Archive for the ‘Chris’ Category

1984-06-24 For the pictures

Sunday, June 24th, 1984

                    For the pictures


   In the gray half light I saw the picture patterns she'd hung;
   imperishable for this moment, and so fragile for all the rest.
   Someday, I may remember these, that tonight I can see.
   Somewhere, down the imponderable paths our lives wind,
   I could be dropped into another world - far from this
   and Rose's pictures and Danny's manhood and Chris' cheeks
   may all be photographs and memories then ...
   indeed...we all will be, someday.


   So this moment ... I cannot stop it, cannot delay it
   and I cannot waste it, least I regret.


   So easy to lose it against hungers or moods or fatigue.
   The kindness and love we give and receive...
   it seems so mixed with the mundane and the trivial sometimes.


   But all the lessons of our lives wait before us;
   lessons from which no one escapes alive.


   What more could God give us than the people we love
   and the passion of living out our lives with them
   in family/friend chains of living change?


                           gallagher
                           24 jun 84




— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1984-08-11

Saturday, August 11th, 1984

Most of my life is easy…distractions
friends, peers, equals, sounding boards
those I’m defining myself with
and against.

But it gets harder when we press against
those unlike us in years or spirit;
our teenagers and preschoolers
and those we have to work with.

And yet how much of my energy do I spend
on the easy ground
and how sparsely do I meditate
on my sons and their growth.

gallagher
11 aug 84
san juan capistrano


— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1985-05-05

Sunday, May 5th, 1985

 

            A little boy has the chicken pox
              his skin comes boiling
            but its my heart
              that talks....
            He whines and twitches; it itches so bad,
              and I look at his skin and I just get mad.
            Love and anger, compassion and strain,
              I ache for his innocence, so small against pain.
            These moments are burnt of welling tears
              hard passages through my mortal fears.
            The love we feel, on this stage of death,
              for all the vanished children and we who're left.
            All this was mine, as I held his hand.
              As his little courage
                 struggled so hard to stand.
            All this was mine
              ...but, Dear God, I don't understand.
                                 gallagher
                                 5 may 85

 

 

 

 

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —