This year is different. We all feel the tension between it and our holiday celebrations. That’s what this spoken word poem is about:Continue reading The night before Christmas 2020 (a spoken word poem)
This poem is inspired by Psalm 146 and by the year 2020:
Do not put your trust in princes
Do not hang your hopes on them
Their power and their prominence
Will soon come to an end
They will promise you security
(They always have a plan)
But if they save the future
It will soon need it again Continue reading Do Not Put Your Trust In Princes (A Poem)
My son had worked for an hour, building a sandcastle on a stone in the middle of a tide pool, complete with a bridge and a small village on the shore. He even gave it a tourist attraction, “The Giant’s Footprint”, which made the village famous, prosperous, and secure.
…but not very.
The tide was rising. We could see it closing in, but we thought we still had time before it got to the village. Irish beaches can be surprising, though – the sand can look level as it stretches on and on, but when the water comes up it follows subtle hills and valleys that the eyes hadn’t recognised. One of these small rises had been protecting my son’s tide pool kingdom without us realising it. When the water came over, it came fast.Continue reading The Tide Came In Faster Than We Expected
The anthem of children in the back seats of cars is echoing in my head: Are we there yet?
Where’s the finish line for this global emergency? How far away is it? When will we be able to see our friends again? How long can we keep the world switched off and still expect it to work properly when we switch it back on?
Are we there yet..?Continue reading Are We There Yet?
When my days here on Earth have come to an end
I want to go out like an Autumn leaf
Not like a flower, that gradually drops
Not like a tree, that inwardly rots
I want to go brighter than ever
As weakness takes hold, let glory shine through
And when strength finally fails, and falls to the ground
Let it fall on the promise of Spring
It’s taking too long. That’s how I know my world is crumbling. The midwife can’t find what she’s looking for. She keeps trying, but every new effort is the ringing of steeple bells tolling a funeral. Not a formal, prepared, eulogised, dressed-in-black funeral. No, this is an impromptu affair, with no time to think, and no black shoes to look at as I stare at the floor. But I can’t just stare at the floor, people are talking to me. I have to concentrate to keep looking at them. I have to focus. It’s not their fault. They’re trying to help. I need to be polite and listen. What about my wife? She must be feeling the same as me. No, she must be feeling worse. After all, Hannah is still inside her. Hannah who we weren’t even sure was a girl (but we knew). Hannah who was a world of new life and dreams. Hannah who we have the little dress waiting for at home in a room right across the hall so we can hear her if she cries…
“Sorry for your troubles”, they said, one by one, to the smiling lady who offered each one of them a cup of tea. But through her smile, her words were desperate: “To lose one son was bad enough, but at least we knew that was an accident…”
The second son was lying in the front room, pale and cold. The coffin was padded, unlike the rocks where he’d been found at the bottom of a cliff. There was no note. No reason. No signs and signals, even after every memory of every person was turned over in the search. There was just this pale face in the front room, this politely smiling mother, and these cups of tea. Continue reading A Hand In The Dark