By your presence

For Paula, for endless kindness

You will ask, or be asked someday
What good have you done?
What purpose, in this shifting world
What weight did you place upon the scales ?

You cannot answer for yourself
You'll never guess the moments
Only others can tell the tale
Of acts and omissions filed in your name

But like golden coins they'll pile;
Solid, worthy, generous, tangible,
Each one with a testament affixed
And each of these will start with this

By your presence -  three glorious words.
By your presence, we were comforted
By your presence, we were fed
And burdens lifted, hard times eased

By your presence - tangled threads unbound,
Problems solved and time reclaimed
Tea and biscuits, time and thought
And always laughter, always some moments joy.

There will be volumes written and declared.
Each one of a kindness kindly given
Each one shining in the deepening dark
A line of light to lead you home.

You, you wear this lightly as you go
But by your presence are you known

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Late Coffee

You were there.
In the smile when someone
(Could have been me.
Allegedly.)
Wore the plastic gown -
a mournful clown.
You were there.
In the moment you insisted
On sitting up
On getting out of bed
That old defiance, that bold man.
You were there.
In the pallid light
Over late night coffee
In the echo of other times
In brighter places.
You were there.
In the glint of an eye
When we discussed the state
of the Irish nation
after the Black Prince, and you nodded.
You were still there
When I left.
You were still there.

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Wilderness

This is an old one; I found it recently online and thought, well if it's on other sites it should get a place on my own blog...I have mixed feelings about it, it is a poem written about the claims of old friends who are no longer friends. It was written for someone I knew in my teens and twenties, a very different place in my life.


Wilderness

We were lost for a while, despite maps
You looked into the distance and called
and your voice returned multifold.
I had told you that there was an echo but
you wouldn't believe an old friend;
I am hurt that you had no faith
and in the end we are what we believe.

The trek to the summit was hard
and I longed to be back in the valleys;
I wouldn't say so to you,
and you knew I was being forbearing
how deeply you hate me, my old friend.

I am submerged in the cool lake, swimming
and the sound of your voice is muffled;
I am free of the claims of the past, even
as you climb into my present.

1.

Reality, for Tommie

A poem about friendship: I have a friend, whom I have never met face to face, but whose friendship is real. It is real, because it has endured - differences of opinion, changes in our lives, deep loss, happiness. We sometimes talk daily, sometimes sadly, once a month or even less. Sometimes we chat on the phone, more often online. Sometimes I have confided in her things I could tell no one else, and vice verse. Sometimes we just talk about nothing. This is her poem.




For Tommie; A poem about friendship

Shattered conversations, broken words,
glimpses of each other’s life. My words
rushed on a keyboard in work;
yours in a house with kids and dog.
Thousands of miles apart, heart to heart
across a continent, and over seas
through the ether, on the wire –
friendship spanning time and space.
Face to face, we’ve never been –
impossible to believe! I have held
your hand, felt your presence, seen
through your eyes…you have walked
city streets with me, sat at table, celebrated
family. How can it not be real?
We must redefine physics; ignore these
hard men who would say,
your friendship is virtual. Mutual
trust is real, laughter is real,
time shared is real. The only illusion
is theirs. We know, we know – Our words
are real.

1.

The Last Rose Blooms

For Emer


The last rose blooms
in rare weather; it takes
rain and sunshine,
good times deferred
bad days and first frost
and luck; good soil,
good stock.

The fading glory appeals
to older eyes; wiser tastes
applaud and accept
its rich fragility,
the final beauty adorning
our autumn days
with grace.

It weathered spring storms
and summer torrents
the sun's relentless beating
and the shade
until it put forth one perfect
bloom; a memory of days
now past

Other plants wither, decay
give in early to the cold
lose heart at the first blasts
of autumn winds -
Some draw on roots that run
deep into good earth -
and bloom.

1.

Pat

I think that perhaps that far distant year has come; I know I can think of this old friend only with affection and withotu regret, only wishing well, and remembering the best. I hope somewhere he can do the same.


For Pat.


Concealment
half conscious and half true
has become like breath to me
I cannot even know myself
and you,
you are like a new found land
stranger than my dreams.
Holding you
I know that I am safe;
but only for seconds.
You escape me and I do not know
if this is chance or just
the way we are.
Your voice I listen for
amid the babble and the crush
in which we live
and when I think or when you
give, some proof
of caring
I quickly find some sign
our lives weren't meant for
sharing or for love.
Yet still I know that
you are somehow mine;
I think in some far distant year
you will think of me
and I of you
with knowledge
If we do I hope that fear is fone
and all that will remain
is memories of laughters
wild nights and stories sadly told
and heard
between two trusting friends.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

The Contest

Part of a series on friendship, this poem may seem oblique in its refernces but it has a very simple premise, that moment of triumph over someone who traditionally has played the dominant role. Sometimes this can be innocent, often less so - we have mixed feelings towards those friends we allow into our lives but with whom we have fraught or resentful relationships.
That soft underbelly of friendship, the slightly unhealthy range of emotions in particualr in long term relationships with others, who hald keys to parts of ourselves and remember us at times we might prefer to forget....that is the unifying theme of the Frienship poems.

The Contest


At last I have won;
My wits against yours
my worth weighed,
yours found wanting.

Over dramatic? yes
but oh so sweet -
a victory plucked
from your defeat.

Old friend, forgive
me my gloating tone.
Remember I have tasted
ashes for you, alone.

I have waited eons
to rise once above you
to be the sole voice
soaring, sounding true.

I am petty, I know
but old friend, you often
broke my heart
time without end.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.