I was involved in a post recently in relation to Leo Varadkar which was put up by our good friend Kathleen Phelan . I have learned enough about myself in life to understand that I am motivated more by my feelings than by my thinking, and generally act accordingly. By reading over the content of that post, in which I mentioned being at my brother Johns funeral. John died 28th november 1993, aged 31, and was suffering with AIDS. After reading what I wrote down through Kathleen post, and the input of the other good members of the group on the post I could not get away, or get out of my mind the piece I wrote below which I called “My Father Face”, as I watched my poor Father almost self destruct with grief and nothing any of us could do for each other. After my brother Johns funeral my poor Father locked himself away in his workshop for the greater part of 6 months!!! My Father died on 19th September 2012, and its like as if a veil of loneliness has settled over me since, and so I thought it maybe best that I publish this piece below, for I rarely if ever publish any of what I write. When I got back from Johns funeral in England Julia said to me, why don’t you go and write something Frank, and in a ten minute take I sat and wrote this piece, for as I said above I do not have to think about what I write, for I write what I feel. Frank Murphy. My Fathers Face My Fathers face was cold and grey Uneasy was he in his place Now tired and weary there he sat With so much pain etched on his face. I watched him move his working hands Which earned for him his daily bread To Jesus Christ our God we prayed With hands placed on his grey haired head. My sister played and sang her song Another brother cried aloud My Fathers eyes now filled with tears But could not cry, he be to proud. And wanted I to comfort him But could not in my awkward way Much easier for he or I Be placed beneath the waiting clay. There lost in thought and sorrow deep We sat there waiting for the time Then when the priest had finished prayer He be the first to stand in line. There in his hearts of hearts I knew He wished that it were he inside Then stopped and placed his hand upon The coffin of his dead son John.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Jan 2015 14:06:16 +0000
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