Faith is tangible
like mineral or light form,
a quality determined
by the flow of longing
to lift beyond the finite.
To bring down the wealth
of dawn from the mountain,
starlight as it follows the sea,
a magical something
within the spirit
that becomes the flesh
of compassion.




Roscommon Road

Stories housed within the soul

exact in every detail,

the deliberate forgetting

of a mind linked to survival

inoperable in the secret register

where every encounter’s sacred

despite the pain or tragedy;

the look on Bobby’s face telling me

our best friend Brendan’s dead,

my father’s eyes down

who should have borne the weight;

Brendan’s look the night before

his cigarettes in a rolled up sleeve,

a fierceness to his fate

I knew but could not fathom;

two moments of so many years

and more the stories of ancestral past

inherited through the blood

or some marvel of the life force

so who they were and all they suffered

would never be forgotten.

Years ago my father and I

walked upon Roscommon Road

and there we met an old woman

in peasant black and ruddy face

her bright eyes shining as she met

the man who should have been her son.

My father’s eyes were down of course,

he would not bear this weight

so I took it as I had learned to do

and looked into her tear filled face

with all the questions she’d never answer,

happy for the son alive she’d hoped to carry;

one chapter in a secret story,

the library of my soul to guide and witness

his coat and tie and shiny shoes

that kept him from the mud filled yard

where love was lost, one truth abandoned.

I haven’t forgotten to remember Mary

or Roscommon Road, and the place

within her empty womb

where nothing less than life itself

still waited to be born.



Silence of the Statue

Sacred site and ancient temple

point to power

invisible and mysterious,

symbol and reality

not confused by older order.

We extract and concentrate

yet release and balance must follow.

The sand below the sphinx

was once a field of green,

the silence of the statue

a language of its own.

What appeared empty

may now guide us.



Broken like a Branch

Challenged by the old fight

I hear another voice

miles from the road

along the basalt trail

to a creek that breaks

from her open mouth

with the grief of music

the knowledge of moss

and the part of me

broken like a branch

turned into dirt

falling with water

in a long drop

over smooth stone

into a canyon

with the deeper river



Green and Wild

Living a good life shouldn’t be so hard,

just a thought for what is right

despite the dreams and body’s calling,

yet wherever the iron bound imprint

loses control, soul trickles through,

concerned for its own hunger

as if tossed upon the shores of Eden

for the very first time; no books,

no laws, no convention, only stars

with everything green and wild.