide

But my little lane is narrow

What comes along is bursting joy

And sometimes soulful sorrow

But always faith

In a better tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

80. Thinking of Jim

 

I’m sitting on the steps

Of the pub we loved so well

The doors now shuttered to the plague

That condemns our lives to hell.

 

Killiney Bay lies sparkling

As clear as it ever did

Where Jim and I would meet

To enjoy some chat and drinking.

 

The Druid’s Chair atop the Hill

On the road that winds to Dalkey

The scene of many a glass and pint

For him the wine for me the porter.

 

Tears of laughter streaming down

Our faces as we clenched our ribs

Days of joy and nights of fun

We gave such bad example.

 

A retreat from life, lived at speed

Always in the fast lane

He drove a Porsche as if to prove

Our days are fewer than they ought to.

 

At last time caught up with him

When we least expected

Forced to come down the gears

After speeding through the years.

 

Unsure and unwilling to say goodbye

As he lay sick in hospital

We felt he’d shimmy and pull through

The Barman hadn’t called time for sure.

 

But here I sit now two years later

With naught to show

Except the memories of a smile

And the echo of his laughter.