Shame sits squarely inside the house,

Unwilling to move, fixed like the wallpaper,

Which you know needs changing,

But you just stare at it.

XXX

Meanwhile, guilt (for more serious offences) has absconded into the garden.

Never to be seen again.

Trust, an open door for the open heart,

Willing to take all comers based on a willingness to believe,

In them; some value; or just plain love.

xxx

A door with hinges marked welcome,

But marked on the inside,

Open arms or a lighted fire within.

xxx

May mine remain open,

With the hinges rusted over in love.

xxx

The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,

Remains the blankee of all blankees.

Transported to a bigger island,

Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,

Endures above all.

xxx

Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,

Cover me in an Irish liturgy,

Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,

But always present.

Protecting me from the others who abound outside its threads.

xxx

One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,

I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.

Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,

As I appear to have outgrown it,

Merely by a change of school.

xxx

She was gone, like a womb I longed for,

But could not contain me,

A new encounter occurred,

Each day, new people, standards, experiences.

Most of which I did not like.

xxx

With the blankee gone,

Many years followed me,

Drearily passing, with little of note to report.

As I searched for a new one,

And tried to knit a replacement.

xxx

To no avail.

The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,

Remains the blankee of all blankees.

Transported to a bigger island,

Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,

Endures above all.

xxx

Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,

Cover me in an Irish liturgy,

Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,

But always present.

Protecting me from the others who abounds outside its threads.

xxx

One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,

I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.

Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,

As I appear to have outgrown it,

Merely by a change of school.

xxx

She was gone, like a womb I longed for,

But could not contain me,

A new encounter occurred,

Each day, new people, standards, experiences.

Most of which I did not like.

xxx

With the blankee gone,

Many years followed me,

Drearily passing, with little of note to report.

As I searched for a new one,

And tried to knit a replacement.

xxx

To no avail.

Ever present, yet disguised,

The details remain hidden from my initial step into the shallows,

Beguiling a deeper color not visible from the translucent spectacles,

Issued by Mr. Bocock, my science master;

xxxx

And a believing eye.

Today, I don’t have to make the long walk to the farmer’s field,

For today we are here with what is left of our family.

My mother is busy in the kitchen readying the ingredients for the spice cake.

The hallmark of Christmas in rural Ireland. 1943.

xxx

I turned 14 yesterday; soon my part time activities will turnover in a few days from now.

Gone will be forever the school days of Carricarrig,

No longer a need to fill the lock with stones,

Or other pranks to avoid learning.

xxx

Mother’s soft voice comes from the kitchen,

“Fetch some turf Michael” and I know I will be venturing out again,

In the dank cold, to sneak across fields and take what is not ours to fuel the fire.

Mother would never endorse such theft, but neither does she know the turf is not ours.

xxx

After a successful commando raid, the turf is safely home,

Mother kindles the fire in readiness for the baking in the simple oven,

And soon enough, the smell of oriental spices and smoldering sultanas spreads over BallyLoughHane.

A Christmas indeed.

xxx

No other present save that of Baby Jesus needed.

Despite the lit candles, a Church remains unfilled.

An unwillingness to take an interior walk perhaps,

Needs beckoning at the Mall,

A night at the movies.

XXX

All compete for attention.

XXX

Yet, those who think He is not with them are mistaken.

For all steps are noticed,

All pain is recognized,

All love is given.

XXX

Without a pre-paid return envelope.

A Winter’s Day in Southern California

The implements lay in readiness,

Each of an essence perfect for the task.

xxx

Add servanthood and fellowship will ensue.

The Comeliness of Knowledge