Do not forget the dead now

Do not forget the dead now for they
get lonely as they travel on thru
living in our hearts they become
the teachers of the black space
the soul flies into the cosmos
we wait on earth for our time
when we let go this earth suit
oh great glorious death thank you
for who but you can teach us the
that time is limited to moments

Thomas James McGowan

Father died in Altnagelvin Hospital
in the year of nineteen seventy one
Ospidéal Alt na nGealbhan in Irish
It means High place of the birds
My father Thomas James McGowan
Born in eighteen eighty five he was
in the trenches of France in WW1
up to his knees in the muck of death
my beloved doubting Thomas taught me
to love peace he was like a blackbird
and when he died in that sparse room
my mother tried to join him desperate
willing
the very soul out of her body to go
with him then and there into the
valley of the shadow with no fear
into the void of blackness his
staff his comfort still my dear father
who taught me tongue twisters of mind
A creel of peat and creel of clod a
creel of heathery mountain sod...
Three grey geese in a green filed grazing
Grey were the geese and green was the
grazing...She sells sea shells by the sea
shore. He said the alphabet in Irish. He was
a man of answer only to my mother who
guilted and goaded him into loving her

His coffin rested on two chairs in the
good room the sitting room behind the
door his face pasty and his skin cold as
in the  living room recited the Lord's Prayer
and sang Abide with me fast falls the eventide
the darkness deepens Lord with me abide
Over a hundred people stood about in the yard
all men dressed in the funeral suits silently in 

grey light of the first day of nineteen seventy two
His coffin was taken out thru the sitting room window
and the men carried him shoulder high up the road
they walked him in procession about half a mile
loaded him into a black hearse bound for Mountcastle
My mother forbid me to show my face outside the door
to help the men carry him as he had carried me before
with humor and gentleness he said he paid his way to
heaven every Sunday at Donehady Presbyterian Church
as the gold plated red velvet collection plate was passed
he would place a coin he said would pay his fare to heaven
I am sure the blackbirds guided him upwards and onwards
Thomas James McGowan did I ever tell you just how much
you meant to me my father may father abuser father loved
a complexion of sorrow pity grief anger and heart for you
Thomas James McGowan up to his knees in the trenches

Sister Kate O'Hanlon

You never stopped or ran away from war
for you were solid and whole inside
born and bred in Belfast you knew
the place like the back of your hand
I was twenty back then and very scared
unable to cope with emotional trauma
of death and dying the blown apart
oh how I love listening to you talk
me thru that time that terrible time
Even now you rise above the sorrow
a professional nurse to the very end
with medals and awards you coped well
while I cringed in the corner crying
crying into the deep pain in my soul

Time and Memory

Life is a jigsaw puzzle God make up
We build the pieces one moment in time
They fit together when we locked them
in,all those fragments of memory fit
we are telling our stories forever
if it were that easy you say how
and then you say why was I there then
I was a nurse in Belfast in the seventies
I lived war one breath at a time horrific
but more I lived every war every death
forgiveness oh God forgive us our sins
all of them down thru time we were not nice
will we live peace now can we live peace now
the people are out sleeping in the cities
we go to the bank to renew a mortgage that
we have paid over and over and over how do
we become a pawn in their game I never thought
about it I never had to money is so abstract
you have it you don't have it and life is
really only about breathing and now paying
focus on love you say focus on giving now
money is evil or the love of money am I evil
I have no money I do not even know what it is
I know what hunger is and thirst and sorrow
each night I give thanks for a roof over me
but ARE THE ONES WITH THE STARS MORE FREE
I have walked on the edge of magic and seen
the beauty of the cosmic rays of delight
I have seen the evil of this world and want
only peace only love only forgiveness now
oh let the gig saw puzzle of the world be
in harmony we will not be dictated to now

Death of Andrew Scrutton

When I heard you were taken ill
I went to see you with a video
of information healing from a
Dr Huldga Clark and you were
kind enough to invite me in
to sit by the fire to listen
You told me about Alcan then
and I knew this coal mine was
creating a deep pain for you
Andrew underneath that aloof
english nature you were all
heart and soul beloved man
beloved gentle man you died
following the medical path
where they cut the tumor

reverie painting by frank o'meara

This is in another more gentle time
as if any time has ever been gentle
thank you dear sir for capturing me
when I was but a young lass pensive
you died in 1888 at aged thirty five
you painted me you did not know that
years later I would see myself there
when I was a young woman look again
is it the young woman or the ghosts
many ghosts in this painting imprinted
how fascinated I wonder if you are still
painting me did you show me that picture
of that lake with bodies falling in deep
only this lake was the evil of the bomb
the evil of blackness that called them
It is me in your painting I know for sure

Where are they

Where are they now the ones who lived here
Are they sleeping as the bible says so or
Are they on the next life time reincarnated
I think of them and wonder if I am the only
one who knows so many of them but no I think
the monk may know more only he chants for them
thru the bardo he prays for them not to get stuck
in the shadow of the valley of death the tunnel
the one that I entered once and knew in the light
it would not be this body I would be in not at all
hard to imagine eh another existence in spirit world

3.37am

Me the computer and the world
back and forth thru time weaving strand of memory inside and not near to post traumatic stress disorder syndrome whatever is the word for shell shock...too much knowledge and your head would go way with you into some light bubble,wish I was alseep now where the dreams could live comfortable and I would not have to sit here and painfully spell

Black Bear Encounter

I still see the light of the hair
black and glistening iridescent
so close I could have touched
Neil spoke out and said "Sheila
that is a wild bear" and I heard
the snort and watch in slow motion
the nearest paw extend and claws
appear it was an awesome sight
no fear involved the bear sat
Buddha like on the fallen tree
I glanced in the small bright eyes
but not for longer than a nano second
the beauty of this bear's quietness
closeness was breath taking awe
I said go back to the rainforest
man will kill you bear said deeply
come and look what they destroy
that encounter that lasted hours
that was my medicine for the fight
the reason I stood up for trees
that bear came to visit me a
number of times bringing strength
and introspection an encounter
with the wild in all things
When I was arrested on July 9th
1993 the bear came again
this time swimming under the bridge
the camera man caught the scene
brought it into a Victoria court
and I am sentenced to six months
in jail for defending the forest
oh my wild natural black fur being
you gave me such a gift back then
please never leave my side now
introspection and strength .

