Fr. Monaghan

My heart is very sore
Bitter illness in my soul
Bears a heavy burden
Memory
Shifting as I shovel
Garden chores
Muttering to myself
At life's complexities.

Untouched by your
Evil habits
It was strange how
I undertook
To write a story
Prepare a public presentation for
Your anniversary
Trying to find good
To say of all your
Years a pastor
Unknown to us at the time your
Preying
Hiding behind a devotion
To our Lady
Oh, falseness
Oh, double scandal
Finding only reluctant
Help for my task
Your flock fading
Unavailable for comment
To my
Inquiring
I did my job and
Quickly disappeared
Back to my safe distance.

When you were finally
Caught out
So much destruction in your wake
The young girls
Just minions for
Your secrets, their innocence
Sacrificed on the altar
Of your lust
The touch of soft things
Accumulating
Delights decaying
Cutting them off from
The Light with
Pretensions to a good
Reputation which locked
The door on your victims and
The truth.

I do not know
If you in heaven
A place have
Found or do you
Lie in Hell
Whose master you
Chose so long ago
And served so faithfully.

Breviary

Can one sing praise to
A hymn of praise?
Starting small the
Psalter of 150 beads to toll
Into words of the psalms and
The writing of souls who
Faithful mined
The depths.

I speak of the breviary
Whose solace
Through
Sorrow and desolation
One day at a time
I crawl forward
Leaning on these holy words.

Small steps into a
Big universe
Praise for the praise of
Him who began
Taking death out
Putting life in
Exposing the glory
Midst the nails
Joining the voices
Carried always on
The wind.

Perhaps one day my voice
Will lift its tomorrow
Wings to be heard
Beyond these hills.

One February Day

Written February 28, 1978

All there remains now
Is to turn my bones over
To the undertakers
From there all proceeds as normal.
In the olden days my corpse would
Rock and jostle in the wooden cart
Drawn by horses well used to
The cemetery path
The limousines drive this way now
We bounce over ruts
Swerve to avoid potholes
The mourners in the front of this hearse
Chatter loudly
Only the popcorn is missing.

Ah, I hear the sods falling
All motion has ceased
The priest intones the prayers
Handing these bones
To dust.

Over the cemetery
An evening winter sky
Spreads pale in pastel blues and pink
A fresh coat of snow has fallen
As if denying
Spring's coming.
The house lights are twinkling
On the far hillside
Slowly night will be falling
A deep silence settles among these
Tombstones of darkening granite.

Gone the mourners
The noisy limousines
I wait.
Down the tree-lined boulevard
Dripping with melting snow
Tinged with sunset
I see my Maker walking.

Waiting for You to Reply

Written June 1985

Today we have met, you and I
Within the sacredness of His wounded Heart
The miles divide only mortal ways
You in Rome
And I....
The mists hang heavy in this
Mountain vale
The rain a symphony
Sounding against the gray and greens
Canada.

Time weights heavy
Youth is not patient
So I grow old
But...
The cold damp days
Are but watchfires
Burning long into the night.

Ordination

Written in 1990

Standing on Fraser street
In the late afternoon
The drizzle of rain
This Friday, the feast day
Of a Child
Presented according to the law
Both sorrow and greatness
Lie in his future
And we
In the waning light
Of a coastal winter's day
Wait for the bus
To the heart of the city
Pierced by the spires of
The Archbishop's cathedral
Standing guard
Midst the towering buildings
Above the drone of the traffic
And the sea of people
Swirling through the streets.

Yesterday we arrived
A day's journey by car
Down from the mountains
The road
Snow covered and treacherous
With predictions of
Unusual storms ahead.
All this we endure
To take a privileged place
At the ordination of
Our bishop.

Standing on Fraser street
Nervous with anticipation
The moment arrives
To descend upon the city
Unfamiliar to me
Unlike my companions
Who called this city home
So many years ago.

We ride with the school children
Past a large cemetery
So quiet in the bustle
And February rain.
The ethnic faces new
I watch them come and go
Each stop the bus
Rocks its passengers
Pressed together
The window wipers
Loud rhythm of
City traffic
Heading home.

