The Heraldy Press

The Boy on the Beach
No soldiers, no football, no dinosaurs too,
No trains, cars or airplanes, or fun he was due,
The love and the laughter, the dreams and the joy,
All now but memories of that gorgeous boy
The child on the beach, remembered in song,
Once loved, now a symbol of all that’s gone wrong,
A world undeserving of his short troubled life,
A beautiful kid, dealt a hand filled with strife.
In an era of hope, he’s been cast against type,
He was nobody’s problem, or anyone’s gripe,
A baby, a toddler, a boy, not yet a teen,
The world should react to this horrific scene,
No soldiers, no football, no dinosaurs too,
He could have belonged to me or to you.

An immigrant’s nightmare,
That phone call we dread,
Whether out at a movie,
Or wrapped up in bed.

A quest to go home,
To go book that next flight
No time for advice,
To help through our plight.

Things will be abandoned,
Planning futures so strange,
A last minute trip scheduled,
To a lifetime now changed.

Drop what you’re doing,
Pack up turn the locks,
For the one whom we fly for,
We can’t turn back clocks.

There’s what-ifs and how-comes,
If only You’d stayed,
But know they were proud,
Of the life that you made.

Things never said to them,
But thought every day,
It’s easy to love one,
Though harder to say.

So much was missed,
During times spent away
But remember those feelings,
That don’t go astray.

The feeling of emptiness,
May one day be filled,
Until then just memories,
And tears that are spilled.

A glass will be raised,
A memory shared,
Despite the bravado,
We’re immigrants scared.

No prom dates, no college,

No walk down
the aisle.

No first dance with father,

No first tooth-lost smile.

No driving a first car,

No honk of a horn,

No waving from doorways,

No fix of hearts torn.

No time to be grown-up,

No teen angst or cool,

No playing on beaches,

No splashes in pools.

No rides on the schoolbus,

No homework to do,

No sickdays with mom’s care,

No thoughts how time flew.

No footsteps in snowfall,

No running in rain,

No squinting in sunshine,

No escape from the pain.

No hiding, no seeking,

No playing of games,

No flowers, no dolls house,

No more snaps in frames.

No reasons for leaving,

No harm did they cause,

No tears are enough now,

Just beauty, no flaws.

Looking at the sleeping child.

Her tenderness forever sealed

In her wondrous state.

Loved, not reviled.

Her gentle ways and smiles

Encapsulate

The mysteries of Life

And Natures wiles.

Why was she chosen

To be so pure?

Before those of lesser worth,

And warmth so poor?

My mind’s not bitter,

My heart’s just sad.

That such a choice.

Could come from God.

My left, my right.

My up, my down.

My speech, my sight,

My smell, my sound.

My heaven, my hell,

My sunshine, my rain,

My whisper, my yell,

My laughter, my pain.

My stars, my moon,

My sail, my flight,

My midnight, my noon,

My joys, my plight.

My letters, my words

My thoughts, my acts,

My fish, my birds,

My rumors, my facts.

My right, my wrong,

My music, my song,

My water, my air,

My blink, my stare.

My heart, my soul,

My two, my one,

My hot, my cold,

My life, my son.

The Spirit of Old Dublin

Cathedral shadow, from

moonlight’s gleam, casts

a shape on world serene.

This ghost of Swift

through gardens green

walks the park at midnight.

My spirit moves, on paths

now bare.

With dormant life and inner stare

at world now changed

but yet the same,

with troubles still,

of war and pain

As in my time, long

now gone.

The poor still weak,

the rich still strong.

What might it take,

myself I ask

for men to know,

that life will pass.

Not like a flower to

bloom and please,

and then to die, with

Sweet unease.

But man perverse, will

not adjust,

to God’s request

or Nature’s thrust.

He will persist, with

lack of thought,

to exploit still

the lives he’s bought.

His wealth exceeds

his earthly want,

he yet submits

to earthly greed.

Life has not changed,

this ghost concedes.

Man’s still the same

with wants and needs.

Maybe with time, and God’s will,

He may improve, and may still win.

But for now to rest,

in silent tomb,

in Patrick’s church,

near Dublin’s Coombe.

Perhaps to walk some night again,

And ponder on the fates of men.