Late night baptism

Sitting by the unconscious farmer's bed
while he slept the deep sleep of healing
a big midwife walked in and asked me
if I knew how to baptize being a protestant
she said a mother had given birth upstairs
but the baby was not going to make it
and she wanted him to receive a blessing
I was all of eighteen years but knew how
we walked into the dimly lite room where
the mother tired and weary from birthing
the baby wrapped in a white blanket did
not cry as I took the water from the bowl
made the sign of the cross on his forehead
in the name of father son and holy ghost
I named him into heaven that night and
left quietly to return to my silent vigil

Jack Layton

A man for our times for sure
Death will make you larger
Larger than life itself now
Your dying words are written
On the souls of Canada now

Love is better than anger.
Hope is better than fear.
Optimism is better than despair.
So let us be loving,
hopeful and optimistic.
And we’ll change the world



Your death was murder
your death was wrong
your death robbed us
your death hurt us
your love sustains us

your passion and life
your compassion to care
your coffin red and white
your faith your daily work
your bigger than life now


you have become the voice
of all Canadians who love
who want freedom to speak
to call on every money
pinching drunk con man
to be held accountable

you gave us the sword
you gave us your heart
your last breath for us
the people of Canada here
here and now you said live
live like you have never
lived before.

Oh rest in sweet peace
beloved son of Canada
and may your family be
held safe in the arms
of the angels forever.

Irish Dancing

My mother says they flogged the floor till dawn
before they went to work in the field of flax
they danced the night away to the fairy tune
no drink no sex no vulgarity in their world
they danced and drank sweet black tay
before laboring in dawn light next day
My mother says when she was a little girl
she gathering a bunch a kittens in her apron
and brought them up to the cottage door
till granny heard the fierce whistling of mother
and shouted at her to drop them immediately
were no domestic kitten at all but the newborn
young of a mother weasel who was about to bite

The bigger animals were gone now the wolf
the bear the cat and what was left was small
the badger the weasel and fox and the stoat
who walked in fields were corncrake sang out

Beloved Ocean

The rain started as we came into the village
suitable for the meeting with the sick ones
the ones who turned to booze to cover up
the pain inflicted upon their delicate souls

The ocean called me away from their doorway
called me to its grey awesome swelling self
into the healing breath of divinity itself
what better way to spend a holy day than here

Gathering bulk kelp washing my face in water
the salty brim taking away the fear of heart
great waves roll in and out from the beginning
I am but a cell of all that is and I am now

And all looks down to them children of here
the osprey the eagle the crow the seagull
for they have this place called home to
bathe their sorrow and sober their minds

From the north

Yes i am from the north and from the north I am
Quiet and innocent I am most of the time alone
I can never go back to there to that place ever
The place of war and memory of war day after day
Yes I am here now in the peace and quiet of now
but haunted by the past and places I have been
Omagh the place where I began nurse training
Twenty eight years after I left they suffered
The floor could not hold me when I heard of it
I was writing a prayer for peace at that moment
As the bomb ripped through their lives I was
sitting writing a simple prayer for peace
simple prayer for peace at the exact moment
thousand of miles away and eight hours behind
My first thoughts went to Dennis and Margaret
Then to my hospital corridors I did not sleep
for a week I searched the papers for meaning

Tourists

They are here all over the place
seeking and searching for what

Twelve years later

Nearly four hundred injured
The aftermath of violence
Peace is a quiet day silent
Peace is the sun shining
Oh my red heart bleeds
For them that suffer
Suffer in silence

Omagh one year later

She said to write her a letter to the people
the people of Omagh she said write a letter
after she heard my grief she came directly
I held the pen as she penned the each word
I was in that in between place of spirit
She wrote a letter to the people of Omagh
I hope somebody got to read her holy words
I held the pen and words her words down
Queen of heaven Mother Mary thank you.

Poem for Dennis.

My friend Dennis a police officer in Northern Ireland,now retired, was on duty on the 15th August 1998, in Omagh County Tyrone. He was witness to the horrific bombing that took place that day in Omagh. In 1990 I stayed with Dennis and his wife,during my peace walk.He gave me a ride to the main road to start my walk again- just before we got into the car,he got on his knees to inspect the undercarriage when I asked him what he was doing,he said
" I am checking for a wad of Semtex" This poem is for Dennis and his peace.

Poem For Dennis

You were a brave man a man of prayer
When you joined the R.U.C for peace
Despite the negative you took a stand
A man of hero and courage a lion heart
Mother of sweet God no one expected it
Who would in peacetime Saturday afternoon
Amidst all the craic of families laughing
Calling out to neighbors about the day
Shouting at the wains to behave themselves
Trying to get a bargain dressing them for
school so they would be neat and tidy ready
For another year of learning something new
In an instant it all changed at ten after
three a car loaded with hell exploded with
no mercy blowing everyone apart blood legs
arms bellies busting glass windows out far
Tearing down shops the force of the bomb
The shrapnel rickashaying the roar deafening
Water pipes busting blood running down streets

You Dennis a man of prayer was called in from
another village from Sixmilecross you drove
Into the chaos as the wounded screamed out
You did not know if your daughters were here
among the dead the dying the frantic screaming
The angels of Mercy held you together for surly
you were in another place completely unable to
fathom what had just been done to the people of Omagh
Each limb you gathered and examined for signs
it had been sometime since you saw their legs
arms knees dear God in heaven your heart pounding
Sweet Jesus who is it who walked on these legs
Who wore these shoes not half an hour ago now
Dead amongst the rubble you find a mother her
clothes blown apart there lying her dead newborns
Expelled right out of her fat womb onto the street
Out of the warm sacs they floated in for nine months
Their mother's belly ripped open them dead on
the cold pavement beside the grandmother and the
older sister a wee child of eighteen months all
dead on the streets of Omagh four generations
taken in a blast taken from life before they got
of even take one breath of it they were killed
dear God in heaven dear mother of God cradling
their discombobulated souls gather their fragments
knit them together into a whole place in heaven
far away from this place called Omagh this bomb

Dennis worked all day and night gathering the dead
all twenty nine of them the twins made thirty one

Denis is retired now and his daughters were home
Their mammy kept them safe that day said they
had to clean their rooms she saved their lives

Omagh is dutch for grandmother and the 15th August
Is our Lady's day of Ascension into heaven she
surely guarded her beloved people of Omagh into
heaven through the pearly gates out of that hell.

