this is killing me

this is more than “sorry me”


O’ Lord help me

reach out and touch

O’ Lord in you my rest is found

I trust you, hope is found anew

touch me Lord I need you now

As I struggle

Once more on the floor

foetal sobbing today

I need your touch once more

Corr-es-pond {asking}

streaming sunlight

fills the view

filters the thoughts

dark clouds banished

a breeze commits

a trail of new thinking

neurons deflect moon-drops

synapses connect to light

fill me, Lord,

with your light

banish the dark

flood me with love

music {really?}

symbols clash

fright full noise

guns fire – swords collide

the root note of God transcends all


people meet

hands held cross

barbed wire, comments wound

the orchestration of the hoard


diving in

leaning on cymbal

mercy goodness kind

the resounding silence of love

vein vanity

blood courses through a vein

lapping elbow and knee

thrum, thrum, flow, flow

to God’s heartbeat – it loves

the course of a life changed

like a weather vane from one –

way to another

one hundred and eighty degrees

recreated from broken pieces

redeemed with ultimate joy

in the conquest of self

the vain unregulated motives

gone replaced by delight.

cleaning {spring}

you come into my place

and begin to tidy up

throwing out the old

bringing in the new


sometimes it’s hard

to let go of old ways

the sharpness of two edges

stabbing   pain   it hurts


you go into corners

I’d rather left alone

you shake out the dust sheets

and look underneath


as the work goes on within

the transformation of self

is palpable touchable yea!

the move from unloveable

to a daughter of the King



WWJD on the streets of Dub

Have you seen the wee girl
In the street by our college?
Kicking at the rubbish,
With her high, high heels.
In her eyes, there is no spark
Bringing each man to her side
Yesterday’s lost innocence
Bringing pain in today

So how can you tell me you’re missional
And it’s all going well in your own church.
Walk with me and talk with me
I’ll lead you through the streets of Dublin
I’ll show you something to make you change your mind.

Have you seen the pigeon kicker
And his burly thuggy mates
They live in hopelessness
And dark, dark times
They have no time for me
Or even know the Father
Yesterday’s lost innocence
Bringing pain in today

In the doorways, hey
You’ll find Paul, Bert, Sean, and Mark
Nick and Jim and even Siobhan
You’ll see duvets and damp pillows
Black plastic bin liners
Worn down faces
Past caring today

Would you give your new shirt?
Bring them home for dinner?
Walk the two miles
And turn the other cheek?
I’ve no time for Pharisees
I’ve no time for lip speaking
I want to see in you
Head, heart and hands

So change your sail to missional
Show tough hands that you can use
To change the world one bloke at a time
Show them Father through me

Three Poems

I was asked earlier this year to consider entering a poetry competition. I don’t ever do this but I had some spare time so churned out two new ones which are so obviously in their raw format and one I had been sitting on all year. I did not win {doh!} but now the event is over I can publish here.


She sat behind closed curtains

Staring at nothing

The light gone from her eyes

The chin candle no longer used.


She waited for death

A relief of sorts

No longer active

No longer cared.


Her life had been long

With many twists and turns

The good bad and ugly

Rolled into one.


No longer concerned with

Life outside the window

Only the magnitude of her naval

Pursued her to her bitter end.




It was more than a statistic

the empty truck on the side of the road

it was a testament and last will

An epitaph to man’s greed.


But the newspapers honed in

the sixth truck found this year

slight mention of tragic death occurring

but the “Sixth” struck a chord, in me.


The other five, what happened

to those desperate survivors –

sent back home or

refuged in a most inappropriate way?


It was the photo, slightly out of focus

in the corner by the open door –

a mangled Tonka digger

Like my son would often drive.


People, real people with

blood and breath and skin

were hidden and suffocated in

the truck by the side of the road.


A real child, with real hope:

for a better life, green hills, milk, and honey

expired their last breath

in the white truck, now abandoned, on the road to Ballina




He liked the feel of nylon sheets

And lacy satin briefs

He resented them on his wife’s body

It had to be his skin and his motifs.


He tried through life to be

Inoffensive and remained incomplete

He didn’t know how to love his wife

Once initial passion was replete.


No soul was ever told of his slinky longings

The shame would have all but killed him

So he lived with his guilty secret

Long past his wife’s last swim.


But one snowy rural night

This pillar of community reposed

On the kitchen floor by an upturned chair

wreathed in rose pink lips, his life foreclosed.