Sometimes baby seed may be ditched ere the dawn
Or torn apart like a brown hunted fawn,
Manually crushed, or removed with great pain,
Sent back to its God without title or name.
Mothers expecting, your babies to day,
With love in my heart, I beseech you and say,
Treasure the babes in your wombs, while you wait
Just a loan, they’re from God, and His future saints.
Some time ago, I came across the following little poem
and I have no idea who wrote it or where
I originally found it, but I liked it and kept it.....
TAKE TIME TO THINK-
It is the source of power.
Take time to read-
It is the foundation of wisdom.
Take time to play-
It is the secret of staying young.
Take time to be quiet-
It is the opportunity to seek God.
Take time to be aware-
It is the opportunity to help others.
Take time to love and be loved-
It is God’s greatest gift.
Take time to laugh-
It is the music of the soul.
Take time to be friendly-
It is the road to happiness.
Take time to dream-
It is what the future is made of.
Take time to pray-
It is the greatest power on earth.
THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERYTHING.
MY WISH FOR THE HUMAN RACE
As rain from the clouds fall down on the mountains
Then topples in streamlets to rivers and streams,
May the hearts of our people be lively as fountains
Filled with trust in their GOD, true love without fear.
Ask help from OUR LADY, our mother so gentle,
She loves us forever as good mothers do,
In Spring, or in Summer, in Autumn and Winter
Consolation in trouble, always thinking of you.
Through heartbreak and sorrow, joys and good fortune,
Your Angel is standing right by your side,
To lead you to God, your Creator and Father,
No friend in this world could e’er be so loyal.
The Saints up in Heaven, our friends so contented
Were once in this world and know pain, work and strife
Like lawyers in a court room, they’ll speak a word for us
When we stand before God at the end of this life.
The souls of our loved ones, perhaps still some unhappy
May be begging for prayers in Purgatory’s fires,
Let us pray and implore our Heavenly Father
To release them to-day midst the Heavenly choirs.
The Communion of Saints, a group so united
Connected together on Eternity’s list
The SAINTS now in glory, the FAITHFUL on our soil
And the SUFFERING SOULS soon nearing great bliss.
Our lives are fast fading, the pace is increasing,
Before very long we’ll be unheard of, unknown
But up midst the Angels, let’s hope we’re remembered
When God will assure us we’re ONE OF HIS OWN.
Never lose hope or give in to depression,
The joys that await us no eye can conceive
Our own Guardian Angel our strength and assistant
Will help in all crisis, and our essential needs.
POEM OF THANKS TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL
THANK YOU ANGEL GUARDIAN.
Thank you Angel Guardian
You showed me books to read,
Skipping paragraphs you deemed
unnecessary.
Hurrying me,
with calm dignity
Follow your angelic
skilful guidance,
Inspiration from your mind
Far superior to mine,
Knowledge, imparted
with gentle dominance
Calm, serene, yet instructive
Encouraging
a hand, sometimes
too weary to type,
reluctant to strive,
willing, yet human-like,
faltering to stop
Delay this work on Angels.
Gently you urged me on
To rise above tiredness
Triggering great thoughts
Of the unknown world
Where you and the Angel choirs
Kneel in humble adoration
Before a God Who recognises
One low as me as His own.
Thank you Being of Light,
A LADY AND HER DOLL
FEB.1997.)
In a psychiatric ward,
she sat,
Her long, grey hair
falling carelessly,
O’er bent shoulders,
Swaying backwards,
Forward, right and left.
Dribbles, like ripples,
Skipping o’er
Ridged pale lips.
In her arms, she cuddled
A ragged doll, aged and torn,
Its blonde hair
Shaggy from years of
pulling, hugging,
clasping tugging
Against her dwindling breasts.
Breasts, once filled
With maternal milk
Compelled to dry
In her maiden‘s nipples.
Fifty years ago
When her baby daughter
Was taken from her arms,
Arms, which still feel the longing
to hold once again
that soft bundle of long ago,
A rambling mind,
Broken heart
Numbed and tired,
All that‘s left is
a muttering old lady,
A RAGGED DOLL HER ONLY TOY.
SINÉAD’S SEARCH FOR HEAVEN
(aged 4 at the time)
Where is Heaven Nanna?
Is it up there in the sky?
Away up, up in the clouds,
And do people have to fly
To get through its big, big doors?
Who will open them for me,
Then Nanna, who’ll I see?
