Prayers, Prose and Poetry

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For The Friends of the Handicaped

This prayer was written by a young man named Wallace who has a Traumatic Brain Injury. It was given by him to a lady I worked with who has graciously allowed me to present it.

Blessed are you, who take the time to listen to difficult speech,

For you help me to know that if I persevere I can be understood.

Blessed are you who never bid hurry up, or take my tasks away from me,

For I often need time rather than help.

Blessed are you, who stand beside me if I enter new and untried ventures,

For my failures will be outweighed by the times I surprise myself and you.

Blessed are you who ask for my help.

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I Am The Child

I AM THE CHILD WHO CANNOT TALK. You often pity me. I see it in your eyes. You wonder how much I am aware of. I see that as well. I am aware of much. Whether you are happy or sad or fearful, patient or impatient, full of love and desire, or if you are just doing your duty by me. I marvel at your frustration, knowing mine to be far greater, for I cannot express myself nor my needs as you do. You cannot conceive my isolation, so complete it is at times. I do not gift you with clever conversation, cute remarks to be laughed over and repeated. I do not give you answers to your everyday questions, responses over my well being, sharing my needs, or comments about the world around me. I do not give you rewards as defined by the worlds standards. great strides in development that you can credit yourself; I do not give understanding as you know it. What I give you is so much more valuable I give you instead, opportunities. Opportunities to discover the depth of your character, not mine, the depth of your love, your commitment, your patience, your abilities, the opportunity to explore your spirit more deeply than you imagined possible. I drive you further than you would ever go on your own, working harder, seeking answers to your many questions, creating questions with no answers. I am the child who cannot talk.

I AM THE CHILD WHO IS MENTALLY IMPAIRED. I don't learn easily, if you judge me by the worlds measuring stick. What I do know is infinite joy in the simple things. I am not burdened as you are with the strife and conflicts of a more complicated life. My gift to you is to grant you the freedom to enjoy things as a child, to teach you how much your arms around me mean, to give you love. I give you the gift of simplicity. I am the child who is mentally impaired.

I AM THE DISABLED CHILD. I am your teacher. If you allow me, I will teach you what is really important in life. I will give you and teach you unconditional love. I gift you with my innocent trust, my dependency upon you. I teach you about the sanctity of life. I teach you about how very precious this life is and about not taking things for granted. I teach you about forgetting your own needs and desires and dreams. I teach you giving. Most of all, I teach you hope and faith. I am the disabled child.

Author: Unknown

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Abu Ben Adam

(Abou Ben Adhem)

Abu Ben Adam (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace
And saw, within the moonlight of his room
Making it rich, like a lily in bloom
An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Abu Ben Adam bold
And to the presence in his room he said
'What writest thou?'
The vision raised its head
And with a look of all sweet accord
Answered: 'The names of those who love the Lord.

'And is mine one?' said Abu.
'Nay not so'
Replied the Angel:
Abu spoke more low But cheerily still and said
'I pray thee then
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men'
The angel wrote and vanished.

The next night It came again with awaking light
And showed the names of whom love of God had blessed.
And lo! Ben Adam's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt

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The River Of Life

The more we live, more brief appear
Our lifes succeeding stages;

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,

Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the care-worn cheeks grow Wan,
And sorrows shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and Breath
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange---yet who would Change
Times course to slower speeding,

When one by one our friends have Gone
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading Strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.

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When I Was Young

When I was young and handsome,
no care had I to give.
I thought not much of years on Earth,
Nor how long I would live.

When I was young and handsome,
None others did I see.
I cared too much about myself,
to see much more than me.

When I was young and handsome,
I sought no self-control.
I cared too much for revelry,
to think about my soul.

Now years have faded beauty,
and visiting the past,
I wish I spent more time with God
and valued things that last.

Michael McLoughlin
Feb. 14th, 2000

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My Father's Watch

About four or five years had gone by since my father passed away. My mother had found a poem in the newspaper about how ones name was passed on from father to son and we should keep our name clean and not let it fall into disgrace. She asked me to make a copy for her at work, and I did so, as well as enlarging it for her. I kept a copy myself and put it above my desk at work. I read it, and then just forgot about it and it hung thier among the many other items pinned to my board.

Some two or more years passed, and on one of those hectic evenings at work when I was running around like the proverbial chicken, I took a minute to collapse in my chair to take a short break. My eyes happened to fall on the poem, and I read it again.

The second stanza was,

"If you loose the watch he gave you
it can always be replaced;
But a black mark on your name son,
can never be erased."

I sat back and thought to myself that my old man hadn't given me a watch, but he sure gave me a lot more. I reflected on the fact that he was quite a guy. The best man I had ever personally known. A good and loving father and husband.

That was that! Back to work. Shelved away in the memory bank.

The next day I went to see my mother, as usual, and after walking in and kissing her hello and sitting at the table, I saw her walk into the bedroom. She came back and placed a gold watch in front of me. She said, "This is your father's watch, and I'm sure he would want you to have it." She told me that the day before, she was looking for something and found it under the bathroom sink in a plastic cup. What was odd as well was that she had moved from one place to another after my father had passed away, and all of their belongings had been handled and moved during the process. All my fathers possessions such as cuff links and tie clasps etc. were accounted for and divided up among us. His clothes were donated to good will, but my mother kept a suit and coat as a reminder just to hang in the closet.

No one ever thought of or wondered about his watch! When I read the poem the night before, the thought that came to my head was the kind of pocket watch you usually see as being passed on from father to son.

But here it is! I'm looking at it right now. A gold faced Bulova self winding wrist watch with a Twistoflex band. It gains about five minutes every two days, keeping a bit fast so as not to be late. Just like my old man.

So he really did give me his watch. He just waited for the right time and place. I know he must think I'm a fool, but I wouldn't trade it for a Rolex.

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No Man is an Island

No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were:
any man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.

John Donne (1572-1631)

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Pleasing God

Let me not be reluctant, O Lord,
In showing my gratitude,

Let me not be lukewarm in love,
For the glory is in servitude.

For, true listening with heart is what pleases God,
The giving of self is our gift,

For how else could God touch you,
except through His own children

Reaching out with the mighty hand that lifts?
So will I ever thank You, My Lord, for my every breath,

Giving You the first fruits of my toil...
Dedicating each minute to The One Who gave me life,

To The One Whose planting, and this I pray, shall yield much fruit from my barren, needy soil.

Donna Gagne 09-12-02

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Meditation

Nothing is more practical than finding God, That is, than falling in love in quite an absolute, final way. What you fall in love with, what seizes your imagination will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.

Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.

Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ

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Watch Your Thoughts,
for they become words.

Choose your words, for they become actions.

Understand your actions, for they become habits.

Study your habits, for they will become your character.

Develope your character, for it becomes your destiny.

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The Past Is History

The future is a mystery

Today is a gift

That is why we call it the present

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The Highwayman
Part One

I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two

I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say- Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

By Alfred Noyes

Notes: This is the original version of The Highwayman, copyrighted 1906, 1913.

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