Witnessing For Mary

Your face is hooded by the local police
not Guantanamo this hood is a local one
after they bang your head of the cruiser
take you the local Courtenay detachment
put in in solitary confinement without
medical attention or even an pain pill
for the splitting head wound that bleeds
Who are these cruel police constables
in our midst sweet smiling uniformed
all squeaky clean well trained louts
It only takes a few bad apples now
to make the suffering of others real
You should be at the hospital getting
medical attention after that old man
knocked you out and then claimed you
were robbing his house he was free
while you suffered twenty four hours
abused by St Joes's hospital staff
you even accused you of being HIV
racism is alive and well in Comox
beaten and beaten more by the RCMP
Something has to be done about this

Sunday 31st July 2011

I dissolve in order to catalyse,
Releasing energy.
I seal the matrix of self-generation
With the spectral tone of liberation.
I am guided by my own power doubled.

so say the dream spell oracle now
I am the last of my generation

Four Days short of Sixty

No it is not possible to have lived this long
Sixty years a life times of many yesterdays
I call Ann in Ireland she turned sixty today
she said not to worry it is just another day
nothing to fear and then remembered that we
tortured Boyd Patterson she said we threw him
in the snow after tossing his school bag away
I have no memory of such an act she is troubled
I remind her of when we collided on our bikes
and I flew over the handlebars into the ditch
Ruby Grahams brought me medicine in a glass
a small lucozade that made me right as rain
I do not want to have to turn another year
in fact I think I will change my birthday
In fact I am only turning six years old yes
I am only six years old in that galactic time

Locked keys in car

You know that moment when you discover
you do not have keys to open car door
you spot them in the ignition waiting
that terrible moment that defines you
in your ability to sweat the small stuff
and no one uses those metal coat hangers
anymore the ones that can do the job right
instead you find only useless plastic ones
flimsy ones with no strong back metal bone
until you search high and low for the one
that is hiding in some back kitchen room
the one the Gods of locked doors hide
Today I wrestled with my own impatience
my own patience and my own frustrations
bending and pulling on the inside door
missing the handle by at least eighty
attempts until I cry and then scream
out loud at this hunk of hot metal
it took me an hour and a ten minutes
and it taught me that I am patient

Denman Island Writers and Readers Festival

I read eleven poems in public
though my knees were knocking
I listened as each word flowed
of the page in and out of mouth
like water flowing down a stream
small sweet tumbling round words

Canada

I asked the man from the CBC
to tell me about the essence
of this great country Canada
he shook his head and said
the country cannot be one
it is too big he said indeed
and it does not have to have
one voice at all but many
I asked why Canada was not
giving back to her people
the monies from the resources
not like Norway that has a
savings account for everyone
he shook his head and said
it is in the history now
from the fur trade to trees
Canada is a country of thieves
Until her people all wake up
and say this is our country
our resources and you greedy
politicians better stop it

Coal

Coal is the liver of the earth
distilling the water we drink
Coal is the liver of the earth
do not get your mother mad now
if we do she might throw us out
and then where would be floating
like goldfish in a polluted pond
Coal is the liver of the earth
but we just don't get it do we
we think only about our lives
not about her who keeps us alive
Coal is the liver of the earth
Leave it in the ground to be safe

Peace

Peace peace peace is possible
practice justice to weave peace
into the fibers of your being
a man with a gun is bringing war
a man with a talking stick peace
some people say that war is life
but those you have lived it daily
know war is raw red blood raw
where dreams are haunted forever
If I had a bell I would ring it
If I had a sing I would sing it
Peace is slow loving heart beat
If John Lennon can imagine we can
If the ministry of war became the
ministry of peace we could recruit
peace makers peace walkers to go
into places of turmoil and help
settle conflicts by communications

Mr. Wes Piercy

Massey Ferguson tractor well worn from years of work and
greased a thousand times to keep her going the seat is
long gone replaced by a faded fancy cushion in elegance
You know that tractor like the back of your hand indeed
You know every step of this land that you have toiled

Opening the packet of broccoli seeds with planting stick
the one your grandfather used his fingerprints now yours
the one that keeps you connected to them and to this land
Your getting on now but never lost your blue eye twinkle
Of all the men here you seem the most contented at home



I come home to myself when I am standing in your field
with the soft warm south wind blowing across the face
I want to linger here all day for only to remember yesterday
When I was as contented as you seem to be at home

Your getting on now and when you visit the graveyard to
pay respects to your mother your resting relations you
wonder if your coming or going and how soon you will
resting your tired bones in that cool earth you so love
where you will become a particle of all that is and will be

New York

Northern Ireland was the training ground

I often wondered how civil rights led

to bullets and bombs in such a short time

Northern Ireland was the training ground

for the hidden ones to show us terror

New York was the beginning or end of it



The twin towers did not fall they were pushed

Air India explodes of the southern coast of Ireland



My God in the name of Jesus

WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

Life

Poetry is a release for me in moments
to capture whatever words are inside
my day to day life is a so difficult
in that I am the long suffering wife
of a man who was head injured left
frontal lobe it is complicated as
so little is known about the brain
and I can only speak from this place
of distorted confusing reality life
how I do it I have no idea I am so
utterly exhausted

oh my beloved you are a constant
I have spoiled you so much let you
take my every moment for so long
my only identity is I am your wife
my name is Sheila and I have been
you wife since 12th January 1991

oh what a journey a long journey
it has been since you blue eyes
stole my heart away and you said
you were head injured and I asked
if you have thoughts......maybe
we all react but I think you more
than any

you are straight from God
you are only in the moment sweet
but you are not like me at all now
you belong with the dreamers now


You wanted to be a natural doctor
when they took your life away on
that operating table you lost it
you lost the ability to decide and
yet your own inner strength gave
you the power and determination to
live to escape to the west coast
you told me the driver of the other
car spaced out for five minutes and
you were left spaced out for life
IT WAS THE DOCTOR AT THE HOSPITAL
WHO CAUSED YOUR HEAD INJURY
I met you
on the day the Gulf war started I
met you in your cabin and I fell into
you blue eyes so deeply I drowned

Canada

We arrived in the winter in Ontario
the brochure said Hamilton was mild
the temperature plummeted minus 28
that kind of cold was unknown to us
immigration office was colder yet
indifferent to my plight to work
they did not need nurses they said
I thought this cold made people well

I got busted for ignoring their rules
Immigration officers came to see me
threatened me with deportation now
for earning twenty dollars a week
I told them I hated their country

The blessing in disguise was they
helped me become a landed immigrant
I would not swear allegations to the
one called Queen instead I swore her
her name was really Betty Windsor
My allegations Chief Dan George
He is on the spirit of Canada

I then affirmed to uphold the laws of
Canada with some contempt I replied
Of course I will uphold the laws as
long as they make sense to me I will

Little did I know that seventeen years
later I would be sitting in a jail I
upheld the ancient laws that protect
ancient forests from destruction I
got sentenced to six months in jail
maximum security they let me know
I came to Canada to wake up
this sleeping dog

weeds and grass

tangled mess you take over and smother
all the flowers I planted in the ground
you grow as fast as you can while I sleep
and in the morning there you are grinning
showing me your powerful ways of being
and how impossible you are to pull up
dare me to see your beauty now and whisper
oh let wild things grow and forget order

grass shouts at me look I hold rain drops
you might want neat cut well ordered lawn
but I am a dandelion and you can make mead
buttercups chamomile purple colored flowers
I did not plant you and yet there you are
for the life of I cannot figure it out now

My Island

My bear self needed to heal past wounds
To listen to the song of sweet robins
To learn the language of deer and owl
To walk where ancient ones had walked
Laich-Kwil-Tach
K'omoks
Qualicum

In the smoke filled longhouse listen now
to hear them sing their nature songs
to dance the thunder bird mask with rattles
while the drummers drum deer skin beats

