Friday, June 23, 2017

On this the Feast of the Sacred Heart

It is hard to be brave
Dying of cancer
In a busy ward
Full of noise and
Strange lights.

It is hard to be brave
when deserted by friends
on pathways hidden.
Or scorned by the young
whose vanity tells them
they can change reality
with any whim, just use
and persecute those
who object to

It is hard to be brave
when those beloved
have left this life
and words can only
be silent
for us left behind
to be brave.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Silent Witness

St Thomas once said
there is nothing
on this earth
more to be prized
than true

I am a witness
to your goodness
and the Light
that always shone
through you
Never did my
steps find harm,
always a sure path

There is only sadness
at your kindness
The loss of friendship
is such excruciating pain.
I did not always notice her
paths unwinding
but now I can
see into the clues
that were always there.

Why such poison
to herself and all around,
a heart that closed
and will not open,
snapped shut in
bitterness on barren soil.

I am witness to
your goodness
I remain a silent one
my heart always listening
to hear the echo of
your warm and loving heart
my friend.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

These Stones

Some times
your absence
is a rock slide
leaving me buried,
bruised and bleeding,
crying out
from the sheer pain
But I know
you are free.
The sufferings endured
are memories
bathed in Beauty,
the Light eternal and
You are home.

Alas, I await my turn
to enter that valley,
the one of shadow
leading to the mortal
breath being no more.

May my courage remain
Oh, soldier friend of mine,
Be by my side
Please listen to
these tears from
beneath the falling stones.

Monday, September 26, 2016


Where you are
I would be
Across the divide
I cannot follow, 
I am a victim of time.
Only my heart can
yearn and strain
to walk beside you
once again.

I must rest content
in a heart that
on occasion, falling 
into the emptiness which
ebbs and flows upon the 
silent watch
where love lies buried.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

My Friend

To my spiritual director

I am a book
You wrote
For almost fifty years
The title page
So carefully chosen
After many hours
Suffering and prayer,
Slowly calling me to
Forsake my nets
And follow your footprints
Into time.

I am a book
Of few pages
Yet lovingly tended
Illustrated with your
Crafting hand
Delicate in colours
Sharp in outlines defined.

I am a book
One day may read
To find
Traces of Him
Who called us both
To write a tale
With love for Him
In friendship's
Golden hues.

Sunday, March 13, 2016


The willow shrubs
Speak spring when
Cold and ice recede,
Warm buds dressed
In wooly cotton coats
Brownly grey.

The willow trees
That weep
Draped yellow twigs
Blowing with breezes
And summer locks
Hanging with the harps of exile.

I have become like willows
Weeping before the doors
Death shut strong
And fast.
What key can be fashioned
To unlock the silence?
What window found to
Peer into mystery
The Light beyond this
Painful vale.

Like spring, hope
Dawns against the cold
Bitter wind
Stripping happiness.
My heart finds courage
To bud forth swathed
With warm memory
Goodness, innocence, peace,
A blessed gift this humble life
Willows both grey and gold.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Winter Grace ( rewrite)

The turn of the seasons
Unpredictable at best,
This cold winter wind
With snow in its arms
Descends upon the mountain valley
Bitter, cold, dry snow
Caught in whirlwinds
Swirling among the evergreens,
Swooping along rocky cliffs,
Picking us up like a mother cat her kittens
Moving us quickly against its onslaught,
Reminding our small creature selves
Might is not ours,
In case we hadn't noticed.

Thus winds of grace can grow fierce,
Blowing through our lives,
Turning us upside down
Overwhelmed, often helpless,
The gusts of this Divine author
Leaving all asunder.

But in gentler moods
This Artist lets the early snow
Settle around the landscape,
The time of brown in
All shades and shapes,
The dark blue green waters,
The occasional red bark or
Brilliant yellow,
The lingering sandy grass
Grey green tufts accented,
The last few golden leaves clinging to
The top outlines of bushes and trees,
The Artist's brush must dapple it seems
In many colored strokes.

When at last the white snow
Dominates all forms
Clings to the exposed tree's bark,
Decorates delicate branches
Tiny red berries glowing beneath,
Thus heaven makes all white,
Shining clean and wholesome
The Divine birth in this darkest time of year.