Our Father’s Love

Some humans yell from rooftops on high

Of the great love they feel for a precious new child.

Any why not?

Let them declare it, if the feelings be so.

Shout it out loud and let the universe know.

Some take pen and paper to hand

To write of deep fondness- the type speech can’t command.

Others find it too hard to say

Those three words I love you- it is just not their  way.

Your love for your children was shy but true

And this is what we’ll remember of you.

You’ve soared away now

To that “haven of rest”

Over Cork’s charming hills

In “the land of the west.”

But before you departed

As I kissed your pale brow

A realisation emerged

That still stays with me now:

Each father’s love uses a different  colour,

And no one canvas dyes better than the other.


x

Henry’s First Holiday

 

 Chocolate eyes,

Almost good enough to chew,

Hidden only to sleep or play peek-a-boo!

Eyelashes curling toward the night sky,

Like brushes, they could paint a star,

Will you ever know how wondrous you are?

 

Clapping and laughing,

Gazing at passers- by

They go round the corner,

You follow with open eyes.

“Round and round the garden like a teddy bear, one step , two steps and a tick-a-ly under there..”

 

Sandy toes and a fine snotty nose

Screeching seagulls overhead

A salty plate of grilled sardines

And then its’ off to bed.

 

The barking of the bow wow

The dazzle of the sand

You walk with glee on cobbled streets

But still need a helping hand

 

The splashing of the water-  so much fun!

A lone trawler glides home under a setting sun

You cuddle to your mother's breast 

Cooing like a dove
 

Oh, Little baby Henry

You teach me how to love.

 

 

 

                                       Babies of the Lost Generation

 
Not even the wise can predict the day,

When a life may change in most violent a way.

A storm howls in amid gusts of fear,

And makes loud each din in a small child's ear.

Those hateful winds; they rise and soar,

Until the path is clear no more.

But cry not wee child and do not fear,

For after the wild the calm shall appear.

I hope that at your journey’s end

These words you might hear from a neighbouring friend:

“Just breathe- you’ll be OK,
 
And hold my hand throughout this day.”

For laps of kindness will line the shore,

And your worries will be no more.

Each wave will gather speed,

Just as day follows night- bringing you safely to land and holding you tight.

 

For the lost generations of innocent refugee children in the world.

                     Henry

                                                          Born on the Nineteenth day of April, 2015

 

                                        Sent from above,

                                       And born into love

                                    With potential abound.

                                    We do not know you,

                                     Yet we already do.

 

                                     You are perfect,

                                      You are small,

                                You need us to do it all.

                             Perfect skin, soft and clear

                                    Eyes wide open,

                                   You sense us near.

 

                             We love you beyond compare

                      From your big man feet to your head of hair!

                        Loving child, you’ve brought such joy.

                          Behold oh world---our little boy!

 

"Mid pleasures and places, though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home." ¬ John Howard Payne

Up, up,up and away! A little bubble, perfectly formed, takes flight from it’s home in the warm familiarity of my brand new kitchen sink. An unremarkable event but my eyes catch it and it distracts me from my fairy liquid induced state of mind. I’m not sure why this little escapee makes me notice but as I follow it's journey upward I am suddenly motionless...

 It is quite a perfect thing, is a bubble. The delicate film of iridescent colour invites me in to the perfect airy world inside, a sanctuary from outside forces and with the long forgotten enthusiasm of a child I begin to will it on, on its’ journey, wishing for it not to burst. I watch and wait for it to explode and vanish into thin air, any second now, any second, just wait, but no.......it floats- like hope. For what seems like an age I follow this bubble as it dances this way and that before it gently begins its’ downward descent to its’ final resting place, proudly atop the sudsy capped mountain from which it left. Then suddenly PLINK !- gone.

There is a very particular feeling of child-like glee one feels, or at least should feel when watching a bubble rise and soar. I remember this feeling as a little girl and how I never wanted my bubble to burst. I too have glided and travelled to many beautiful places and I have loved and lost but I am very glad to say that my hope still floats and my bubble still dances with this wonderful delicate thing we call life. My hot and tingling hands beckon me back to the task at hand and I finish cleaning my dirty dishes.

It’s Sunday morning and I am very much at home.

                                                                            All I ask of Love

For my treasured brother and his wife to be.