The scent of cooking salmon near the fire
fills the air and cedar smells so sweet
Generations down thru time they had
no stores
no ferry
no cell phone
no computer
no cell towers
or television
they had stories to tell about the day
they hunted deer
gathered the ripe
huckle berries
salmon berries
oh how they feasted on
herring
cod
oyster
Oh how they were in tune with nature
With the great mystery of everyday life

These tribal folk are this islands ancestors
The land remembers them we need to remember them too

Cutting Broom

Dear lovely yellow determined broom
you belong on wild mountain sides
in far of Scotland where pipers play

you look nice smell sweet
but your taking over my yard
and the time has come for you to go

The holly bush and wild berry snag
my broom puller as I dig
and pulled your shallow roots

you fall with dignity and grace
humming bees try to warn me off

Beloved broom I send you back distant
highlands where you can hear the piper
play you do not belong here in Canada
in fact your a bit like myself dear one

Melissa Fung

They put you down a hole in Afghanistan
Like a mole they put you in a hole in
the dusty earth in a prison for ransom
You survived on prayer and inner strength
Memories of family loved ones and letters
you penned to reassure them you were OK
Beloved and saintly woman baring the fumes
of dust and dirt and filth of greedy men
your rosary beads gave comfort in darkness
tears came when all else failed you alone
I read your book under an afghan sky from
comfort of my warm bed you slept on rock
Each day I wait with you for your freedom
Thank God they did not rape your body that
they had some decency from their own faith
You took time to pen your survival and I
turned the pages with you as you laid bare
the slow turning of time of twenty five days
you made it Melissa you made it to Kabul
but you passed through the shadows first
in your hell hole of filth and stench below
never knowing where the story was going to end

The Storm

On the 11th December 2007,the pilot of a small plane flying out of Qualicum Airport
reported to the Comox Airbase,that he saw,four water spouts,in Bayne Sound, join together and form into a three hundred foot spout that was a quarter of a mile across. That water spout hit Denman Island about 4.11 pm ...this is my poem

It was no wind like any other that quiet afternoon
It blew across our farm without any sound at all
the line of tall trees began to toss and turn then
gyrate down their roots that clung desperate to earth


The ferry was pulling into the dock when the wind rose
and the tall lamp standard fell in crashing metal tone
I heard it missed a crew member by the breath of a hare
Ethel was the lead car of the ferry as all hell broke
Cool calm and collected as is her way she kept going
up the hill into a throng of wild flying tree boughs
Ben her grandson close beside her in the car eyes agog


The light house keeper on Chrome island reported a wall
of water and wind carrying of planks of his decking
like a kite in motion they flew out into the chuck
all over the island in a split of a second hydro poles
fell like toothpicks pulling down thick cable haphazardly

In eleven minutes our precious island looked like Beirut
no road was passable until the boys fired up chain saws
strong men cutting pathways to fit a car width between
the gigantic trees that has no chance in that strong force
of kundaline divine feminine water rage
I think Des Kennedy called it all up when he revealed his
Greek God naked image the Sunday before to the gray hairs
at the food bank fund raiser in the old warm community hall
hysterical laughter of repressed sexual desires roared out
and it took some time for them to compose themselves again
I wonder was it them who called in this three hundred foot
wave of water to cool the passions of their raging desires
you just never know where nature is concerned now do you

Thirteen minute ramble one

Would you listen to thone
wee birds singing
if only we had a note
like them to share





Growing up in the land of Seamus Heaney
Van Morrison and Edna O'Brien how could
I not fall in love with sound of stone

Jimmy described the dance hall "Boys it
was so crowded there was no room
to fall down"
or he would scold and say "would you have
a titter of wit"
or "did you come up the river
in a bubble"
intertwined with the
ancient tribe of Delradia
a stone was a stane
a door was a dour
a spout a spoot
diarrhea..dirrirr....two farts and a splash
and daddy taught me his alphabet...
absha
badsha,
lmnopq
rustvw
xyz



my beloved Ballyheather
was a place of peace
underneath a great blue sky the rain fell
in a thunderous roar or in a sweet warm drizzle

ah Jesus the memory banks are overflowing
of wee birds
drinking the fresh cream from
early delivered milk bottles
As they pecked through the tin foil
and we didny mind sharing with them
for their songs were so sweet


The fairy tree of hawthorn would grow
and be respected and never touched
farmers would cut around the bush
to not
disturb the magic of them little people

the rivers were a place to fish or
contemplate the wells blessed each spring
with a sprig of wild garlic and thyme
the land sad with voices of the past
of starvation ships setting out across
the cold Atlantic as millions fled

I was born six years after the war that
ended in forty five and dreamed of Germans
raiding the house where I hid in the attic

Daddy brought home those memories along
with medals and stories of trenches in France

I grew
safe and sound amongst fields of wheat and corn
working in potato fields at nine years old
hands and fingers caloused from gathering
them spuds from healthy brown earth
or
writing a hundred labels at the kitchen table

we shipped our fresh potatoes to distant tables

On sunday we went to church me and daddy
when I asked him why he gave them money
he would tell me he was paying his way
to heaven

For the longest time I thought Jesus
was crucified in derry the walled city
nine miles down the road

We lived in a stone house with stairs
and carried water from the spout that
mammy washed the heavy blankets in

eighteen years of wandering the
hills exploring and climbing bared wire
fences where tufts of sheep wool caught
blowing in the wind like a ancient prayer

we walked to school in the north wind
that turned our knees blue

We chatted endlessly while the
grandfather clocked ticked in
the corner
while granny knit socks

Daddy rode a Raleigh bicycle till he
turned seventy four
me and mammy walked
six miles was to catch the bus to Strabane
mammy would trade walking shoes for
a pair of modest high heels for town

Turning sixty

The time went so fast from here
Till I was a wee girl walking
Amongst the purple heather hills
Now I live on the far side of Canada
A fish out of water to be sure
Life is like that you know as
you are lifted from a known place
and dropped into a place unknown
but the turning of wheel on karma
shows you a thing or two about you
I'm here as I am here for reason
To embrace the beauty of myself
To find the meaning in meaningless
Caught in an eddy of time I am
On Denman Island of the great quiet
Oh beloved place surround me now
As I hear the strangers meeting
Ah sure you must remember the way
It is the same way you came in
In reality I am only turning six

Punchlatt Island

Shelter from the storm or life
my eyes feast on green grass
yellow buttercups and tall trees
in my orchard birds sing sweetly
and days fade into night slowly
How I love the spring time here
when eagles soar and ravens squawk
where everything stands still now
and the robin sings me to sleep
and dawn chorus wakes me at daybreak

Canada

I came here in the winter of my thirtieth year
Looking for Leonard Cohen or Joni Mitchell
Oh Canada you froze my bones in that first year
I jumped your immigration hoops annoyed at you
My humanitarian degrees meant nothing at all
You wanted scientists with white lab coats
Scientists who washed their hands first.

