Message from Fr Con Buckley and two new poems

Dear beloved and precious faithful readers and friends,
My book “Wheels of Light” is now available from Authorhouse UK (click here) or just email me at “conbuckley1946@gmail.com“. I make no profit from it. I am just doing it for the spiritual benefit, entertainment, and ministry of ┬ámy colleagues and friends. I enclose another two poems I read at the launch, from my projected new collection of poems, but at the moment for your eyes only. Enjoy, and please attach any comment or criticism of the poems or the books, or just a comment on anything you wish. I want to make this web site a two-way street; we’re all on the same road together.
Best wishes with Love,
Fr.Con Buckley
The Almighty Car
Who is the ruler of the world we share,
Christ, or the almighty car
For more than man it has heard the call,
Increase and multiply and fill the earth,
And spread your glorious fumes everywhere.
Like and out-of-control wildfire, raging
Through our cities, stacked up and become aware
In every new lanes and thoroughfares, it purrs like a cat
While we, its pale willing slaves, sit impatient, trapped
And careworn, in the chrome churches of the almighty car.
Where its ever increasing rows of angry roaring engines,
Stretch far as the eye can see, and say,
“Get out of my way, slave, I am the almighty car.
Who is the ruler of the world now, Christ or the almighty car.
Beware, beware, his flashing eyes, his flashing hair.
For there is no real escape from its reign,
Even in quiet boreens and lost byeways now,
It confronts and bars our way, or roars out
Of side roads, as if to say, get out of my way
Where have you been, don’t you know I’m the almighty car.
Stop fool, its boasts, you are not in charge any more,
But must live now under the cosh of the almighty car.
Fat, and fuming, obese from its convenience, we dont
Walk any more, helpless without recourse to the almighty care
Lined up for taxies outside every house and shop and bar.Even the high school boy doesn’t creep reluctantly
To school any more, but roars up religiously
In the almighty car, and on Sundays instead
Of going to God, pays it homage in polishing rituals
Or donut forays, prayers required by the almighty carEven the new snobbery and class warfare is situated
In the auspices of the almighty car, in showing off
Of the latest model, or the large powerful 4-by-4,
While our debts rise and clamour to be paid,
We dedicate more and more of what we have to the almighty car.

Even its contribution to the apocalypse, depletion
Of the ozone layer, and the global warming crisis everywhere
Does not prevent us from craven devotion to the almighty car.
I myself worship, though I rage at how it suddenly comes at me
From side-streets, and dazzlingly tailgates me at night

And deafens and annoys me with its insistent horns,
And hems me in for hours with its city swarms, or
When I am urgently anxious to get to work or home,
A-sudden it crashes into me and condemns me to untold
Painful hospital beds and filling out of insurance forms.

Yet still I cannot break the grip of the almighty car,
Though I see its shadow behind all the middle-east oil wars,
And the constant sacrifice of young men on the pagan altar
Of the speed desire, and its fuming guzzling petrol demands,
Still I stay held fast under the spell of its shiny charms.

Though I often say I will become an atheist soon, refusing
To worship any longer the idol of the almighty car, reverting
To leg power again, or the leisure of the humble bike,
Its all in vain, I remain a hopeless addict and still drive one
Like all the rest of its vast worldwide slaves under the sun.

I am surprised that by now that we have not begun to pray
To the almighty car as it carries us away into the dying day.
For even us priests, and artists and poets, must enlist
In the swarming armies of the almighty car, and carry in one
Our precious manuscripts in fear and trembling to publishers

Even to sharp critics, sitting in plush Mercedes, while we
Drive up in worn out crocks, for there’s no money in poetry
And there’s often a price to be paid, of pride and avarice
For driving a Lexis or Rolls Royce, even one’s soul or pearly
Inner being may be sold for 24 years of driving a Lamborghini

Or an open-top gold convertible cruising the Riviera coast,
Often the last refuge of the scoundrel or the lost is
The lusty chaffeur-driven Cadillac, where behind dark drawn
Curtains, reside dark mafia worshippers of the almighty car,
Once a transporter now also a sophisticated computer and bar.

Like James Bond toys with every weapon of mass destruction,
We follow the slick catechism instruction of the almighty car,
Not knowing that it is the real mad one about to take over
The world, the drone of engine organs telling its praise.

Is the almighty car after all the joy or end of all our days?

Hair
Why has God made the hair of women?
For that has a haunting quality,
Dark and mysterious,
As it falls over faces,
Or over bare shoulders
Or on the straps of cocktail dresses,
Tresses dark or fair,
Waved or curled or gleaming
In an otherwise unbeautiful night air.
Dreaming of being caressed,
The hair of women hangs there
Like the golden fleece
To be sought after,
Seized and kissed,
And brought to a house
As a treasure without price.
Why has God made the hair of women?
The hair of men is somehow,
More functional and grim,
In scraggy beards or greasy locks
It seems to mock control,
Or trimmed neatly it tries to avoid
Being hair at all; bald as a badger
They say of those whose hair
Has become part of the fall.On chest or back or brawny arms
Its even more incongruous, ape-like
In its surprise; “what a hairy fellow
he is”, they say with a grin,
As if he harks back to creation day
Or the primitive cave of stone age men.How stunning by comparison
Is the hair of women,
So sinless and smooth and feminine.

And what about the hair of children?
How rare and fine that is too,
So innocent in its cut
And line and gleam, how clean
On fair haired boys or
Auburn curled little girls,
Are they not like pearls,
Freshly pressed from the shell.

But is hair also sometimes like hell,
That in churches we cover it up,
Lest it swell and torment the heart,
To too much passion, or too much pride.

Is hair after all something inside,
Has man made the hair of women
Something significant,
Though God put it there.

Why did God make the hair of women,
(which pleases us or makes us despair)?
Was it for Him to glory in,
Or man to admire,
Or as part of nature’s fire?

Why has God made the hair of women?
Clearly because he cared for beauty?

Why have I made this poem?

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