Poems for All Occasions (5 page)

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.....

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.

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.

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,

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.

(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, 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 friend

“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

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.

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, 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.

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, 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.

(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
?