Nurses were not needed you said and I thought
it was because you all lived under the snow
I do not belong here I know that now I am a misfit
Just another lonely immigrant pinning for meaning
Standing in the shade of great Douglas Firs

I do not belong here I am not english enough
I drive in the exit gate that is my first clue

I was here some time ago on the Prairies
In a tipi before there was a Canada or America
I lived with buffalo wild sage and sweet roots
I just need to find my peace of sacred ground...again

Prayers for the dying

when heart stops beating
when body gives up the ghost
out of a well worn old coat
thru the crown charka to heaven
to cosmic
back to the source of infinite love
Jesus if only we could remember
the infinite love now
the hear and now
when we are born and the moment
we leave

Dawn Chorus

While we sleep deep in our beds
the birds are welcoming the day
singing in trees a glorious song
chirping in harmony hundreds sing
it only lasts for a short while
but the splendid glory of it all
is not to be missed a life concert
not even the great masters wrote
who are these glorious creatures
singing the day awake they greet
the morning sun again a new day
they warble their heart song out
trilling they give every note room
oh to be in their choir of beauty
if only for a moment to be part
of this dawn chorus of pure delight

Missing Greg

The bed is empty and I cannot sleep
the pillow does not replace your
sweet head or the feel of you
I count the days till you return
I will melt when I see you and
make love to you on the baggage
round about metal and movement
will not stir me from drinking
in your essence of pure Gregness
the house has no meaning now
your not there in your chair
or working on your speakers
I feel small when you are gone
small and lonely for your touch
Counting the days till I touch
the edge of your shoulder the
palm of your hand and fingers
To catch the glint in your eye
the days will pass but the nights
are long without you in the hall
How can I love you anymore than
this how can I be without you

wowowowowowowowowowo

We are one they say we are one
imagine that we are one son
we are shimmers of breathe
I am in awe of your being
no matter who you are now
you are part of the one - breath

We are all on the bus now we
are going to see the grandmother
to learn how to knit our lost souls

Benjamin Fulford

What a soul you are refreshingly honest
a wonder to me your courage abounds
in the eye of the needle you are
a slim white fine delicate strand
of pure light trying to save the planet

My eyes are the windows

I look out and not in and I see utter insanity
based on the lies of living with others lies
this country is full of half baked notions
of nothing nothing at all silly meaningless
screwed up logic devoid of any heart ness
It must be because we live under the snow

I look in and I see a wondrous beauty a
a divine light of pure clean crystal joy
that is for my being born in the land
of fairies and little people dancing and
singing in amongst the hawthorn trees
the tree of the the heart the tree of faith

Peacewalking two

Kind Hearted Eagle invited us
to walk across Canada in 2003
for youth suicide prevention
from Nanaimo to distant Ottawa


We took turns walking the roads
as great big trucks roared by
sending roadside dust everywhere
moose appeared at morning prayer

only the traditional sweat lodge
pulled us we carried the dead
across the land they cried out
this was of a walk of soul force

we were young and old all at once
these native indigenous people
taught us the beauty of themselves
we were the savages disconnected

my husband's people were once native
although he is as white as the sky
and I am an orphan from the old tribe
the ancient tribe of celtic warriors

My heart goes out to them as I hear
the stories of what genocide can do
this walk much harder than any before
for the ones who killed themselves

Peacewalking

His beard was covered in ice crystals
from the cold winter in Canada
He inspired me to become myself
A peacewalker to walk for peace
With a message that peace is in
Inside your own heart and soul
I packed a small nap sack then
Painted a message on my tunic
Peace is possible it said strong
Everyday I walked ten miles long
Across country roads in Ireland
In the north in places of horror
where death and mayhem rained
I walked as a land mine took the
life of an nun and three police
a gentle nun named Catherine Dunne
She was twenty six years old
I was to turn thirty nine soon
Peacewalking is not for fun

Walking till my feet ached sore
and felt like weight of concrete
the sea the sky the earth water
all became so precious to me
the north wind bit my face often
then the sun would come and warm
the people passed me by looking
yes peace is possible I heard
but what about civil rights then
what about the dead then I heard
what about the ones who murdered
what about the ones who bombed
peace is possible is comes from
within and if within pure love
there can be no needless senseless
dying no bombs no guns no violence

Japan

Nanao Sakaki came to Denman once
the wandering poet brought love
and the stories of indigenous
he sang and read his heart loud
Later he asked me to read my poems
then invited me to come to Japan to
help save the last of the rivers
about to be damned he said come
and we will walk a hundred miles
oh Nanao I said for me to go to
Japan why it would be like going
to the moon its a place I dream

Now Japan has come to my heart
the water has swept every pore
and I am adrift in a deep sorrow
I am clogged heart core centre
as a river of great great sorrow
drowns all the faces of yesterday

Joanne Mathers

In the green fields of Donagheady
far from the cold streets of Derry
A man walks behind a herd of cows
Fat swollen belly full of milk cows
Milking time happens every day here
Great lumbering silent cows waddle
to the barn happy to be milked now
the heat rising of their fat backs
eyes gentle large brown define them

In the distant city a woman is dead
Shot at point blank range callously
Blood vibrant red spills on stone
A brilliant loving mother is dead
While her farmer husband works
She is breathing her last moments
Her thoughts reach for her son
That little boy with blond hair
Almost two years old now her Shane

Grandfather Ronnie is on the tractor
Ploughing up the earth for planting
He does not know his daughter is dead
Till the police arrive in the afternoon
He goes with them to the city to identify
His beautiful daughter in law her hair
Matted with such indifference still
Her green eyes closed for this lifetime
His heart breaks apart a year later
The memory of her sweetest lingers

My dear sweet happy smiling face Lowry
How could this happen to you ever
Your life your wedding your son
The farm the cattle the contentment
Taken away in the single bullet wound
I reached out across the miles to you
To your young baby and you now alone
My sweet dear friend what a sorrow
For you to carry and now thirty years
Later you can finally speak it all

They have dug up the memory of Joanne
To find the hooded man with the gun
In war there is only insanity of death
Your Joanne was collecting the census
Did she not hear the warnings did she
think that death was only what happened
to others in distance places not here
not here on this cold empty stone doorstep
but this is where she died alone a single
bullet into her heavenly brain forever
She was our Princess Diana Joanne Mathers

My little death in Pincher Creek

We arrive in the early evening
Book into a hotel and get water
My breath stops in pain complete
Across my chest in public panic
Oh my God help me what to do
Get to the pharmacy for aspirin
Breath will not come no matter
Please help me I cannot breathe
Irma a stranger dressed in blue
Sit down now we will call help
Paramedics arrive with oxygen
Can not stand the pain powerful
I am afraid I am dying now this
Is what death feels like sudden
No time for anything but surrender
They transport me gently into
ambulance to the hospital where
I am moved to a crisp white bed
Monitor and oxygen fill lungs
I am dying and it is so sudden
No time for any regrets now
In this place called Pincher Creek
Time passes as monitor sounds
Time passes I am alive scared
Time passes heart settles again
This little death has passed on

