I live in Dublin, Ireland. Sometimes. Most times I live in my head, quite unaware of my surroundings – if you know what I mean… If you succeed in tracking Sean Walsh, please let me know, ok? I've been searching for him for years…
The Innkeeper to the Carpenter: “What? A bed for the night? You haven’t a hope! We’re full, booked out!.. What?.. Your wife is..? Oh. Oh, dear… Well, look – round the back – the stables… At least ye’ll be in out of the weather…” dfw-sw-christmas_poetry2.pdf
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December, 1950. Franciscan Novitiate. The Friary, Killarney. Christ Mass Dear Michael, The chap who wagered that I would be back in civvies before Christmas has lost his bet. ‘Verging on the New Year and I am still here! Stronger than ever, at that. In my resolve, determination… The “old Man” has ceased to complain about the strict life, I am...
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Here’s the Thing! I began to put words on paper during lock down… to veer away from Church as building, liturgy, religious rites – become more and more attracted to the idea of Presence… of the Divine with us wherever, whenever… Draft after draft followed… as I strove to get it as ‘right’ as I could. When, eventually, I published...
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When she took off I gave her a month, ‘month at the outside… She’ll be back, I’ll take bets on it. Down at the mouth, sure, but glad to be home for all that: safe, secure, shelter… Oh yeah, London’ll cure her cough. Oh, Jenny, Jenny!.. What are you at, a tall a tall, daughter mine?.. I didn’t give...
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