Will the Angels fly about,
Do they make the tea,
Icing cakes and making buns
With chocolate rolls
For my sister and for me.
Is God big and strong?
And Mary quiet and meek?
Do they mind the children
Who have gone
To join in Heaven’s sleep.
Nanna I feel afraid at times
As Heaven seems so far away,
But I know that God is kind and good
Yes I’ll soon be five you see.
So then I’ll understand
Saoirse is only three.
Sometimes I’m bold
But I promise you I’ll be
A real good girl when I am five
I’ll even climb a tree,
And gaze at clouds
Above my house
Where the angels fly with glee.
Then when I’m very old
I’ll fly and only then
HOLY GOD I’LL SEE.
TWO MEN
Two men, criminals, robbers, they
Hung close by Jesus on Calvary‘s Hill
One on the right, the other on left
Watched evil people His sacred blood spill.
They heard Him say, in a voice sincere,
“Father forgive them, they know not what they do,”
The Heavens were filled with angels in grief
Mere humans jeering the God of Peace,
One of the criminals cruel was he,
Hurled insults at the dying Lord,
“If you are Christ, the son of God,
Save yourself from torture and gall.”
But the other criminal rebuked his f
riend
“Saying you and I deserve our deaths,
But this poor man did nothing at all
Only did for others what He knew was best.”
Turning to Jesus the good thief, spoke;
“Remember me, when you reach your Home,”
Though sore His feet and aching head,
“This day you‘ll join me”, Jesus said.
When we‘re in sin and forlorn our lot,
Let‘s pause and think of the Thief or Paul
Mary Magdalene and Augustine fell,
But arose to sainthood, from dark to dawn.
WHO WAS THE GENTLE STRANGER?
Who was the gentle stranger
In the dark-grey hospital ward?
Who took your hand so tenderly
Whispering hope to you, that morn.
Who was the kind old lady?
Beside you in the bus?
She talked and offered sound advice
Returning love and trust.
Who was the kind and helpful priest?
In the Confessional that day,
Who counseled you and eased your pains
He filled your mind with prayer.
Who owned the hand, that rescued
Three children from a fire?
He risked his life to save them
Then left without Goodbye,
Who gave her last brown penny,
To the hungry on the street?
Then walked three miles that evening,
On two tired worn feet.
Who was the lone Nun on her knees,
Praying there from mor n till night?
For some unknown sinner?
In the throes of death and fright
Who else but saintly wardens
In the guise of human form,
So when a stranger helps you.
It could be your Angel Guardian.
YESTERDAY, TO- DAY, TO-MORROW.
I was raised to believe, and taught
Of a hereafter, called Heaven,
Where troubles and pain would be naught,
A world of peace and blessing.
Children were God’s gifts of love
From the hand of a loving Creator,
A Father fair, just, far above
Our worldly cravings.
To-day, war, strife, disillusionment,
Money, oil and gold, are the treasures
Of a race drowning in selfish confusion
Wealth their ambitious goal.
A world, where babies, still unborn
Are torn through flesh and grit,
From the haven of their womb homes,
Just like clammy hay in a silage pit.
An evil power is on the rampage,
Overpowering weak minds,
Convincing them there is no Heaven.
Loot, rob, murder, the world chimes.
The present is trying to over power the future
But to the wise man, Heaven is quite near
The Creator is as real to-day, as He was yesterday.
And to-morrow will be JUDGE SUPREME.
ON THE PRO CATHEDRAL STEPS.
On the Pro Cathedral steps, he sat
On his worldly possessions
An old torn blanket, papers, rags.
Beneath his eyes, dark half circles,
One eye completely white.
Displaying blindness beneath his dark oily hair.
He looked seventeen Summers
But could be more.
In his outstretched hand, he held
A tattered lid of an old box
I guess he found in the gutter.
The sadness in his one eye
Spread out into my heart.
“Help me, Maam,” he said.
I rooted in my pocket and
Withdrew a two euro Coin
And tossed it into his box
“I’ll pray for you Maam” he said.
The sight of that teenage boy
Will live in my memory
Homeless, depressed, begging
On the Cathedral Steps without
Mother, Father, sister or friend.
Wish now, I had given him more,
But in a hurried moment I saw one of Ireland’s poor.
