The Flower in the Garden

The flower in garden is a new rose.

Now just a bud,

but already showing her color,

and the immense beauty of God’s love on this day.


Here the sun shines in the garden,

as the Water Of Life is poured on the rose,

Breathing affirming new graces,

into an already wondrous being.



all around surround her with love,

nurtured by the soil of generations past,

and those who are to come,

all consistent in one thing alone.

Love prevails.

The Rose

The Rose

Like a story, the rose unfolds.

Soaking up sun and water as it silently,

does it’s only task,

to be beautiful.


When planted its color is hidden from view

only presented as it integrates

its life form with the soil;

Growing the roots which make up home,

and the obedience of growth.


Daily, it waits for God and others to attend to essential needs,

and returns only beauty,

and reassurance all is well in the world.


What if?



What if I had stayed here;

In this little village,

renowned for film crews, tourists,

the window peepers.


This little part of England,

locked in time it seems,

but full of visitors,

the only ones who can afford to come and stay.

So like Disneyworld,

I come to imagine what might have been,

if I had stayed in this little part of England.

In the house with the bedroom over the roadway,

where carriages brought ladies and lords to the ball at the manor house,

now of course a hotel, full of visitors with fat wallets,

And young second wives.


But stop, this is a village after all,

And I could have stayed.

But I am glad I didn’t,

and made my village my friends,

ignoring the trout stream and the postcard in which I now stand.






The Garden

The Garden


If a tree or plant could speak,
what would you say?
You might thank me for planting me with my friends,
or admire me because I look beautiful
if only for a couple of days.
Is it because I renew myself each year
becoming stronger and more wonderful.

Or I can just be,
residing in the larger garden, at one with all who reside.


The Peace of Dawn

Lough Derg Sunrise 2


Nothing can compare to that sunrise of Saint Patrick.

Of the returning sun once thought pagan,

Bringing light to a dark and chilly world.


Without this light and warmth we could not feel His arms around us

reassuring us with another day.


But, today’s light is different;

Of heavenly proportions it contains the peace I seek,

Undiluted and carefully painted on the canvas of my mind

But designed to immerse my soul in love.


A love reflected in the tranquil waters

which only echo light this morning,

undisturbed by the sun’s brothers wind or rain.


Letting our only thought be the reason we are here,

On this island, praying all night

In a Basilica of love.


The reward has come early this morning,

With a glimpse of what is to come.



No Place Like Home

Home is where you make it, many say.
But a home is mainly in the heart,
Even though without a roof it is hard to think such lofty thoughts.

A home is something we recognize immediately.
Even if we cannot explain it to others well,
Not just a place of preserving us from the elements.

But where our heart and minds dwell in harmony.

The Water’s Edge

Sprouting like new growth

The pilgrims rise and fall

Like the seasons,

renewed and broken,

Broken and renewed.

Safely sheltered under the Tree of Life,

Knowing they are created human

And become eternal

As those before and since.

Now, living in a present,

The delights and the pains recede

At the water’s edge

As we all feel God today

In nature and in Spirit.

The Laberinth


Meaningful concentric circles

Lead me to somewhere;

Washing my mind of complex geometry,

Placed into my life by others,

And my own noisemaking machine.


A simple pattern emerges,

Steps taken are with meaning

If not direction.


To follow is to love,

And to love is to know,

Placing my trust in each tentative, circular movement,

Not trying to forecast a destination,

But leaving it in His hands.


I’m OK with Me


Searching for the right one

Is such a distraction,

As in the candy store of childhood there seems to be so many to choose from.


The ancestor me

Where I came from

The struggles of lives long since gone

In far off places

Of which I have no control, but still I appear either strangely annoyed or vehemently proud.

Together make up my DNA


The latest me

Who I want others to think that I am

Strutting around in me fancy new outfit

Whatever that is

Sounding out ‘look at me’ in a visual delight to be celebrated like liturgy

To all my new fans. Thank you for clapping and liking me.


The reflective me

When I noticed I took advantage of others. Despicable me.

Made bad decisions or hurt someone by my actions

My most painful me


The real me

All of them are me.

The good deeds and the bad ones both, like a couple dancing a jig joined and separated, seemingly random but more consistent than we would like to know.

Seeing and noticing loved ones are both made and related, of how God has truly made us all, but, smiling favorably, sprinkled us with Flavoring from His great salt cellar of humor.


Let me give up the search for facts and discoveries

All of which add something and yet confuse me more

And rather look within and without

Not with only eyes and ears

But with agape love of all.

Where the mystery of me begins

And ends in everlasting love.