HAARP

Let all your weapons fold and rust
Let all your technology fail now

Angels of Mercy

Be with us now as the veil opens between earth and heaven
When the mind of military and science has gone insane
When the heart of humanity has stopped breathing help
Great Spirit Allah Buddha Jesus all the names you go by
Walk us through this valley of evil that cares nothing
About humanity Oh heart of man open open open wide to
hear the cries of the people of Japan in their grief
Get behind us all satan deceiver cheat against soul
This cannot be happening and yet it is written there
in the heart of all good people who love and care
That you made the atom napalm and all forms evil
My heart cries out for peace and an end to this war
For the human heart of the mother earth so above
So below in your name Jesus Christ I call for help
In your name Mother Mary I call for compassion forgive
Us everyone our sins and or forgetting the grace we
All forgot and now we witness this pain this fear
Across the planet a wave is spreading of disbelief
Like 911 could man kill or God where have we gone
Wrong what have we forgotten here on earth how did
he get so disconnected from the soul of everything
Angels of Mercy protect us from the mind of power
that has lost all connection with life on earth
That will take us into the brink of utter destruction
Get us through this fork in the road of collective life
You alone Jesus walked the road of humanity bleeding
Pure spirit of God who made our very breath forgive us
For our lack of compassion and our greed and selfishness
Forgive us forgetting the way of the tribe we lost
Take from us this cup of evil in this time take it
As you alone have the power to defeat the enemy of life

Dawn Breaking

The ground is soaking wet from months of rain
the silence is delightful this dawning day
as morning light peeps through tall trees
no rain now only the delightful hush of dawn
till I open the window and hear the water
dripping from the sky as God squeezes out
the last rain clouds and the wind is blowing
gentle the trees sway and dance branches dry
Seventeen years now have I lived in here
surrounded by the sound of wind in trees
Oh to be so blessed by such abundant nature
My soul soothed by this constant greenness
I see the kale is growing well in my garden
The garlic has sent up healthy green shoots
Fruit trees are beginning to bud and birds
sing quietly their wet sodden songs to life

Blessings

God grant me the power of thanks
For all the blessings of life
For breath and voice to sing
For the coming of this spring
Small birds that sing to you

The passing of our brother Pete
These are the blessings to know
That life and death are gifts
each day we have the time to
celebrate this being here and now
this being of breath for peace
the plane of suffering is but one
aspect of the joy of living to
breathe the beauty of each moment
to give thanks for this our home
prayers for those that morn today
in far of places they bury the dead
what more can we say to live is good
to die is to chart the tides of tomorrow
thank you for my life for the gift
of song and word for the gift of peace
thank you for the moments of pain
to remind me of the goodness of being
for family friends dogs cats cows hens
thank you for love and letting go
when the lessons are learned again
for tall trees for water earth sky
for every nook and cranny of life
I give thanks for ancestors beyond
For the children coming to live well
For an end to war where nightmares
Get silenced by the sweet sound of
Peace for peace is a river flowing
May we who are here flow with beauty
Holding the reverence of each day
Holding the reverence of dying
Living each moment like our last
I give thanks for my breath

Peter died this day Friday 25th February 2011

Your last breath was taken before noon
The lines of pain were lessened
Your face returned to peace again
Warrior spirit you endured long
Born with spinal bifida operated
Your body let you down from birth
You fought all your life to live
Intelligent witty and brilliant
That chip on your shoulder was
a big one to carry for those you
let love you Diane Darren Stacey
You grew up in a family of six
Third boy you wrestled them all
Demanded to be heard in the din

You carried the rosary beads of
Your grandmother and mother on

My Friend Moshe

My friend Moshe wants to know about
everything he wants to know history
he wants to know about how all works
he cares and loves the whole world

My friend is turning ten years old
intelligent and he is full of love
he is a pure kind divine crystal boy
he is a gift for this world from God

Denman United Church

This do in remembrance of me
he took the bread and shared
this do in remembrance of me
This is my body that was broken
for you this do in remembrance
of me and my walk amongst you
He took wine and blessed it
this is my blood spilt for you
drink this in remembrance of me

Jesus wept often and torn asunder
the greedy bastards desecration
of the holy temple space abused
by money lenders and fornicators
He kicked some ass big time then

In the streets the empty handed
are forced to beg some coins for
food for cigarettes and whatever
they have lost home family comfort
they wander aimlessly everyday
they have lost all connection
to what we take for granted now
a warm bed an familiar kitchens

the spirit of the holy ghost
will guide you through thick
and thin Hail Mary full of grace
Jesus came to shatter peace
to challenge the power of evil
the story of Jesus begins in
the middle east and there it
will end as woman gather Peace

September 11th 2001

The day is brisk and cold
fresh as fresh can be in
sun clad bustling city
Oh New York the heart of
America on the Hudson river
My ancestor lies sleeping
in Grant's tomb overlooking
The day is just unfolding
morning light spills warmth

In his bunker death stalker
waits knowing not caring
his commanders are unseen
he waits with baited breath
what goes on at the airports
are passengers really loaded
into planes bound for death
Women children men innocent
No No No this did not happen

Why is this nightmare surreal

Crystal Bowl Breaks

shards of crystal sever small artery blood
spurts on white surface as I scream
scream loud for help scream in pain
left hand struggles with the phone cord
who to call need stitches help me
loose car keys take farm truck out
down the wet dark country road driving
left hand to doctor's office lights on
feel blood pumping into cloth is red
injection freezes pain away in few minutes
Watch as doctor carefully inspects deep wound
tendon severed will I play guitar again
four stitches later artery still oozes
another stitch bleeding stops pain returns
the moment before this accident I raged
second finger right hand anger finger say
hold your tongue now keep finger safe
instant karma sees red blood splash everywhere

Irish Times - Monday, January 31, 2011

St Brigit, whose feast day falls tomorrow, was a negotiator, peacemaker and early community activist. Just the kind of person we need now.

‘BRIGIT, WITH her white wand, is said to breathe life into the mouth of the dead Winter and to bring him to open his eyes to the tears and the smiles, the sighs and the laughter of Spring,” wrote Alexander Carmichael.

This weekend marks a turning point in the Celtic year. February 1st is the festival of Imbolc, announcing the arrival of new life: never more needed, and never more welcome.

The whole month of February is also called Mí na Féile Bríde (Month of the Festival of Brigit). In Celtic myth, Brigit was goddess of poetry, healing and smithwork: in Christian history she was an abbess and saint. Her traditions are preserved today in ritual, story, artefacts and her Christian Lives stories.

However, one aspect of Brigit seldom receives attention: Brigit the Weaver. Her cross was made of newly plucked rushes; her crios (girdle or belt), of new straw; and her cloak was of woven material. Now the opening up of Eastern Europe expands our understanding of the importance of this connection.

