sleep,
What nobler greeting, after life‘s dreary test,
Welcome Jack Kennedy, you gave of your best.
BLACK TUESDAY--SEPT. 11TH---2001.
In future years, the question asked will be, where were you when you heard about the attack on the World Trade Center, New York and the Pentagon, Washington. I was in peaceful lovely Glendalough, Co. Wicklow the one time home of St. Kevin.
In the peace of Glendalough,one time home of St.Kevin,
Whose monks sent melodious strains of chant and music
Across the multi coloured woodlands, intermingling with
Sounds from the nearby glistening lake and rippling stream.
There peace was at its glorious best, as we roamed carelessly
Enjoying the peace and quiet, until suddenly, we saw people
Rushing to their cars, and the noisy sounds of many radios
Floated across the Loch, disturbing the quiet of Kevin’s abode.
The strained voices of visiting Americans will long live in my
Thoughts and memory;
“My God, my God! “ they shouted, ”In New York and Washington”
Their faces were pale and drawn and ashen, eerie looking.
We rushed through the open door of the hotel bar where people
Stood, their faces transfixed on a television, which glared
From the pub corner, people looked as if in an eerie trance,
Disbelief on their pale countenances, perplexed looks ,as if
Trying to make sense of what was happening in their homeland..
It was as if this world of ours stood still, stunned, silent, shocked,
We watched in dismay, as two passenger jets destroyed the beacon
Of American capitalism in the World Trade Center and then
The heart of U.S. military strength, the great Pentagon,
Dumbfounded, we watched in horror as the twin towers]
Tumbled aimlessly like toddlers’ Lego bricks,
Sending rubble crashing in fragments to the ground below.
Human bodies tossing from the windows into a giant tomb of dust.
Gushes of smoke darkened the air, turning the blue sky to dark.
Day turned into night, joy to sorrow, life to death.
Tears fell as we witnessed men and women jumping from the
Towering inferno to certain death, jump rather than die in
Searing heat and black choking smoke, too horrendous to imagine.
Our own kith and kin, Irish Americans, firemen, police, medics
On the threshold of death, yet daring to save others in need.
All heroes, but one shone out in my estimation as the greatest;
Fr. Mychal Judge, born in Brooklyn of Irish parents, chaplain
To the fire service, esteemed, loved, good humoured,
Loyal to the end, anointed his colleagues and then was smothered
in death Giving his life to save others, falling into the arms of his Heavenly
Father, who said; “Well done faithful servant, come to my right hand”
(To day, to the young in our midst, it was horrendous, ,I realized this, when my four year old granddaughter, Sinead, said to her Mum“Mum could this happen in Wicklow and would my sister and I die?”God’s words are as relevant to day as many years ago, we should all heed; “Revenge is mine,” said the Lord, nobody has the right to kill. )
MOORE STREET IN DUBLIN’S FAIR CITY
(Moore Street is a street of stalls,
and lovely friendly old Dublin Ladies.)
A street of bustle and welcome,
Mingling with ecstatic excitement,
Spilling bubbles of jovial wit,
Casual remarks from Dubliners,
Mostly female, chubby, friendly,
Rainbow like in their multicoloured
aprons,
Sleeves above elbows.
Apples, oranges, veg. passed over
makeshift stalls, graced with
a grateful touch of charm.
Weighing, counting, wrapping
All done by women up since dawn,
Their musical dialect echoing
In that street for decades,
City nursery of Behan, Joyce, O’Casey,
Whose flowing genius still drifts
along like ripples
In the maiden river Anna Liffey.
The drama of Moore Street
Makes Dublin a city, superior, witty,
Home of song and ditty,
Moore Street its very core.
A H ME, DEAR L ORD
(In Wicklow, aged 20, just finished training,as a teacher,
but unable to go to a dance, on
What nobler greeting, after life‘s dreary test,
Welcome Jack Kennedy, you gave of your best.
BLACK TUESDAY--SEPT. 11TH---2001.
In future years, the question asked will be, where were you when you heard about the attack on the World Trade Center, New York and the Pentagon, Washington. I was in peaceful lovely Glendalough, Co. Wicklow the one time home of St. Kevin.
In the peace of Glendalough,one time home of St.Kevin,
Whose monks sent melodious strains of chant and music
Across the multi coloured woodlands, intermingling with
Sounds from the nearby glistening lake and rippling stream.
There peace was at its glorious best, as we roamed carelessly
Enjoying the peace and quiet, until suddenly, we saw people
Rushing to their cars, and the noisy sounds of many radios
Floated across the Loch, disturbing the quiet of Kevin’s abode.
The strained voices of visiting Americans will long live in my
Thoughts and memory;
“My God, my God! “ they shouted, ”In New York and Washington”
Their faces were pale and drawn and ashen, eerie looking.
We rushed through the open door of the hotel bar where people
Stood, their faces transfixed on a television, which glared
From the pub corner, people looked as if in an eerie trance,
Disbelief on their pale countenances, perplexed looks ,as if
Trying to make sense of what was happening in their homeland..
It was as if this world of ours stood still, stunned, silent, shocked,
We watched in dismay, as two passenger jets destroyed the beacon
Of American capitalism in the World Trade Center and then
The heart of U.S. military strength, the great Pentagon,
Dumbfounded, we watched in horror as the twin towers]
Tumbled aimlessly like toddlers’ Lego bricks,
Sending rubble crashing in fragments to the ground below.
Human bodies tossing from the windows into a giant tomb of dust.
Gushes of smoke darkened the air, turning the blue sky to dark.
Day turned into night, joy to sorrow, life to death.
Tears fell as we witnessed men and women jumping from the
Towering inferno to certain death, jump rather than die in
Searing heat and black choking smoke, too horrendous to imagine.
Our own kith and kin, Irish Americans, firemen, police, medics
On the threshold of death, yet daring to save others in need.
All heroes, but one shone out in my estimation as the greatest;
Fr. Mychal Judge, born in Brooklyn of Irish parents, chaplain
To the fire service, esteemed, loved, good humoured,
Loyal to the end, anointed his colleagues and then was smothered
in death Giving his life to save others, falling into the arms of his Heavenly
Father, who said; “Well done faithful servant, come to my right hand”
(To day, to the young in our midst, it was horrendous, ,I realized this, when my four year old granddaughter, Sinead, said to her Mum“Mum could this happen in Wicklow and would my sister and I die?”God’s words are as relevant to day as many years ago, we should all heed; “Revenge is mine,” said the Lord, nobody has the right to kill. )
MOORE STREET IN DUBLIN’S FAIR CITY
(Moore Street is a street of stalls,
and lovely friendly old Dublin Ladies.)
A street of bustle and welcome,
Mingling with ecstatic excitement,
Spilling bubbles of jovial wit,
Casual remarks from Dubliners,
Mostly female, chubby, friendly,
Rainbow like in their multicoloured
aprons,
Sleeves above elbows.
Apples, oranges, veg. passed over
makeshift stalls, graced with
a grateful touch of charm.
Weighing, counting, wrapping
All done by women up since dawn,
Their musical dialect echoing
In that street for decades,
City nursery of Behan, Joyce, O’Casey,
Whose flowing genius still drifts
along like ripples
In the maiden river Anna Liffey.
The drama of Moore Street
Makes Dublin a city, superior, witty,
Home of song and ditty,
Moore Street its very core.
A H ME, DEAR L ORD
(In Wicklow, aged 20, just finished training,as a teacher,
but unable to go to a dance, on
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