OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

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)

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

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

On Wednesday I was given the book ‘American Mother’ by Colm McCann and Diane Foley and the following morning I heard an announcement that Diane Foley would be interviewed on BBC 4 Womans Hour, so I figured in the ways of Divine Providence, that I was meant to pay attention. Diane tells the story of the kidnapping and execution of her son James between 2012 and 2014. Now that I’m paying attention I remember well the image of James kneeling in the desert wearing an orange jumpsuit, the horror of his execution, the manner of it. Brutal. Inhumane. Savage.  It made me very angry at the time and someone said to me then in response to my anger that I would have to share heaven with the men who did this dreadful thing. I don’t believe that heaven is so easily attained. That one could commit such an act and then simply gain heaven. Different if there is a change of heart on their part. Different if there is repentance. But this is not the point here. It’s early days in the book but from wha

When I was a boy, we went to school by bus and, more often than not, I was late, running frantically down Parnell Avenue, desperate not to miss it, fear rising in my throat. I sometimes missed it and would have to walk the two miles and, being very late, I would be punished. Punished with more than words. Nowadays there is no bus for me to catch but still I am running in my head, trying to catch up with responsibilities that have overtaken me, obligations that I cannot keep pace with, so that I am missing deadlines and, far to often, forgetting to do what should have been done. The fear that was in me as a child rises in me every day. As certain as the dawn. Emails, letters, questions to be answered, banks to be dealt with, phone messages not dealt with. And the Church piles on us so many demands that I find overwhelming. Documents. Renovation. Reform. A year for this and a year for that. There’s no let-up and I realize that I can no longer sustain this. There are people who can do

A hoarse groan Echoes in the cave That you have become Death has been mining Digging out the rich Mineral of your life Haunting your emptiness Breaking our closeness Apart Not knowing what Your eyes are trying To say Their pleading And the fear That you want me To leave before it’s time.

May tongues of fire Descend once more And set aflame The cloak of politeness Enwrapping our time The veil of political correctness Entrapping Truth The bland niceness Silencing fury This worldly tolerance That turns away And passes by When God Is left for dead Along the road Beaten With unwanted children Who will never have the right To speak His name The innocent  Citizens of this earth Whose voices  Go unheard May tongues of fire fall The storms of heaven descend To shake away our apathy And transform us into fire