How happy I am not to drive
I can still hear
The sickening sound
Metal catching on cement
Unhurt but stuck we were
A cement divider
Hidden under snow, caught us
In the darkness of
Our entry into
Vancouver.
Only kindness moved us again
A good Samaritan
With chain and four wheel drive
Under the supervision
Of flashing red and blue lights
The policeman directs
Traffic
The big white car
So sadly marooned
Slides free.
What portent this?
Speak, I will listen.

In darkness,
Unfamiliar
The traffic too pressing
I make a wrong turn
Exhausted by the travel
And the weather.
We have waited so long
For this occasion
We take our bruises.

As time counts down
We walk the streets
Downtown the places
Whose names are
Familiar
The rain now deluges
Whipped by an ocean wind
Wrapping around the
People that hurry by
I see the city sights
But it is the cathedral
That draws my mind.

The moment arrives
The mood festive
Overflowing
The church fills with people
Anticipation
Flows from the dark street
We step into the
Lighted warmth
That draws us in
The chill falling away
The dampness left behind
We are home
And have always been welcome
Here
With the sculptured saints
Watching down from the heights
Such old friends
Gathered to celebrate
This evening's triumph
Heaven's hand
Has surely been at work.

With the music
The congregation rises
The procession begins
The priests file by
The brotherhood strengthened
By the call of
One of their own.
The bishops in their tall white
Hats, long white robes
Some faces healthy
Others pinched by the warmth
Of orthodoxy.
The archbishop weighed by illness
Leans on the arms of
A young priest
Sweet in his youthfulness
It catches the heart
His painful walk
As joyfully he gives
A son of his church
To shepherd a flock
That wanders on
A mountain pasture
Cut from rocky slopes.

The first glimpse
Our bishop-elect
Eyes cast downwards
Oh, God has delivered
You a burden
How He proves His love
This God of ours.

There is one among
This crowd
He is not pleased to see us
His face a deathly hue
I know too well
A hardened heart
Making us set out
Leaving Egypt in the dust
With straw bricks
And no first born sons.

We listen to the voices
The Archbishop warming
To his task
His voice made strong
By words faithfully spoken
The sheep trust the
Voice
That does not hide the truth.

Lying face down
The ordination begins
The saints are invited
One by one
To witness the Apostolic succession
Carefully nurtured.

The fullness of the priesthood
Henceforth
Ours to cherish
Like his frail mother
Who sits bright-eyed in her
Wheelchair
Her gift to the church
To be repaid soon
As God will call her name
In six weeks hence.

But that is
In future time
Tonight grace floods
The soul that will toil
Where we have toiled
To keep the Faith
That overflows around
These cathedral walls
Washing darkness
Back to the nether world.

Afterward
Standing at a distance
Joy shines in our bishop's eyes
Such waves of love
Surround him
Buoying for the trying
Times ahead
Urged on by Christ
Who will one day
If only in death make
Us friends.

The city streets
Are empty now
I would be afraid to
Be alone
We catch the bus
With the girls off
Evening shift
Their voices becoming
Only a murmur
As we leave the city behind.

Pain

Written May 5, 1977

Oh, pain, you rule my bones, you
Walking down the streets
In search
Of the alleys in my soul
Kicking the tin cans
That trap my loves
Throwing rocks at my face
And lurking behind,
Behind bushes.

Broken glass, rusty nails
Underfoot, overhead, face to face.
Evening comes cold
Brilliant clear night
Rain washed, white fenced
We walk
Straight ahead
Hand in hand
Pain and I.

It's not that we are always
Friends
Our paths have crossed today
More than usual.
Meanwhile
Walking dirt roads
Watching back stairs
Peering hopefully
Into back yards
New garden shoots
Tiny in such evening
Chill.

Bernadette

Privation did not spare
Your early years
Destitute
In poverty's grip
Too slow to learn
Sent to watch the sheep instead
Nature your companion
Prayer your thoughts.

One day when gathering sticks
Your life changed
Mystery's Lady
Bearing the gift of healing to this
Torn world
Gave you Her message
Scorned by the busy
Your steady faith endured
As word quickly spreads
The crowds arrive
Searching for a cure
Or the Mother's touch
Their flow like the holy water's
Not stopping since.