Before mass media and travel, and great political rallies, societies were held together by fragile threads, and weaving tools signified a key responsibility: that of weaving the precious webs of life and tending the bonds of community.

Throughout European mythology and folklore, the wise women were spinners whose advice was ignored at one’s peril. Images abound of European women leaders holding distaffs, spindles, weaving swords or spears which were not used for war making but for practical and ritual purposes.

Some of the few surviving relics of Saint Brigit are thought to be her weaving or embroidery tools, held in Glastonbury, England.

During Brigit’s festival, on February 1st, weaving or turning wheels was strictly forbidden in an honouring of Brigit the Weaver’s holy day.

Brigit was also a “peace weaver”, the name given to distinguished women in Old European times. Peaceweavers sometimes married into their enemy’s tribe, and their daughters carried gifts to weave peace. Such women had great negotiating skills and authority.

As with such peaceweavers, St Brigit caused mists to appear between opposing sides in order to prevent bloodshed. With her nuns she accompanied protesting warriors to the battlefield, rendering them unable to fight.

In historical times, the Abbesses of Kildare, who succeeded the historical 5th century Brigit, could pardon criminals encountered on their way to execution. They were revered figures of authority who were known as “Those Who Turned Back the Streams of War”.

In the 12th century, however, ominous events took place. Two abbesses of Kildare were raped, symbolically rendering them unfit for office. Twelfth-century church reform councils restricted sacramental offices to male priesthoods. The offices of weaver would be entirely superseded by the offices of sacrifiers, with wide-ranging social and political implications.

European grave excavations show that, whereas priestesses were buried with their spindles and distaffs, priests were buried with their knives. Subsequent European history, with its numerous wars, colonisations, and constant threat of violence, speaks loudly of the consequences.

Today, weavers and nurturers – community activists, parents, carers, and educators – continue to weave webs of empowerment. Their authority is fragile, rather than heroic. Their work is often unpaid, their views are unrepresented and their perspectives are silenced in the corridors of political or religious power.

This weekend, those in search of a new Irish spring, will celebrate the festival of Brigit and Imbolc at their holy wells, in their homes and communities.

Like community activists and nurturers, Brigit wove the fragile threads of life into webs of community. She invented a shriek alarm for vulnerable women travelling alone, she secured women’s property rights when Sencha, the judge, threatened to abolish them and she freed a slave-trafficked woman. Above all, her bountiful nature (23 out of 32 stories in one of her Lives concern generosity) ensured that the neart (life force) was kept moving for the benefit of all and was not stagnated by greed.

Today, the old religious and political structures have crashed all around us. In any new arrangements weavers and nurturers must be represented and their voices heard, loud and clear. No better woman than Brigit to inspire their efforts.

Mary Condren ThD teaches at the Centre for Gender and Women’s Studies, Trinity College Dublin, and is director of the Institute for Feminism and Religion: instituteforfeminismandreligion.org

Cat Scan

She was just about to inject me with iodine
when I shouted stop and jumped up real fast
I am out of here I muttered to myself loudly
was I only remembering the last time there
when I was injected into a three day oblivion

Cat Scan...husband laughed and said OK now
Lets go find a cat and I will scan you over
make sure your safe and sound and healthy
call that healer on the phone he said to me

I was only blinded by my own indifference

Red

The color of power of passion and love
Blood is the joy of life in our body
So many memories have I of that blood
Aunt Sarah fell down the stairs poe
pot in hand made of delicate delph
it shattered and sent her flying
it was not the blood I thought about
but her pee soaking into mother's rug

Open Wound (2)

She is about nine dressed for school
her uniform is a shade of dark navy
pleated skirt shirt tie and cardigan
her hair is shoulder length tangled
her skull is ripped open red gaping
she is unconscious her arm flinging
I stare in a deep shock immobilized
my eyes are drawn into that deep red
precise red bare deep forehead wound
clean gaping open red cavern space
Sister barks and orders me around
this is my first day in emergency
nurse get bandages lots of them now
I run the cupboard door is jammed
as the breath in me in fear jammed
The priest is comforting the parents

My tears came later in the hallway
I was crying for the memory of David
We found him under the back wheel
of the car it was dark thank God
we did not see his shattered skull
memory is a paradise with no escape

Open Wound

He said my back hurts please look
I pull up this sweater the wound
is gaping red and bleeding red
everywhere is red sticky blood
his life force oozing steady
into the car flashing hazards
maybe four miles to Saint Joes
park walk in sit down at a desk
she starts to ask the questions
name age address doctor I say
he needs stitches now for wound
not hearing she goes on ahead
I pull up his red bright shirt
sticky with matted blood look
she cringes puts down her pen
this is an emergency after all

Clayoquot Sound

Earth sky forest cedar bark big trees
Eagles bears wolves live well here
rain endless rain damp soaking wet
moss deep smelling scented forest
silent standing years pass you by
pure great green eminence of life
everything is humming in one note
harmony great green magnificent

Clanging metal doors locked in
arms wrists bounded by clamps
freedom denied now by the law
prison cells metal toilet seats
Guards in uniform indifferent
the day grind in a metal world

eagle calling out swooping up
bear foraging natural world
wolves showing themselves now
oh breathe in the memory of
rain dripping through boughs
sweet scented rainforest time

Sheriffs boots shone all clean
fake perfume on a cheap whore
handcuffing terrified civilians
endless orders without reason
Locked up in empty metal cells
confined in windowless rooms
jeered taunted verbally abused
physically abused in hallways

Grinding geared logging trucks
carrying off ancient cedar trees
cut down in their prime of life
bear runs fearfully from his den
eagle cries as trees fall heavy
bigger than you can ever imagine
sad to see them lying down now
when they stood so tall so grand
wolves howl for their grandmother
Chainsaws don't care about life

Judge sits above the court staring
six months in jail he utters after
seeing bear swim under the bridge
six months in maximum security jail
the small plane flies me handcuffed
to Vancouver Airport then paraded
across the departure lounge people
close their eyes rather than see
a woman in handcuffs guarded by
a sheriff in a brown slick uniform

Mountain side bare of all life
nothing will grow here again
eagle bear wolf just a picture
in a library book doubted now
a far distant memory of freedom
locked in a school like jail
freedom denied by old man judge
will I haunt his dreams forever
cold clean crystal fountain stream

Death

His face was calm wrinkles gone
in that state of gentle death
he was relieved now of suffering
half way to heaven he looked
so young younger than seventy
I closed his eyes for the last time
thought I saw him dreaming now
saying goodbye to that body that
held his soul for all those years
now he was lightness pure free
but still warm to the touch
I washed his body head to foot
Dressed him in his wedding suit
Prepared him for the wake so they
could come and admire his death
his face free of all those wrinkles
he said he would return in the ray
of the sun just to remind me of him
he died at quitting time five pm

