She looks much like an angel in her white lace hat and dress.
Her patent leather shoes are polished; her beads clutched to her chest.
She almost looks as if asleep, but, sadly, we know better.
Violence shattered an Easter morn; this child may sleep forever.

The tiniest of martyrs, who can tell the reason why
She was murdered by hearts full of hate who determined she should die.
Her little classmates are here too, awaiting the embalmers art.
A little boy in his blue suit; it’s enough to break a parents’ heart.

There first was an explosion, and then began the screams and shouts.
The Terrified parishioners were in a panic to get out.
The dead and dying left behind enveloped in a silent peace.
First responders found them there. They called for doctors and a priest.

The man of sorrows bears his cross; upon his head a crown of thorns.
His naked feet step upon the Stony path that leads to the glory of Easter morn.
His back is marred by ****** stripes; he bears our imperfections.
Remember, Christians, without the cross there can be no Resurrection

Forty Seven hit us hard, we peasants had little to eat.
Famine stalked our Island, even as landlords exported Wheat.
Death was a constant companion then; starvation the usual cause.
Out in the hills the Banshees screamed and the next death might be yours.
Some Auld woman with long silver hair and half out of her mind
Keening aloud for the family she’s lost and the share hold left behind.
The sound of her shrieks would fill hearts with fear.
The sight of her filled us with dread.
For we’d become certain that she was a sign
By nightfall someone would be dead.
For she was no kindly fairy or sprite;
The banshee was nobody’s friend.
The harbinger of death and despair
And many a  journey’s end

La flèche et le toit se sont effondrés,
Mais au moins aucun corps n'est mort.
Le vitrail a fondu de la chaleur
et des œuvres d'art inestimables d'ailleurs.
Notre-Dame est ouverte vers le ciel;
Son tabernacle profané.
Un trésor de la foi de l'homme est parti.
Peut-il être recréé?
Un curé âgé parcourt ses allées
Dont les murs résonnent les prières des hommes.
Il regarde les chœurs nus en ruine
et combat les sentiments de désespoir.
“Nous reconstruirons” pense le Père
comme les pierres chauffées deviennent froides.
«Nous élevons nos cœurs au Seigneur
Qui a payé la rançon pour nos âmes. "

The spire and the roof collapsed,
But at least no body died.
Stained glass melted from the heat
and priceless works of art besides.
Our Lady is open to the sky;
Her tabernacle desecrated.
A treasure of man’s faith is gone.
Can such be recreated?
An aged curate walks her aisles
Whose walls hold echoes of men’s prayers.
He looks upon bare ruined choirs
and fights back feelings of despair.
“We will rebuild” the Father thinks
as the heated stones grow cold.
“We lift our hearts up to the Lord
Who paid the ransom for our souls.”

It was a "rite of passage"
to climb those stairs
in the dark clock tower.
She went there on a dare.

A" photo opportunity"
that many attempted
once their last test was  taken
and their senior year  ended.

A beautiful girl,
a tragic misstep,
a fall from a height,
a bright future wrecked.

She was not suicidal,
she deserves  thoughts and prayers.
She took one wrong step
and the step wasn't there.

She fell into darkness
her Soul unprepared
Doctors labored to save her
but she couldn't be spared.

He flew with Doolittle against Japan
on the eighteenth of April in Forty two.
Eighty brave volunteers made that flight.
but their numbers dwindled down to you.

In postwar reunions these men would meet
And toast the fallen gone before
From silver goblets with their names inscribed,
these heroes of that distant war.

Then, when there were only two,
A vintage bottle was opened at last.
You gave the toast to vanished friends;
The faces and names from your storied past.

Now you, too, have been laid to rest
In old Marse Robert’s hallowed fields.
Once more you hold the bombers yoke
And lift off Hornet’s pitching deck.
You rise toward grey shrouded skies
upon a fearsome enterprise.

The only lottery where I took first prize
was the  one that determined who lived and who died.
I might have been sent to Nam with a gun
had my number come up in Seventy one.
Instead our older brothers all
had their names inscribed upon a wall,
in gold leafed letters, incused in black,
that said they weren't coming back.
I have no tales to offer of battles I won,
That's because I was the fortunate son.