Bernadette
Little servant of
Hope
In a convent your later years
Despised by your superior
Her middle class pretensions
Harsh to your peasant ways
Humbly borne
In your final illness
No healing had been promised
The throes of death
Reveal your Lady and
Tender now is your repose
In silent sweetness
A fallen flower sleeping
Before the altar on high.

Life's Tiny Creeks

One day in spring
A tiny creek
That murmured through
Tree roots
Underneath an old trestle tall
With no trains
Across
Down to a farmer's field
All green and flat
To slip into a larger creek
Disappear beyond the hills
Was set upon by debris
That blocked its cheerful flow
Until pressure unbearable
Released it from the dam
Took out some trestle posts
Spread mud on every
Side
Coming to rest in the farmer's field.

I see the human soul
Not unlike
This small creek
Pressure becoming
Unbearable
Makes us change
The results often messy
Even unto hurt.

Then again
The life of the imagination
Laboring, bent under
Growing tension
Pummeled by intensity
Surrounded on all sides
Suddenly
A new song is born
A painting finished
A novel with its own world
And landscape
Changes forever
Time shifts
Broken to be born again.

The Journey of Friends

Written in 1977

Issuing forth
Colors and trumpets
Marching
From my imagination
Come
Angry thoughts
You want to be the best
Well, you are you know
Always have
So don't take it out on me.

How much is
Bear one another's burdens
A part of the picture
A missing link
A thing unknown
Until afterward
When the price is right?

I am the rocks
You the stream
I give you a foothold
You tumble the stones
My stones soon
Sharp edged no more
Your water
Grown clear as
We flow beyond the sea.

The Case of the Missing Images

Written February 6, 1978

I have chased images all day
Butterflies couldn't be
More elusive.
The Muse I've never met
Didn't bother to show
I thought I heard her sneeze
Somewhere in the kitchen sink.

Oh, images are fine
It's these half-baked
Unformed pieces of my imagination
That get me.
They've been flitting
In my brain for weeks
A side view, new beginnings,
Fragments, jostling together
Then gone, gone
Disappeared no less.

Perhaps they live
In the pit called my mind
And come like bats
From their caves
Swooping under street lights
Only to disappear into the night.

Before Epiphany

Written January 5,1978  with a nod to T.S.Eliot

Restless
Restless
Pacing the rooms, one to the other
No books will be my friend for long
Good heavens. What is it?

I can't eat, too fat already
Can't play my violin, couldn't anyway
The snow's too deep for walking 
My friend's are talked out
And I'm faking this poem.

The main cause of unrest
A theory maybe
The Christmas tree lights are on
But here in my soul
The inn still has no room
The sky is empty of angels
The stable's guests are sleeping and
The shepherds have returned to
Their flocks.

In this quiet night
It's just me and the three kings
Reliving the long, weary road
Following that far off twinkling star
Restless
Restless
Until the journey's end.

Heart

I often wonder at
My heart
Such a crack in the wall
Of my defenses
Always getting caught
Behind enemy lines.

It's like a
Garden
Has its seasons
Endlessly repeated
Gratefully
Where I'm always weeding
Getting sunburned
Toiling endlessly.

If I didn't have a
Heart
I suppose I would
Be dead
And that would
Never do
I would miss the
Flowering times
And the fragrant lilt
On the scented breeze.

Litany of Complaints

Dear Lord
I know you've heard
All this before
Droned into Your ear
Repeated through the ages
Man's infidelity
To Love's gesture
The enemies capturing
Yet again
Your very Spouse and
Bride
Of which You warned so long ago
It's not the enemy at the gate
I fear but
Those within these gates
Disfigured in form
Their willful ways that
Leave us to suffer
In the pews
Lashed with ugly music
The Orc chorus in full swing
Spiced dish of restlessness with
The latest fashion
In heresy.

One with those in prison we
Languish
Beaten and starved
Left to die along
Cruel paths of tortured
Language
Refusing to invoke their
False gods
Please give us patience to
Endure
Until the dawn of grace
Or we take wings
And leave no footprints
To be found.

The Case Against Myself

Written in 1977

I am a prisoner
Chained in fear
I live in a vacuum
Each moment is
A threat
A poisoned dart
Ready to be fatal.

Sometimes the sun
Shines through.
It makes the blackness
Blacker.

And so I went upstairs
Slammed the door
In my own face
This being an
Old friend
Is a damn piece of business.