 

To ask too much from Love, I dare not

Nor hinder its’ destined way

Remembering always its’ ebb and flow

It is to Love that I give myself today

 

I shall not want the world from it

But serve as best I know

Never to crave or neglect what is mine.

Just nourish, listen, grow.

 

Love’s fatherly hand we take this day

To lead us on a way

The destination as yet unknown

Our future- a face to us not shown.

 

And when this earthly dusk draws in

And our story here be told

The promise I made to Love today

To other worlds shall surely go

 

To care – we must

To dream – we dare

To laugh, to seek and be bold

Yet, it is to Love that I give myself

To keep, to have and to hold.

 

 

Daddy

                                 Gerard Oliver Golden

                                                         March 28^th 1952- March 8th 2014

 

Inch Beach, Co. Kerry

The bearded tufts of sea grass shield the gentle green curves of the Kerry hills from the might of the Atlantic gusts.  Mother and Father Nature are here together, in this place. They work side by side, hand in hand.  

I remembered my father’s hands. As a younger girl I always wanted him to hold my hand more but I was a little shy of asking. It wasn’t what we did, I suppose. The longing to hold them now was strong. They were very soft and I recalled rubbing them as he lay in bed not long before he took his last baby breath and slipped away.  “Your father had beautiful hands alright”, I recalled my mother say.

I walked along the sandy shore and I began to think about my Dad. He must have felt a renewed sense of hope deep in his heart each time he managed a short walk on the beach. His desire to stay on this Earth as powerful as the gusts that  were now swirling around me.

My father used those hands to work hard in our pub Golden's Bar, all his life.  They pulled pints, stacked empty shelves and rolled heavy barrels of the black stuff , they lifted and dragged crates and boxes. They cleaned glasses, wiped table tops, mopped floors and lit fires; big welcoming fires around which many people sat - wonderful people- funny people. Men and women, young and old, sitting, talking, sipping, clapping, singing and laughing. Always laughter. And on many a night they danced with the sparks of the much loved fire at their feet. There were times too when his hands lay quiet in his lap, business as it does forcing them to slow down awhile. I recall the furrows on his brow when days were long and customers few.

 I harked back in my mind to watching his hands counting the money. The same routine each time. The coins strewn across the big old counter.  He’d slide them into his open hand, left to right and fast as lightening before stacking them up into little towers,  counting, concentrating, 1p’s, 2p’s 5p’s 10p’s… tap tap, tap.  Separate bundles for the cash, of course. He’d whistle as he went, always a sign of a good weekend. And of those there were plenty. Music, sport and drama. They were great sessions, dance on the counter and sing your heart out sessions. Italia 90, Sonia O’ Sullivan, All Ireland finals, the rugby, the golf, the dogs and Cheltenham- his favourite. I’d watch on from behind the counter, still too young to participate fully but always immersed. They were special times for everyone.

 My father was a man lost and found many times over in this world as anyone could be. Each in their own personal and unique way. He had his flaws, he was only human. But he was my father and I loved him. He loved to see a fella do well in life, especially the underdog. He was generous of spirit and was a gentleman in his own way. He was a supporter of the working man, no airs or graces. I remember noticing some of the ways in which he would help people, give them a start. He was always good that way. He enjoyed a good yarn, he laughed heartily, he enjoyed his pint, particularly after a hectic night and he could quiet a crowd with a song.

 As I turned the corners of Slea Head I glanced back at the beauty behind me. I followed  on along the road to my journeys end-Dingle. I stopped the car and looked out at the silvery sky and I think I saw my father’s face again as he met his journeys’ end that afternoon in the hospital. The warm peace that hugged him in his bed. No more pain, no more fear. All lines and wrinkles left his face that day, all earthly scars sank back into the ocean of his lived life and vanished out of sight.

                                                                            ***

 “Never saw Gerdie looking so well; a lovely expression on his face”, they whispered as they filed past his coffin. “I had some of the best nights of my life in that bar!” giggled another. “Ah, the poor man, may he rest in peace”.

 I prayed for him every day after he died that his spirit be lifted to new heights. I hope it will rise and soar to places in the world he never got to see. I hope it will settle again somewhere new, somewhere beautiful with a long sandy beach and a few green hills; where he can walk with ease, possibly with his own mother and father, together again in nature and holding hands.

                                                 Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.