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Beetle

The black and white photograph confirmed two doors
yet I could have sworn there were four
so posh were we in our four wheel superbug
early sixties, a gleaming turquoise with frogs’ eyes
and a mirror of lustrous chrome front and back
straight from Statham’s in Kilkenny.
We stuttered to start, a see-saw of clutch and throttle,
my father, used to the Massey Ferguson,
pressed the accelerator with force and we were off
brakes slammed when we reached
the end of Ellen’s Lane. No stop sign then, not even
a sideways glance before swinging onto the road.
Good God, ,twill be the death of us!
my mother exclaimed from the front seat,
Mass prayer book and beads in hand,
five children, and sometimes seven, piled in behind.
My sister and I being smallest rolled
into a cubbyhole behind the back seat, crouched
beneath the sloping window, heads bopping
as we bumped over rock and rivulet down the lane.
The low drag of the engine vibrating beneath us,
it seemed we were travelling on the frog’s back.

Nora Brennan

The Thought Process

The thought process is not emotion
Listen and keep wishing
That a condition is a position mission
Street wise be surprised
By mercy and forgiveness
Credence searching for images
Belief hence
The Kings will reign forever
Everything has its measure
Like buried treasure
Worried but whenever the clever
Decide to weather the storm
Again you are born
Remember the burning embers
A crown of thorns
Imagination, anticipation
The King is still waiting
Impatient proclamation
The King still rules
Christmas Yules
This day when you sing Amen

Noel Cantwell

In the Father’s Hand

I awoke feeling confused and disorientated, my vision seemed blurred, and I seemed to be in a strange place. In the dim lit room I realised there was a lady sitting across from me, she seemed so angelic, it felt like she was observing and caring for me, she wore a veil. My first thought was, is it the Blessed Virgin, our holy mother. In that moment I felt safe, I recognised peace, I was being guarded.
The lady turned out to be a Nun or a sister watching over me in recovery from my procedure. As my mouth was filled with bloodied cotton wool to fill the gap left by the extraction of six teeth, I reached in and started to pull it out as the texture was horrible and soggy,
I heard her reassuring words. Don’t, Paul, you’re ok, you’re going to be ok.
How did she know my name, I thought.
I heeded her kindness, I sensed her compassion, I believed her.
As a young six-year-old boy I remembered her gentleness and her niceness.
Five or ten minutes elapsed, and she led me out of the little room, hospital-like setting and feel with spotless floors and a smell of disinfectant.
My father was waiting for me in a waiting area. I can’t remember his face when he saw me, but I remember feeling happy he was there.
The nun asked did I want a taxi. Or maybe it was a lift, I’m not sure.
No, replied my father we’ll be grand, we’re just down the road.
As we walk out towards the road he reaches out and holds my hand as we cross. We cross and he still continues to hold my hand. This felt a bit strange but nice. It wasn’t the norm for us or, I suppose, most families in the mid-70s. I remember as we were starting to walk towards Black Mill hill, my small hand in his big strong hand, I felt proud, I looked up at him, I could feel my heart smile, if I was to speak the words in my heart as a six-year-old boy it was I LOVE MY DADDY, MY DADDY IS THE BEST.
So as were heading down for home it was like an encounter with the holy mother, God’s house just beside me. I swear when I looked up it was like the cathedral was touching the heavens, but with my father’s hand holding my hand in his, maybe it was the heavens had touched the earth.

Paul Clifford