Look who rebels
Look at the oppression
Flying thick through
The air
Such rebellion
When I'm faced with
What I preach.

Three Small Poems

Written in 1977

MEMORIES
Too dark they come
Too dark to consider
Or love.
Timeless they remain until
On some daylight's wane
Or cloudy sky above
They come trembling,
Slipping into words
I couldn't speak then.


TO ST.CATHERINE OF SIENA
Before my eyes
I watch you work,
Taking the bones
Of human rot
And carefully
Bit by bit
Build a temple
Of pulsing life
Not minding
That its final form
Has yet to be
Completed.

DEVILS
I feel you biding your time
I resent you hovering
Always around
Always around.

Damn my impatience I say
Go ahead, go
But you won't
Until you're ready.

A Child's Belief

When I was young
I firmly believed
Stepping on a spider
Made it rain.
I was convinced
Careful to keep
Such an event at bay
I suppose
Living in a rainy place
Didn't figure in my thoughts
Not relevant at all.

I also knew I must never
Wear green and blue
Together, so said the rhyme
I thought Santa Claus
A grand excitement
And the tooth fairy
Was just great
After all, losing a tooth
Was traumatic and
A reward was to the point.

Alas, I grow old
To lose a tooth
Merely tells of my
Mortal ways and
Spiders in the house are
Gently put outside
But then
It seems at times
We sure could use
The rain.

Padre Pio

There is a friar
Who walks
The roadways
Of my mind
Did step into
Our living room
One dark November eve
From the memoirs
Of one who sought his
Help
Found encouragement
For her brave journey
That settled on an eastern
Shore not far from here.

The barriers of language
Crumbled at their meeting
The rosary he blest
Gave grace to that
Far off shore
Where one spring
I lay upon the warming
Ground and felt comfort
Rise through the earth
To heal my sad, crushed form.

The November he came
In promise to abide with
The presence of his brother
Who bore the burden of the
Banner raising this friar
To the ranks of the saints
Within the week, to be named
Our shepherd sent to
Guide and love
In gift with this friar
God's company to blossom
On the roadways of life
We must travel on.

The Mind

At times
When I would rather be
Asleep in night's rest
My mind awakens
To race about in
Morn's wee hours,
Pursuing poetic images
Starting another day
Before I've shed the last.

And I helpless thus
Left to be
A watch fire in the
Night from
Driftwood bleached by sun
Gathered from the rocks
Lying littered from past storms
And endless waves.

I am the crackle
Of fire
Sending sparks
Into the night sky,
A beacon
From a distant
Shore
The ashes white
In the awakening
Of dawn
Scattered
By the rising
Winds.

I am a watch fire
In the night
Along the solitary
Shore.
They also serve
Who only lie awake.

The Shadow

I shadow you, I am
Hidden in the folds of
Reality,
Framed in a window,
Lurking in shrubbery
I dash into your
Heart
Pitch my tent
And dream of better times
When God
Is not trampled
By this crowd.

I stalk the inner
Workings of your mind
Send bread
And weapons
To house small birds
That flit among
My tangled thoughts.

I am your shadow
Beneath your feet
I send prayers
To bother Heaven
Disturb their peace
Until they hear
The shadow on
Your wall.

Fourteen Years Ago

Written August 13, 1985

Sam Jimmy.

The icy waters
Stole you from your new found home,
They sent you back
To rest, in early spring
Still frozen ground
Yielding to
Mud.

You left a little book
Scribbled thoughts,
A long way from home
Too old for eighteen
But then,
I didn't know you
Or why
Death served its notice.

I was only a face in the corridor
Just another white kid.

An invitation
To make the journey
Distant miles
We, your peers
Stepping into the unknown.

The reserve.
Culture shock.

We are late.
Inside the community hall
Lined with benches
Of silent people,
Their eulogy completed
I find a corner
To hide in.
Your coffin is carefully
Placed in the back of a
Datsun pick-up
That moves slowly, mud swishing
To the tiny church
Unlocked for the occasion.

Inside
The ill-at-ease
The prayers in response
Are barely audible
My voice seems
Too loud
I panic at
Communion for no-one
Moves
And it is I who step
Forward
But only a few
Follow.

Round behind the abandoned
Structure, the school empty
But looming
Its windows no longer beckoning
Or peered through
The snow still lay near the trees
Dried grasses trapped and
The graveyard
Frozen.

Your friends have gathered.

On the outskirts
I stand beside the horses' pasture
The barbed wire
The empty bottles
Lying as they have fallen
As if in homage, at the feet
Of the fence posts.
And the images, like snapshots
Imprinted on my mind
The shutter clinking
Again,
And again.

Back at the church, footsteps
No longer echoing
We clean
To lock it up
It gathers dust and is
A remnant of happier days.

On the back porch
I am startled by
A large statue,
St. Joseph
Old and weathered
Standing alone
On the wooden stair
Watching.
I turn to follow his gaze
Past the trees
Clustered near the church
I can see
Over the meadows
With fences running toward
A tall towering mountain range
Its peaks obscured
By the shroud
Of the day's gray clouds.

In the silence
The rain begins to gently fall
I look at him.
He has been here
On this porch
Waiting
For a long, long time
Sam Jimmy.

Sam Jimmy

I still mourn your death
Sam Jimmy
Sent to a watery grave
Of despair by a man
Who should have
Served your soul
But used his office to
Indulge
The evil in his heart.

Just seventeen we were
I the one with wings
While you stumbled and searched
For a life anew
A better start
A chance for hope.
 Instead  -a reed bruised
Found floating face down
In the river's arms.

Behind the innocence of
The young
Not yet versed in
Evil's mystery,
Your abuser
Hid, masking concern
Hiding his role
Using my happiness to cover
His heavy stone of sin.

I  am the ghost
In the courtroom,
Years later when he
Was run to ground before
The judge, no longer
A mask of a man
A dealer of death.

Perhaps the poem
I once wrote, the facts
Unknown, the visions real
Will be your voice
A haunting song
Down through the
Mists of time.

Inclusive Language

I resent
The dumbing down
Of language.
The messing with
Biblical words,
The conceit that tells me
I do not understand
The meaning of the word
Man.
Stupid am I to know it means a
Creature with a mind,
The word human
Meaning we are from
Humus-that's all,
Compost.

Speak for yourselves,
You wicked nuns,
Who lust over
Priesthood
While you lose
Your souls
And the children who are
Dying.

Speak for yourselves
Patronizing men in pointed hats
Lost in your paperwork
Who do not know
I obey St. Teresa
Who asked of her
Sisters
Be like strong men!

May my words
Be a sword to free our
Language from those
Who would steal it,

Free it always
From the oppression
Of dirt.

Sunday Winter Walk

Written in 1973, my first poem.

Outside my winter mind, a wayfarer's walk
With a hermit and his staff as guide
Up to the mountains clothed in trees and snow
Blessed by a sun's beginning in fairest blue.

My feet the rugged sight of winter felt
My face the cold clutched in its grasp
But my eyes spanned the distance of the day
And my mind was held by the whiteness of the light.

It was not the time to search the heights and depths
Or see the black and shade of things that be.
So silent were the thoughts behind my eyes.

The hermit led our footsteps through the snows
And forest, hope and mysteries yet unseen.
Then time it came to go to lower slopes,
As down we climbed the timeless banks of earth.

The deeps of bank were forest filled with trees
Slowly down we went in time with setting sun
And quiet sat we 'neath a tower of tree
To watch the sun caress the lake farewell.

Last joy of blue and gold they did exchange
Then darkness claimed the luster of the light
But not my thoughts, they still lingered on
A reed, ice-pinned 'tween dark shore rocks and sky.

With this brown reed my life in image sprang
How pinned I too, how caught by winter's ice
If not the guide along the way
To lead me to His home where
Warms the chill of life inside my soul.

Modern Times

Each generation says
But we live in modern times
Now
We have conquered the beast,
Believe no myths,
Even scoff at wisdom,
Patronize the past.

What will the future
Mock us about?
The polluted waters we
Left them to drink.
The GMO's we
Scattered in the wind while
Paving over farmlands.
Our mad scientists
Who marry the fish
With the tomato.
The garbage we pile high,
The poor we send our
Toxic waste to.

Don't get me wrong
I love the internet,
It gives freedom for
My words to cross the sky,
We are the best informed
Generation to become
Deformed.

We are the modern
Myths
With our own brands of
Ignorance.
We swallow earth's
Resources,
We
The curse of
Future
Modern times.

The Beast

Written in 1978, applicable always

Did you see me running?
Rushing blindly
Down a dark endless
Alley.

I figured that running fast
I could elude
This desperate position
But...
Panting and breathless,
Dead in my tracks
I fling my bones down
Like a dog
At the end of its
Chain.

The image reflected
In the mirror so large
Is ugly, lean and dark.
The bloom of life
Left long ago.
Took someone else out
For lunch.

The beast in me
Has surfaced again
No longer the pet of the
House.
A lean hungry cat
That was young long ago
Now locked in a cage
Made of grass.

Musician

Written in 1978 for Bruce Cockburn

There is a photograph
Taken in wintertime
A black and white image
of you,
In a Toronto park
The snowflakes falling
Covering your solitary figure.
You are standing by a bridge
And all around you
Dusk is falling on the city.

Alone among the mountains
Years ago,
A pain in my bones
Sent me walking in the cold
Wintery late afternoon.
Up the mountain
Ice coated
Reservoir gurgling beneath
Dark, sleeping trees.
In the silence
And numbness of my mind
I hear your music
It takes me to your heart
Dissolving the miles.

The summer has turned cold
But here in the concert hall
A crowd has gathered
To hear you sing
Your music embraces this room
Coloring it in subtle tones
Of laughter, pain
Wisdom and tears.
Tears here inside my heart
Fed by the flame of heaven
We have met again.

Ode to a Spring Evening

Written April 1986

The evening
In melancholy begins
Weighing the heart
As we turn our steps
To the street
Walking, the rhythm
That soothes the nerves
Putting the day
To rest.

We cross the town
Winding down to the shore
Beside the river
Where the wind blows lonely
And the solitude
Refreshes.

Then high above the water
We find the park
With newborn flowers
Beckoning us to the paths
They nestle beside,
The woods in twilight
Leading to the aged pagoda
That watches over
The heart of this
Little town.

We pause.
The lights twinkle below
As darkness settles and
The silence spreading
With the mist that rises
From the river
On this cool spring evening.

The grey light lies softly
Catching the raindrops
That still cling to the bushes
Now alive with
Tender green leaves
So brave in the chill
That denies
Spring will come
Once more.

And from my heart
There bursts forth
A love
That does not die
Or diminish
With time's passing
And like this spring
Evening
Slips quietly into its
Creator's care.

Hunger

I am starved
For good preaching.
For words with fiery
Wisdom,
That circle the storms of time
With visions from
The past, reaching into
Future times for us
Standing here on the
Tower. Waiting.

Instead,
This empty monotony
Mind numbing
Tone of defeat, fed by
Laziness
Dished endlessly.

It's a good thing
I have ear plugs and
Sometimes a visiting
Preacher, who like
The saints
With words left
Behind
Speak to my
Hungry soul.
So I do not die
Of starvation.

Easter Vigil

Tonight we must journey
like the Magi warned away
for seven months
now pilgrims to a holy church
far from the cathedral towers
of our town.

What sorry pass
things have come to be
spiritual refugees
to find a place
where silence spills intoxicating
cool like a waterfall
deep in a forest found
where the mind can rise
toward the One
who stooped so quietly to earth
now roams the world in Spirit form
and enters glad into the heart
that will obey His call
fleeing every sorry state
that man creates.

Tonight we must journey
winter lingers though spring is here
this Easter vigil
the rains wash
hiding all mountains
the wind chilled
and no flowers have peered
past the dead leaves of autumn's passing.
We
three in number
drive with wheels our winged hooves
we hasten
to a birth of marvelous kind
Herod may rage on
this new life he cannot kill
we journey to beyond a veil
though there is silence now
around the grave.

We gather outside
the darkness of the empty church
the smoke of sweet smelling wood
curling up into the night
the flames reflect on the faces
gathered round.
The priest begins the ancient prayers
the Easter candle white
as yet unmarked
by the wounds of the Crucified
and another year.

I reflect on the white-haired priest
his Dutch accent
no longer on African soil
the faces black
the distant evening
vibrating with the beat
of the native soul.
He gathered them together
as night would fall he taught them
in persona Christi.

