how I wish I’d been
a man, a dog, or a priest
being held from sin
by a roman collar or leash
how I wish my acts
were good and virtuous deeds
narrowing the path
for saintly men and their beasts
Covey of nuns
without benefit of wimple
graciously attired
sport coat, turtleneck, skirt
scurry through the airport
iPads swinging
unaware the turtleneck
is their Roman collar.
Donal Mahoney
One Celt, Armed
Poetry by priests?
Who gives it more than mock attention?
We read their poems, yes,
author first, then the title,
finally the verse itself.
Not much, except for Hopkins.
We wait for Rome, you see,
to give us in addition to its saints
one more decent poet.
A sot once said
“When things get bad enough,
you will see a Celt,
armed with a quiver of poems,
ride flaming out of the hills,
soaring over the lakes,
wearing a rainbow for a Roman collar.”
Things are bad enough right now by half.
We need to hear his gallop soon.
Donal Mahoney
An Easter Rising
Poetry by priests?
Who gives it more than mock attention?
We read their poems, yes,
author first, then the title,
finally the verse itself.
Not much, except for Hopkins.
We wait for Rome, you see,
to give us in addition to its saints
one more decent poet.
A sot once said
“When things get bad enough,
you will see a Celt,
armed with a quiver of poems,
ride flaming out of the hills,
soaring over the lakes,
wearing a rainbow for a Roman collar.”
Things are bad enough right now by half.
We need to hear his gallop now.
Donal Mahoney
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