A KINGDOM BOG
Like a King, he sat in his bog-realm,
Alone on a purple heather throne,
Encircled by plants of every hue;
Fluttering snow white bog cotton,
Flirtatious bees kissing green reeds,
Overhead, birds chirping
Tunes, melodious to human ears.
In his hand, a rusty mug,
Filled to the brim with black tea,
Boiled in a tin canister,
O’er a fire of twigs.
A time worn cap ,sideways edging
On his greying crown of glory,
Shielding his ruddy weathered face
From the birds‘ brown droppings
And the golden rays of a mid-day sun.
His mind fresh and happy now,
Reminiscing about those he once knew
When he walked the streets of
Manchester , London, Luton.
Noisy towns, packed streets,
Nervous tension, tired feet.
The peace of his bog-realm,
Where he could freely yawn
And open his mouth breathing in
Heaven‘s purest air,
Fresh from the mountain,
Home of grazing gentle fawns.
Chat to himself or to Shep,
Who wagged his tale contentedly,
Ready to obey his master‘s
Every beck and call.
From the motorways of England
To a peaceful Kerry bog,
He the Lord of fowl, beast and peat,
Gifts all free and undemanding.
He‘d swing the Slean,
Sample China‘s choicest tea
Undisturbed ecstacyIn his Kerry Kingdom Bog
DREAMS
Dreams, mysteries of the human brain,
During which, symbolically we die
and pass to a world of floating
ecstacy
Or terrific horror, absent of control
Fading, falling, bewildered,
Tapestry of the inner world of a
mind,
Groping to sustain power,
The dark of night
Blessed by the dawn of our waking
hours,
During which we are undoubtedly
more in league with God, our creator,
More receptive and responsive to
His words, orders and direction.
Dreams bearers of greetings and
blessings
From those of our people, who have
passed
To the great unknown world of
spirits.
Dreams, telegrams, forebodings,
Shrouded in mystic mystery,
Visions of the night.
Fantasy of the subscontious mind.
Currents of breath taking mysteries.
YOU OUT THERE….YOU MAY KNOW….
(An appeal for news of missing people)
Silence, sometimes a virtue,
But in this case, causes heartbreak,
Furthering pain and perpetual sorrow.
You out there may know the smallest
thing, that could relieve the ache
of loneliness and loss.
You out there may have the clue
To lead lonely souls back to family-life,
and happiness, or the consolation
of a Christian burial, should loved ones
lie in the pallor of death.
You out there could be a Saviour
To a broken hearted parent, sibling, friend.
Who wants to see a beloved Granny cry?
Or the tears of a wee small boy?
Birthdays,festivals may come and go,
But you out there, should you know,
Could be the healer of anguish,
silent tears, insomnia, pain and woe...
Yes, you out there ,just like me,
We are both apassing here.
Quite soon you and I and all humans
Will face a Judge, who already knows
The secrets of all hearts.
His sentence will be not days, months or years
But for all eternity, ever and ever and ever…..
You out there, come forth now,
It is never too late, no longer wait,
Phone, call, write, ease the plight
Of relatives of each missing girl or boy.
You out there have the choice
Between a clear conscience or cowardly die
Leaving a deluge of painful , mystery,
Too horrible to compromise.
GROWING OLD
Growing old can bring its sorrow,
The Autumn years speed by so fast,
Winter dawning, death to morrow,
True friends all gone in the distant past.
Wrinkles on each brow agrowing,
Keep them there, not in your heart,
It’s mind o’er matter, one should be sowing,
Look around and do your part.
Wipe the tears from another’s face,
Help them in their grief to bear,
The aches and pains each passing day,
Lead us all to our God in prayer.
Everybody is of worth to someone,
The helpless old folk passing by,
May have two eyes that shine with laughter,
Beneath a mop of hair so white.
The child, once termed mentally slower,
On the very first moments of its baby-life,
Is now an adult, gentle, lovable,
Though his brain never deemed bright.
Each one is born with gifts that vary,
Adorned by God of Love on high,
He smiles with love on his many creatures,
All are equal in His divine eyes.
THE TRIP
Tim O’Hara rubbed his brow,
Surprise shone on his face,
So weather beaten from wind and rain,
A bachelor, for many a day.
He took a handkerchief in his hand,
Then called his brother, James,
His sole companion in the house,,
They inherited their father’s place.
Thirty acres of mountainy land,
They had cows and sheep and hens,
With spuds agrowing, to fatten them,
They also kept a pig.
Poems for All Occasions Page 4