I don’t know
where it comes from.
It’s not like
a song from a bird,
or a baby from the womb.
It’s less like a bullet
from a gun  
and more like
the constant
breaking and mending
of the heart
as it exhales cold chains
and inhales
the fireworks
on her lips.
I don’t know
where it comes from.
I only know that
it is one of the only things
still worth fighting for.

i peer through this looking glass,
and watch the high tide fill the arigideen river.
quickly, i walk the path, as i try to catch,
the dusk light over the estuary.

its where the gannet perches to find warmth,
i start a fire to do the same.
in this place, by the sea, i find an all-embracing refuge,
and my eyes converge on the beach below.

bitter-vetch flowers line the path where she walks,
its when my eyes lay sight of her,
i feel that this might well be irelands most beautiful wild flower,
and I think to myself...every day is like Sunday when I see her walk by.

Sometimes just the right words come
At just the right time.
Sometimes it takes a little pain
To realise the gain
Sometimes you forget your worth
And the kindness you deserve
Sometimes, as much as it’s your nature to nurture and to fix
You can’t offer light when you’re broken in to bits

Section 25, Lot 1115…Gate of Heaven Cemetery….Hawthorne New York
Number 3 in your program, number 1 in your hearts.

Gramps would tell me all the stories and what a big deal they made when he walked up to bat.
Number 3..3..3, Babe..babe…babe…, Ruth..ruth..ruth!  Followed by the roar of loving fans!

Today Babe, I’m leaving you a Sabretts hotdog & a fifth of Scotch.
I know you’re out there cooling off under a shade tree with a cabbage leaf on your head.

1-2-3 who are rooting for? Well it ain’t those lousy Red Sox's!
It’s the Babe doing the walk up to “Ain’t She Sweet, See her walking down the street."

The cathedral of baseball, the Bronx Zoo,
The House that Ruth built right there at 161st and River.

You just can't beat the person who never gives up!

On the front porch of this Colonial,
Its there I long to be, because,
It could speak to all the memories,
when the blue door was red.

Memories, those that were good and not so good.
My mom’s bleeding hearts, framed the garden entrance,
Joined by legions of Dutch Iris’ and Peonies,
The lot of them, were a happy bunch when the summer rain fell.

The sun room on the 2nd floor was my much loved space.
It was there I tried writing prose and poetry,
And in the winter, the birds would come to the frosted window,
I’d place some popcorn on the window sill and sing them a song to warm their hearts.

The two enormous Maple trees, would reach out with loving arms,
Nurturing birds, squirrels and me in 62….. the day Norma Jean died.
It was there in my room, in the early morning, you could hear the Hudson River Barge blow its horn.
It gave me such a reassurance that everything would be ok.

Thank you for the warmth you bestowed and for the spirit of Dr. Early,
Who would join our family in evening hour, when the fireplace roared.