Emergency

They come in on stretchers
gasping for one more breath
alone they suffer silently
as nurses and doctor work
poke prod inject inspect
it is all in a days work
some live some die others
linger on and on forever
there is no soft music or
dim lights in this place
only starkness business
forms to be filled out
no comfort no lavender
no gentleness here at all
no facts and figures now
life and death no compassion

Suicide in Belfast

Ciara Doherty aged eleven
Martin Rooney aged thirteen
committed suicide in Belfast
on a wet cold Friday evening
news said they were not related
two sweet young people alive
one minute and dead the next
their parents frantic screams
could be heard down the street
watch you children people listen
to them and invade their space
get them riled up to vent rage
if rage in them to express now
love them to life but not death
UTV covered the news from there
The priest said Ciara had a fit
a hissy fit as young girls do
her mother did not believe that
she meant to kill herself then

Loss of Vision

In the car driving home the cloud
of blackness descended suddenly
Like bad weather coming in strange
This cloud was only in my space
It has remained there hanging in
Now I cannot see anymore anything
Dread fear prayer willing power
can it be lifted I read one eyed
articles see the young busy doctor
he orders blood work cat scans and
appears indifferent to my dilemma
I take aspirin Q 10 garlic water
the words read non arteritic
ischemic optic neuropathy means
the cable from my eye to brain
is not working blocked this cloud
has stopped the light getting in
Oh my dear left sided feminine
wake up and see the world now
see only the beauty of decay
disorder and lack of compassion
Go into to heart place and sing

Blind

I am blind in one eye scared
stumbling around my kitchen
waiting in vain for results
typing one eyed now missing
letters not seeing properly

Fandangle

Fandangle dance men and woman with castanets
Dance the dance of life together crashing
up against the other's reality real time
to celebrate the diversity of each being
man and woman the two realities on earth
the eye of the needle the I of the I us
sweet jesyus teach us the dance fandangle
remind us of the holy separateness two
in one and one in two and more to come
the you in me and the me in you
dance fandangle nothing else matters
this groove is the groove of life
and mother earth is sad her children
are losing the rhythm beat of love

McGurk Pub Bombing Belfast

I was a young nurse in the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast in the early seventies. On this cold December evening a bomb exploded in the pub killing fifteen people including Mrs. McGurk and her daughter Maria. I heard about the bombing that evening as news travels fast around Belfast. The next morning I turn up for my duties and I had Mr.McGurk in a wheelchair and his little son was brought in,so they could be together. Mr.McGurk was in deep deep shock and he spoke about the pain of his daughter's death. I was so distraught myself that I went to matron and I ask to resign because I could not comfort this lovely man and his son. I went to matron and I told her I could no longer do this job as I had no training to work in war.I had no words of comfort.This bombing touched my heart. I said to matron I have no words to comfort this family. I fled to New York and I witnessed the Vietnam Vets coming home. I was offered political asylum in New York after being introduced to the Kerrymen's Association.They took to me to see a judge but I declined the offer and I returned to the north to work with the children.I worked in a children's home and went on to study and do crisis intervention work for children at risk. I immigrated to Canada in 1980 and I returned to walk a pilgrimage of Peace in 1990.I walked two hundred miles around the north. I had a small napsack and ten dollars in my pocket. I walked a prayed for twenty one days and during my walk Sister Catherine Dunne and three police officers were blown up. She woke me out of sleep and asked me to send healers she said the people had forgotten who they were and then she took me to a swamp and people were falling into it and falling for help.
I was so sick when I returned to Canada I lay in bed for three months. I have said so many prayers for peace. It was Mr. McGurk's graciousness that changed my life. He was so dignified. I pray that the ears that need to hear your hearts be open and more so their hearts.
To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. I was twenty years old then.
For the last twenty years and for the rest of my life I provide love and care for my head injured husband,his grandparents are from Donegal. We have a small orchard on Denman Island on the west coast of Canada. I honor all the relations of the McGurk Family and will never forget that time of great sorrow. Thank you for listening
In Peace
sheila simpson

Ruth Horwood

Ruth died in a hospital called Grace
They killed her with some bad drug

Denman Community

Surrounded by water we are afloat in time
our essence becoming one with water drops
when we get on that expensive BC ferry
and cross Baynes Sound we are islanders

Denman Islanders to the world out there
We are defined by water and the tides
Denman cave dwellers like winter bears
by nature strong and all introspective

Its risky living on an gulf island now
as we go through the eye of the needle
never knowing what tomorrow brings as
our world is hurtling toward the cliff

The past is always with us past mistakes
This island was stripped of cedar trees
Taken without thought of the spirit here
Taken in trucks we witnessed this horror

We have not forgotten or forgiven the time
The spirit of the forest remains with us
Collectively we failed to save any of them
As egos of the day stifled our resistance

Kundaline Yoga

I took the class with vigor
breathed fire into belly
move the energy up spine
felt the kundaline surge
wow that is something

Kundaline

Go Out At Night

The stars are twinkling had I not seen them
I would never had noticed that they twinkle
I remember the little song about them sung
Twinkle twinkle little star who I wonder
Who I wonder are you someone new in the sky
They say the dead are always with us look up
Yes the dead are there in the sky looking
but we rarely look up to acknowledge them
brilliant bright and glowing in the night
go outside will you go and look for them
your relatives uncles aunties your family
we are star dust you and I how wonderful
we get to live here in the light and then
we get to be stars at night in the sky
how brilliant is that now I ask you

The People Have Become Asexual

Feminism was never about the liberation of woman
Feminism was really about the death of the dance
The sacred dance of life between the man and her
Now the women dance for each other the death dance
Men stand terrified watching these strange rituals
Wonder what happened to turn these woman far away
Feminism forgot flirtation fondling feeling up

I feel for the men in room full of neurotic women
Dancing around mirroring each other alone lonely

Where do they go when they go home alone and lonely

Midnight

In our village the clock struck twelve
but nobody hugged except safe friends
How sad to feel the loss of big love
Caught in our own bubbles of pain
Happy new year we did not sing auld
lang sang the forgiveness song
for the new year we will all join
cross hands first and then join
the blessing song from old world
the song that says we will renew
the vow to forgive and forget
for the new year is a new beginning

Forgive Forget

Forgive yourself first
Forget the past now
Forget the reason
In the moment you
Walked the plank
Struck the sword
You were acting
From that small place
You forgot yourself
Its all about letting go

The Turn of The Tide

Will this year bring balance love and harmony
Can we find a new beginning to reclaim selves
This bubble we have created is but an illusion
There is no you no me no us and no them them
Men woman children ages color creed or nation
There is only the story we were never told
There is no life no death no beginning or end
There is only the now and the now is forever
What happened to love forgiveness and peace
There is no right no wrong no moral no ethic
There is only love and love is all there is
There is only the moment it which to be perfect