Donna Dolan rscj | Brigid Keogh rscj

Four Sonnets and a Jingle

Christmas Sonnet

Conception is a fleshly thing,
The mental word, which stands alone
Not born of love and suffering,
Is cold and lifeless, as a stone.
The word by reason thus conceived
Is still-born, sharper than a knife
Which cuts but yet has never grieved.
It lacks the warmth of human life,
We shiver in a glitt'ring shower
Of hollow words as cold as steel,
So bright are they, so hard with power,
So reasonable, we cannot feel.
The mind needs love to be at rest,
Verbum caro factum est.

Brigid Keogh rscj
1997

I met a mitred shepherd of today
Busy pointing out what's right and wrong.
I stopped him for a moment on his way
To ask if he had heard the angels' song.
He looked at me with kindness and replied,
?I have been busy, have not heard it yet
But I am sure the song can be supplied
For I can get it on the internet.?
I met a man from NASA and I said,
?I seek a star to lead me through the night.?
He answered, nodding all the while his head,
?We just have launched another satellite.?

I went away - no need to travel far
In my own heart I found the Song and Star.

Brigid Keogh rscj
1998


There was peace through the realm on Christmas,
Although the legions did not know the cause
Nor did they know that it was Christmas when
The order came to put away their swords.

Herod did not know. But he had heard
Some rumours that had troubled him that night.

Philosophers in kingdoms far away,
Relieved that peace had given them the chance
To seek for wisdom in their parchment scrolls,
Were summoned to the court. They knew not why.
They went, while seeking meaning from the stars.

Some shepherds, knowing nothing of the peace
And caring less, for it was all the same
In war or peace they had to tend their flocks
So swore and slept and huddled from the cold.

And then it happened! Peace was swept away
And love and longing, fiercer than the sword,
Have, down the years, disturbed the human heart.

Herods, fearing that ?a child will lead them?,
Have saved themselves by killing Innocents.
Philosophers have thrown away their books
To find the star which leads another way,
The hills still echo with the angels' song.
Human hearts are restless with the longing
That came into the world on Christmas night.

Brigid Keogh rscj
1999

How great is Allah! With his dying breath
The Muslim youth, his heart aglow with pride
To have been chosen for the suicide,
Embraces willingly his fiery death.

Fire-fighters from Station Forty-five
Do not waste time for self-analysis
For 'no man has a greater love than this,'
Thirteen went forth. One came back alive.

Glory to God! The spinning earth stands still.
A Child is born. The ancient message stands.
We bow our heads. Pilates wash their hands.
Peace is the gift to those who have goodwill.

Within the wisdom passed from age to youth
The question is left hanging, ?What is truth??

*Station Forty-five was the nearest fire station to World Trade Building
Brigid Keogh rscj
2001

A Christmas Jingle

It's a time we think of Christmas,
Of Christmas long ago,
When we heart the sleigh-bells jingling
As we glided through the snow.

We knew Santa Claus was coming,
There was no need of proof,
For we could hear the reindeer
As they tap-tapped on the roof.

The sky was full of angels
Though they shouldn't have been there,
But we could hear the singing
That filled the midnight air.

We knew that all the forests
Were full of Christmas trees
And that ox and ass at midnight
Had fallen to their knees.

We knew that in the Churches
The maiden, young and fair,
Was looking at the Christ Child,
Joseph - expendable - was there!

We knew that kings on camels
Were travelling from afar,
They lost their way but found it,
They were guided by a star.

They found what they were looking for
So they knew they could not stay,
They gave their gifts, returning
By quite another way.

Today's not really different
For things happen as before
But Santa isn't on the roof,
He's in the department store.

The angels still are singing
But their song is on the wire,
And Christmas trees are glowing
With artificial fire.

There is a child in each of us,
Facts serve but to deceive,
Life is a wondrous story,
Fashioned by make-believe,

The child is us knows well enough
That life is just a game,
We try to make a pattern
And we give each piece a name.

Some cheat and thus are winners,
Some always play by rules,
Some try to fashion the pattern
By using their worn-out tools.

The game can be fun in the playing
If we only can give it a try,
We find that what's worth the seeing,
Is seen by the inner eye.

So once again at Christmas
There really is nothing new,
The inner eye sees the make-believe
And the make-believe is true.