Daniel McDonagh Poems

The fight for freedom is a convicted man’s loss
Be it in a prison bed or crucified to a cross,
The path of one’s soul is rugged and long
As the burden is lamented in story & song.
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Over these wet Celtic hills,
On top of these sad Scottish faces,
I lie naked to God
To take my soul from a body that is wasted.
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Cymru calls home
It’s absent Apostles
For the last spirit
Is dying alone.
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Tears of angels fell on Liverpool’s streets,
Waves of the Mersey woke from their sleep,
The Liver Bird’s head hung in grief,
Hillsborough’s terracing became a thief.
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A mermaid’s harp plays to smooth
The wild waves, that crash against
Centuries tears and heartache.
Crying children run barefooted across
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In the hoops of green
In colours proud
Players, past & present
Heroes to Parkhead’s crowd.
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In the Archdiocese of Glasgow
In the city’s east end,
Brother Walfrid sat with his assistant Brother Dorotheus,
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Begging alms to provide alms
For the poor, the starving, the homeless,
Angels would feed his loving heart
To cure the ailing torment of lepers.
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Football in Scotland,
is a religion on its own
When it involves
both Celtic and Rangers,
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On Parkhead’s field
A shamrock grows,
A trinity for passing,
Lisbon heroes.
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