She was absent from the ceremony,
Her disdain was so intense;
So counter to her idea
Of what humanism meant.

I have sat before the drums,
Breathed in the smudge cloud;
Attended Temple,
Ate at the spiritual maturity for Baha i.
I was anointed with chrism on my ears;
Bestowed all rights and privileges;
I have paid union dues,
And bargained against rank and file.
Etc., etc., etc.,

Each Rite is a Reality Show,
We're given prepared scripts,
To read and make seem possible,
What we know to be implausible.

**** what hinders your goodness

Surely,
You're brave to save yourself from evil

Being brave is our dignity

Being rich is a gift from the heaven,
But being more courageous is our gift to our life to live it
Regardless of in what situation you are!

See the fog;
It darkens everything;

See the evil;
It darkens every good deed!

No harm ever in thinking good of others,
Still we are losers for we don't do so!

Be better in
What you think
Because your strength will increase
In proportion to your positive thinking

Forgetting what loss someone has incurred on you,
Think of love, though a droplet,
And get yourself assured
The day will be yourself
And you will live it to the full

Don't try to change the things as per your needs;
Change your needs to make the most of them and to live better life
For the source of such things is far away from our reach!

"I know an agent, who knows your man, who has a machine to do the job in no time."

… I'll book a flight then

This time,
I’ll sail on a freighter cabin,
Back,
Have a B&B waiting
In a familiar town,
In County Cavan.

I’ll visit with my Uncle,
Drink ***-boiled water
From tea-ringed mugs.
I’ll pour out questions,
Wear an extra layer
To stay the chill,
With my muddy wellies
On his cement floor,
In his soot-walled room,
Behind the  sky-blue, wood rot door;
With the road encroaching,
As never before.
A light dangles from the end of a cord,
The tap is just outside the door,
A four burner propane stove
Provides heat to boil and cook.
The Immaculate Heart
Is missing from where it once was,
In the nook, on the wall.

The thistle encrusted lane
Leads up a hill, from behind,
To a natural well,
Where animals watered and grazed.
Beyond, hedgerows of bramble,
With walls of stone,
Delineate the fields;
Seven in all, they called their own.
But seven can’t stay home.
The youngest,
The unchosen one,
Lives there now on his own.

There' s no cold ash
In the open hearth,
Where generations
Died and birthed.
Despite the depth of the walls,
The rusted roof and lifeless stalls,
The whitewash too
Will bleed to earth,
Onto the tumulus of dirt.

... then, I will book a flight