Here in this town
though faces change
and country outlines differ
on this holy night
he holds high the candle
that will bless the new waters
and the two small children
their bed-time long past
awaiting their own passage
across the Red Sea.
And thus it happens
one candle lit becomes another
'till the glow of many
fills the church
and yes, He is risen
the guards left blinded
by a Light
always before unseen.

The bells begin to ring
to greet the Reality unscorned
the mystery guarded
like the tomb
now empty
the Apostles soon to realize
it's not just woman talk
the sermon says.
Humanity
Swallowed by the greatness
of this night
the music rises and falters
echoes of all too human sentiments
the Church
that mysterious pauper made Queen
by Him who rises above
the dictatorship of death
cleanses all clean and shining
even this little mill town
rings forth with Easter joy.

We step into the night
our journey has not ended
the big white car
crosses the inevitable
mountain pass
to a lonely valley
the night now closing in
the fog and driving rain
accent the darkness
that flares up
so resistant and so deep.
It is a lonely road
we pass a semi
creeping down the far side
its red lights cut
the gloom
and only the yellow line
reflected.

Our destination
so small
haunted by the ghosts of mining men
the lure of gold
the veins now spent
the one main street
with the Purple hotel
now painted green
filled to overflowing
with the music of two minstrels
the children of my companions
this sacred night
the evening now in full swing
with one small table empty
the barman kind
busily providing
yes, there is room in this inn
he sees that we are served
before he speeds away.

The raucous local youth
drum the table
in time with the beat
the pool players dance their way
gesturing with loud calls
as the beat quickens or slows
to catch the breath
or the ostrich-feathered sweater
of the waitress who weaves
amongst the patrons
and the drunks
who enter surly
but end up charmed into good humour
and youthful fun.

As the evening draws to an end
the unison clapping
the happy faces
delighting in the singers
sends this bar-room into flight
to soar around the hills
far above the trees
engulfed in clouds
all time has stopped
for the passengers
aboard the only Purple hotel
with wings
so gently rests
in God's mysterious bond
now woven with humanity.

I laugh with the sheer delight of it all
and think of another poet*
in another time
far across the sea
meditating on his country
one Easter eve
as I pick up the tread he wove
the fabric is one weave
in persona Christi.

The evening ends
the crowd
shaking their heads in wonder
at the Grace
that entered in
begin to depart.
Outside the rain has eased
the wee hours of the morning
Christ has returned triumphant from Hades
there the party has just begun
the encore to be played
in fifty days
when He ascends
returning to the Father.

In the quiet
the windshield wipers
the rhythm
headlights illuminating
the lingering snow banks
the stillness of the solitary road
it is the time
when Christ returns to His mother.
In the first light of dawn
He will be in the garden
where Magdalene searches
and I to bed
to dream so sweetly
in the blessings of
this Easter morn.

M. Tremblay 1989
*Karl Wojtyla "Easter Vigil VII"  1966

Spiritual Warfare

Written in 2008

 Here among the dead
The tears still fall,
The battlefield
Strewn bones like
White birches fallen
On a forest floor.
And the wind,
A chill blows cold
Here among the dead
In solitude surrounded
Triumphant singing of darkness's
Discord.

It is the dust
Swept into faces
Bodies covered with
Fallen leaves
Scattered and twisting in
The wind.
Here among the dead
Tears fall.

Visions

Written in 1980

I feel the martyrs blood
Welling through the ground
It's lain beneath
These endless years.
I hear them calling
I envy them: courage
And final rest.

Through the swirling darkness
Black agony on wood
The price of white-hot
Shining souls that love
Beyond the dust
Of this world's life.


O wooden limbs thus crossed
I curl myself beneath Your 
Towering pain
Before all eternity
You paid the price.
Frailty's strength
O be my resting place.

Van Gogh

It is said that Vincent
Painted 900 pictures
In nine years,
Driven by his visions
And the madness that
Consumed him, a victim
For beauty.

He died of sadness,
This artist who painted
The very underpinnings of the world,
The movement of creation
In vivid blues and colors all.

He stopped time
Left it suspended in beauty for
Those of us who
Followed.

Oh, Vincent, on that starry
Night you painted from an
Asylum,
Worn by poverty and illness,
Did God show His
Heart and beckon you
Home, dissolved into
The singing of the night.