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Our Friends |
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“Welcome
on board friend "You can post poems, stories, comments, or questions for the benefit of our other friends. Why not submit your own "Gilbert's Journal" entry . Following is an example - a story from our friend Joshua Koepp". Joshua
Koepp Following is a short piece I wrote a couple years ago that was recently published.
IRISH BREAKFAST A gentle mist floats from the gray sky as I walk up the stone steps to Paul's house. Damp days put me in the mood to visit this Irish poet and songwriter. He greets me at the door with a pleasant, coffee-stained smile. "Good mornin'," he says in the melodic, lilting tones of his native Belfast. As I walk in, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pats my back. "How ye doin'?" he asks, looking into my eyes. Paul's hospitality is more sincere than most. I know he truly desires to know how I'm doing and intends to make my morning good, at least while I am at his home. This morning Paul is in his standard apparel: a worn shirt with bent collar, gray slacks, and a loose fitting cardigan. His slippered feet silently follow the cat into the kitchen. "Coffee?" he asks with a jovial twinkle in his gray eyes. He knows I find his blended breakfast tea delightful. "Oh that's right," he says as if he had forgotten. "Ye prefair tea fur yer mornin' draught." The last phrase is said in an exaggerated accent which he uses for jest. Carefully, Paul measures in the Royal Irish Breakfast Blend and a pinch of Earl Grey before he replaces the sputtering pot on the range to brew for a few minutes. His movements have become practiced, precise, and silent after eighteen years of preparing breakfast without waking sleeping children. The rich, natural aroma of the black tea fills the room, bringing with it a feeling of security, peace, and comfort. He pours a spot of milk in the bottom of a mug and fills the rest with the fresh brew. "I'll take this to Hillary, then we can go down." Descending the basement stair with steaming cups, Paul tells me we have a new song to practice. This humble minstrel crafts ballads and lyrics with the same care and dedication he once gave to his patients during his season as a physician. After selling nearly all his possessions-except his teapot and desk chair-he moved from Ireland to the United States with his wife and seven children. "Even as the Celtic Saints of old set out in coracles to follow the prompting of the Wild Goose, we felt the Spirit calling us to this land," he explains. I think about that as I watch him strum his guitar with closed eyes; the muse is rising and will soon run over the brim. Gray hair, pale skin, and lined face make him appear old and tired in the dimly lit study, until he opens his mouth and begins to sing. His voice flows like a clear, strong river running over smooth rocks, and the melody drifts around me like mists floating over a quiet lake. As the ballad unfolds, the bard's magic works in me. My fingers pick a haunting tremolo from the mandolin cradled on my lap. A period of silence follows, then Paul opens his eyes and smiles. We don't waste words. He softly picks his guitar, and we play again. Links St Brendan has many friends. Those that have web pages are listed below:
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