Crossing the Threshold

I remember the warm night of your sweet making.
Your mother, irresistible in the glow of the evening sun.
The most precious, most delicate, most beautiful woman,
I had ever held.

A quaint motel in Avalon.
Springsteen sang about the place of his birth.
Bob Seger enveloped us in rhapsodic reassurance about life,
winds and struggles.

Some three weeks later we were back in Ireland,
Some nine months later you were born.
I cut the umbilical cord you know,
Released you from your amniotic lair,
Not that I ever told you so.

We had high hopes for you.
Holy Trinity Primary, Cross and Passion High.
Good at sports,
A young man in his prime.
The teenage years - slightly withdrawn.
Relationships, most likely.
We didn't see it coming.

I cut the cord a second time,
Released you from your years on earth.
A coarse rope,
The stool lay on its side,
Your body, motionless, stiff, straight, rigid.
Your head collapsed hopelessly to one side.
A small trickle of blood stained your shirt.

I laid you down,
A halo of coldness surrounded you.
For a short while we were dead together.
An empty shed, a few bales of hay, a rough concrete floor.

There was no dignity,
No honour,
No poise,
No reason,
No note,
No sense,
Nothing.
No way to end a young life.

I saw a corpse hanging,
I cut down a corpse,
I held a corpse,
I wept over a corpse,
I covered a corpse.
The cold remains of my son.

I told your mother.
She fell apart.
She never recovered.

An old woman now,
Aged beyond her years.
Body buckled,
Spirit shattered,
Mind mangled.

On occasion, she chats with the priests of the parish.
Rarely is anyone welcome in her world.
Sometimes an aproned woman will seek to hold court.
Bake bread,
Bring news,
Offer wisdom.
Only the bread is welcomed.

As for me,
A tired heart.
You are all the hurt I've known,
All the hurt I'll need,
Still sailing a stormy sea,
Still lost in self-mutiny.

Thorns of Love

I knew you,

long before the blunt
blows of life
hammered your heart,
and snuffed out
your spirit.

I loved you,

years before agony's anvil,
red hot with anger,
warped your youth,
and cast your rigid mold
in misery.

I remember,

soft blond hair,
spread on
starched white sheets.
Thighs, itching to intertwine.
Limbs, locked in longing.
Loins, lusting.

I recall,

how love enveloped us.
Sexual springs,
surging through shudders.
Souls,
sick from the sweet nectar of surrender.
Hearts, welded
by the fire of passion.

I died,

when you left.
Lost direction,
found despair.
Buckled,
when a black barren beach
stretched through every dawn.

I learned,

to execute emotion.
Time healed.
You visit.
Often at night.
In shadows deep,
you recite our poem.

"But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face."

I don't forget,

the thorns of love,
or the blood-stained tears
I cried.

And that was thirty years ago.

Child of War

For you my child,
born to besieged city
bathed in blood,

I bow my head.

Breathe deep,
oh, child of war,
my gift to you
this day,

the breath of life.

Draw hope, from
freedom's gasp
inhale,
for I
mere mortal man,

exhale humanity.

I bear no arms
against
the beauty
at my breast;

bask in my benevolence.

I cradle you,
treasured infant.
I, a surrogate,
mother
you;

rest, that I might bring you shelter.

Bring back my youth,
the child
beneath these
battered walls,

and not the prodigy of battle.

For bonded by
a blanket,
soaked and stained,
you and I,

our souls are still the same.

Courage or cowardice,
truth or lies,
wisdom or folly,
life or death;

war distorts.

God speed, my
little one.
I protect you;
glory, grace and virtue,
personified through
child and man.

Today, my precious ragged urchin,
you will live.
Compassion for the child
has conquered all.
The tragedy of life that brought us here,
Pales beneath the guiding
hand of God.

And this my innocent of war is victory.

You live, life lasts, war ends, time moves on.