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Uploaded January 2016 (3 poems) Click for Readings
Does Money Grow on Trees
'Imagination brought more joys than every room stuffed full with toys.'
"Does money grow on trees" we say!
I guess so think the young today For everywhere one looks one sees Kids coming down with 'consumerese'. Yet all of forty years ago I cannot say that it was so, Especially when on holiday Much less sufficed my kids for play. In Belfast at their grandad's home My eldest daughter (not alone) Was wheeling an old baby pram That was kept there, my darling lamb. A soldier passing on patrol Took pity on the poor wee soul And crying in his beer he said "A thousand blessings on her head". Years later in another land This soldier chanced to hurt his hand, And thus to hospital retired To get the treatment he required. Full trained as physio by then My daughter did to him attend* And chatting as she worked apace Learned he'd served in that other place. My grandad's home is over there And that's most often where we were When holidays would come around - Do you know the road where it is found? I travelled there most every day Our barracks sure were out that way, Such poverty I do declare I never saw till I went there. The kids so little had to please, Ah sure, 'twould make your blood to freeze, If I had kids, I tell you straight, I wouldn't leave to such a fate. Tears welled up in his big blue eyes So deeply did he sympathise, His hand it shook at such a rate 'Twas hard for her to concentrate. My daughter, taken quite aback, Had never witnessed such a lack; Whatever makes you think that way? Was all that she could find to say. Two little girls, my heart is sore, Were playing there outside their door, And all they had between the pair? An aged pram, I do declare. My daughter gave his hand a pat, Please don't distress yourself like that For that was sis and me you see And we were happy as could be. I loved that ancient rambling home With attics I'd delight to roam; Entranced mid old-time trove, I'd spend From morning till the day would end. The pram was just a thing was left, Don't think that we were so bereft; Imagination brought more joys Than every room stuffed full with toys. This poem may be all in fun But I can't be the only one Who thinks that something said in jest Is often wiser than the rest. * A strange but true coincidence |
Remembrance Sunday 1987
This poem, written within a Christian tradition and an Irish setting, aspires to say something universal about violence and our complicity.
"Go in peace" a celebrant
finally would have said, had not ancient divisions and the cold hand of church authority marred the harmony of our ecumenical worship service. We were at a peace conference in the small town of Moy some fifty miles east of Enniskillen where another service was taking place on that Remembrance Sunday. "This is my body broken for you" and the bread would have been broken and passed among us. But for what were the bodies broken that day at the cenotaph when those men of blood perpetrated their plot to dishonour the dead and mutilate the living? For some crucified dream of a united Ireland? For some nurtured sense of injustice done? So many bodies were broken and eleven more dead were added to the myriad names listed on memorial after memorial in the cities, towns and villages of these islands for whom we observed silence in our broken fellowship in Moy - and also for those fallen millions named and unnamed in other lands. "Lord have mercy" "Christ have mercy" Men of blood have mercy! Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. |
The Death Notice
'So long as not back with me'
"Davy, never again
Send me on an errand like that!" In exasperation was spoken To my father by my uncle Matt. Placing insertions in the paper Was a regular task of the trade But my father deemed unusual What the widow had wanted said. My uncle approached her gently To get her to change her mind To 'Gone to a better place' Or something of a similar kind. "Whatever damn place he's gone to Is no concern of mine So long as not back with me, And I wish them joy with the swine." So ladies when choosing a spouse And taking him home to your bed Think would you welcome him still Even after he's dead. |