False Memory
To know how little You remember, move backward Until you forget.
The Journey Of The Magi
The Journey Of The Magi A cold coming we had of it. Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp. The very dead of winter. And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we
Nothing
Inexorably The cosmos moves toward death. Nothing will be left.
A Fable
A FABLE Three old hens lived in the yard of a tender-hearted farmer named Nelly. The hens were at the end of their egg-laying days, but Nelly hated slaughtering her chickens even when they had outlived their usefulness, and the three hens had been with her for a long time. She’d grown rather fond of
Snow
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses
Waiting For The Storm
Waiting For The Storm Old snow in the field Winter’s lull sharpens my ears Soon the sky will speak
Coaching Session
Coaching Session A good many years ago I was a member of a television comedy troupe called The Henway Company (what’s a Henway? About four pounds. Cue rim shot, da dum bah!) It was the brain-child of a witty guy named Ray Edelstein, and it was openly based on the sketch comedy of NBC’s “Saturday
The Cruel Mother
The Cruel Mother A minister’s daughter i’ the north, Hey, the rose and the linsey, O, Has fallen in love wi’ her feyther’s clerk, Doun by the greenwood sidey, O! He’s courted her for a year and a day, Hey, the rose and the linsey, O! At last she’s proved wi’ child by him. Doun
A Jazzbo Night Before Christmas
A Jazzbo Night Before Christmas ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the pad Not a hepcat was swinging, and that’s nowhere, dad. The stove was hung up in the stocking routine In hopes that the fat man would soon make the scene. The kids had all had it, so they hit their sacks,
The Willow Tree Carol
As it befell on a high holiday, Small rain from the sky did fall, Our saviour asked his mother Mary If he might go play at ball. “At ball, at ball, my own dear son, It’s time that you were gone! And don’t let me hear of any mischief At night when you come home.”