I AM (Mud Hut)

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It grew from the earth
Sprouting grass for roof

Sagging soon a lump
Mud hut retiring

In shy apology 

For the way things are
Underdeveloped

I hope you don’t mind

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30 Days

Death With Life Contended (Easter 2024)

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Witness. The word appears a few times in the first reading for Easter Sunday. Here in Hastings, we had the annual ecumenical Procession of Witness – the Way of the Cross – which made its way from St. Clement’s church, up High Street, into our own St. Mary Star of the Sea and then on to All Saints. To be a witness is not simply something we see with our eyes, not only something we give testimony to in our words, but it is most of all something we experience, a reality into which our entire being is immersed, so that we somehow become the reality that we witness. I have mixed feelings about the Procession of Witness. It is always good to walk with Deacon Duncan, to see familiar faces in the crowd and this year to walk for the first time with Father Mat and his family. And I have great admiration for all those who give themselves so generously to the process. But the thing itself embarrasses me and is much too loud for my liking yet, in spite of my dislike, I find myself drawn into
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THAT SACRED WRITING OF GOD (An Experience of Lent)

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  A kind parishioner brought me to visit an elderly lady whom I hadn’t seen for a few years. She was the essence of elegance in the past and retains it now in the present. And in her solitude she lives a strong interior life. I brought her Holy Communion which was a delight for her. She was like the Greeks in the Gospel who said, “we would like to see Jesus!” (John 12) And see Him she does in this Holy Communion, as we all do, with the eyes of faith, the eyes of her soul. Observing her in that sacred moment was inspiring, moving. Having received her dear Lord, she joined her hands, closed her eyes, looking for all the world like the Blessed Virgin Mary. Then she seemed to move deep down into her interior where something special was taking place and, when she eventually opened her eyes she said, “I heard the sound of Angels singing.” Beautiful. It seems to me that Jesus in the Eucharist touched that place in her heart where God had written His Law, His Word. That sacred writing
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Brendan (A leap-year leave-taking)

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I sit beside the grief Of your leap-year Leave-taking Short of words Hoping still that presence Has some meaning Like the bright smile Of your welcome Warmth of your voice The fullness of your greeting As you strode across the Green The unexpected hug Of our last meeting Ceannt Avenue will never Be the same again And the seagulls know it Squawking in the squall That tosses them around The heavy-laden sky All poise useless When the hailstones Tumble down  Upon the mourners  At your grave (2008)
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Unbreak My Heart

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  ‘Unbreak My Heart’ was one of the songs playing on Radio Sussex as I lay flat and still for the best part of two hours - well maybe 90 minutes - as the cardiologist first probed my heart and then proceeded to mend it. My only fear was that he would probe and find nothing wrong as happened twelve years ago in Dublin. He said as much before beginning the procedure – that the blockage he saw in my scan was nothing serious and would probably not require any treatment. And it’s not that I wanted to be unwell; I just wanted a reason to explain why I was feeling so unwell. To find a reason and have it dealt with. My breathlessness has been developing for the past couple of years and came to a dramatic head in the Sahara Desert last year where I was left gasping and panting at a ferocious rate. By last week it was quite stressful. It demanded attention and the NHS gave me a date for the angiogram which took place in Eastbourne last Friday May 28 th .
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Affectation

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Sometimes  I catch myself In a fit Of affectation Uttering High sounding   Inflated Empty-headed words With the pretence Of wisdom in them O Lord forgive The misuse Of the gift Of Your Word
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This Tree (A Morning Prayer)

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Uproot from the soil Of my heart Lord This tree That bears no fruit Deep-rooted Stubborn Taking up Such precious space The bark that holds all My legitimate grievances Be burned in the fire Of Divine Love Purifying furnace Uproot from the soil Of my heart Lord This tree This egocentric self And leave behind A gaping hole That it may become A chalice for Your own Sacred outpouring Wellspring of Mercy Garden of Your Law Fertile field of Word Deepest interior Knowing
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O LORD OF MERCY (Who Am I)

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Who am I? That I should open The door Of the Tabernacle Take You In my hands Place You On the altar Expose You To the gaze Of hungry souls Who am I That I should utter Hollow words Of adoration Praise Gratitude When nothing On this earth Could ever express The Majesty The Mystery Who am I That You should choose To anoint me To be totally Yours And stand in Your place At Your altar To utter the sacred Words of Consecration And somehow bring Your presence to life Your Passion Your Rising Salvation For Your People O Lord of Mercy I am not worthy
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Carmel: Most Beautiful of Women

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It was a warm blustery  Sunday evening o n Hastings pier... Waiting for news of Carmel Waiting for Carmel to leave Not that I wanted her to go I would like her to stay on and on We all would But she had to go It was her time Her time was coming And God was calling And I was five hundred miles Away She is my aunt -in-law But really my aunt In affection Sixty odd years  of it When I was a boy of eight or so She came to Raford from Birmingham Young wife and mother Josie's wife Marian's mother Josie was my uncle Raford is the Carty homestead It became Carmel's home Over the past 36 years It has been hers Since Josie died She came to embody Raford She became Raford For me For my family To the eight-year-old boy She was bright, beautiful and warm Very caring We were down by the big metal gate Closing it And my heel got caught in it I cried more loudly than was necessary And Carmel brought me in, took off my white ankle socks, bathed and bandag
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Be Stretched Beyond

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No speech No word No sound Is found To scream out My displacement In this World The cultural Religious  Personal Estrangement An Eastertide Gethsemane A lostness of soul An intense black cloud Hovering over This sunny afternoon And You would not Allow even a brief respite In the Cloister For which You my Lord Have bid me crave Be brave You say Be stretched Beyond all boundaries Content with the colour Of the moment A simple child At play
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