Castletroy Words

 This one has been left offline for a long time after being a contest poem:   The Lights of Bunratty  I remember the lights of Bunratty on winter evenings, home from Limerick town, or winter mornings heading in, when darkness lies heavy and hope comes down. Those lights shine brave against the cold, small beacons steady, bright and bold. In pitch-black dark they stream in colour, past quiet roads and waiting bays, where buses shelter, engines still, and magic gathers in small ways. Cushions, tinsel, warmth and cheer build a wonderland that lives right here— the heart of the village, steady and kind, the heart of Ireland, softly signed. Stand waiting there in bitter air, the lights will hold you, calm your fears. Christmas thoughts come drifting in, to warm the coldest winter years. You think of light, of home, of rest, until the finest light appears at last— the great bus rising through the night, a moving promise, burning bright. This winter Bunratty stands alone, no foo...

 I thought I might put my 'best collection' here as I'm not entering any contests this summer.  Monaleen Church is my all time favourite, followed by Lough Foyle, Show Day and Galtymore.  Monaleen Church I remember from childhood, the rain on the stone and earth of the walls at Castletroy. I remembered—but couldn’t tell you—the feeling: sitting in the day services, looking out at the rain. I remember you. I could read you, though you didn’t know. You meant well. I miss you. I remember Groody and Golf Links, Dublin Road, home . Music, dance, oranges. Dancing Queen . I lived for my music. I was with you when you brought her home— when you brought me home. Answering God’s call without knowing. A companion to dance, to laugh, to love the music. I remember the rain on the walls of Dublin Road, the trees drawing night in early. But most of all— the Easter Vigil at Monaleen Church, the bonfire blazing bravely. May 9th. December 25th. Monaleen Church in full bloom— the flowers, ...

 I'm thinking about roads as I complete my manuscript 'The Road to Shannon'.  I'm thinking about roads today, Roads near and roads far away; The endless road where my life began, By the ash tree in the granite land. And then there's the dark road. That runs in silence through my heart, Where dormant feelings lie asleep. And wait their time to rise and speak. The many roads I've travelled on. Have brought me to this place, this dawn; And still before me, winding on, Are the roads I walk now, one by one. Each day I travel these roads anew And find fresh places, different views; Yet with each mile the journey weaves, The roads take me further from you.

  (North Earl Street Series). It's you I miss most. Sometimes I see someone in the street who looks a little like you, and I feel a pang before I remember they are not you. You belonged to North Earl Street and Dun Laoghaire, the mixture of places, the way I am a mixture too. You fed the birds. You fed the swans. All life mattered to you. You were gentle, laid back, yet always thinking thoughts that seemed to travel somewhere I could not quite follow. You told me stories: about dogs, about people in your life, about things I never expected to hear. You said I didn't go to boarding school because I don't eat as fast as you. You said weak tea gives you fleas. The logic escaped me, but the sentence remains. We would sit in cafés, drinking tea, and I was bewildered the first time you asked me to be Mother, because I wasn't used to it, because nobody had asked before, because somehow it mattered. You liked ethnic food, strange ideas, and conversations that wandered wherever ...

  (North Earl Street Series). You have a style some call creepy... running after people in the street with a little sign that says Jesus . I'm fine with it, though you frighten some people. I know when you'll be there, and I watch you evangelise, then wander over and we talk about the same things we always talk about. It's good to catch up. Around us, Saturday crowds stream past the Spire, people stopping to stare at the Portal... the "idiot crèche," we call it. Dublin hums with Saturday: shoppers, buskers, tourists, and no shortage of preachers. But you always stand out. The others stay in place, preaching, handing out tracts, waiting for someone to listen. You move. With your little sign that says Jesus , and your habit of chasing strangers, you become impossible to ignore. And despite it all... or perhaps because of it... it's always a joy to see you. I look forward to meeting you again soon.

(North Earl Street Series). Before they put that frigging portal there, that was your spot. You would park your Harley, set up your game, and invite people to play. I would sit on the step and watch the world go by. You always had a Werther's Original for me. You believed in Werther's Originals. Not casually. With conviction. You swore by them, and because of you, they became a small kindness I looked forward to. I remember the days after the riots. The protests stretched along O'Connell Street. The lines were drawn. The others stood on one side. We stood on the other. And the Gardaí formed a boundary between us. While everyone else seemed caught up in tension and arguments, you were sitting there chatting away to a young Garda from Monaghan as though you had known him for years. Then you embarrassed me. You told him I had been on television. I wished you hadn't. You were delighted with yourself. The sign had read: "Peace in Dublin. No to violence. Stand together....