Our new web page is dedicated to the memory of Mark Anthony Buckley II. He was the father of my children: Deborah Buckley Campbell, Robert Anthony and Mark Anthony III and taken from our family at the young age of 34.
Found here will be selection from a lifetime collection of his poetry. Visit often as I make the additions.
Thanks for your interest. Share what you'd like , but please give him credit for his creativity. It is a glimpse of his inner person, not always shown to the world.
Love exists as life exists,
For all who attempt to define.
To fully explain, in a simple refrain,
Life's life, but love is divine.
To chat and to laugh at the jokes passed around,
With a beer so cold to the taste,
An atmosphere touched by the Irish that found,
The pub, O'Hara's, my place.
There's Pat and there's Gail and Murray, you see,
And Red plays piano so well,
With the songs of the Irish as the Irish will be,
A scene so relaxed in it's spell.
There are bars and there's bars, but apart from them all,
Is the pub called O'Hara's by name,
Where a smile and a laugh and a soul I recall,
A soul that for all is the same.
For to find such a place in this world's troubled race
Is a rainbow that certainly brings,
A pot of life's gold in a warm, friendly place,
O'Hara's, where the Irish do sing.
So search for your place of quiet retreat,
Mine, I've found so to be,
O'Hara's, where the friends I cheerfully meet,
This pub of the Irish for me.
He creates to improve all our lives so well,
In creating creations refined,
So we can enjoy an easier spell,
Of existence on Earth quite divine.
In creating creations for everyone here,
He destroys those creations that were,
He changes and molds at a pace without fear,
In the name of us all, we concur.
Then create he must with all of his might,
Those creations he cannot recall,
For in the end, the creation of fright,
He's created us nothing at all
Tell all the deaf of the songs of a bird,
Or the sounds of a symphony,
Convince all the old that their need is heard,
That they're loved and always will be.
Feed all the starving all over the world,
So that they will no hunger again,
Stop all the killing and violence that swirls,
So that peace will finally reign.
Cure all the sick and rid their disease,
So that full lives they can complete,
And finally teach man how to love with such ease,
All the brothers and sisters he meets.
If all of us, each of us, completed these tasks,
What a world, what a life this would be,
To live in a place for all, without masks,
No deception nor greed would we see.
But none of these tasks will be finished or done,
This dream, this hope none will see,
For man's for himself and himself all alone,
He has chosen his existence to be.
This world that was made for each, for us all,
Is a world that has failed at it's best,
Listen to the heavens, to the tears as they fall,
For HIS Plan we have all laid to rest.
* * * I KNOW YOU WILL RECOGNIZE WHY THIS ONE IS SPECIAL * * *
It was written for his youngest son Mark, born St. Patricks Day 1976. This is a very special keepsake. Later, another wonderful surprise. On St. Patricks Day in 1992 his Grandson Christopher Anthony Campbell was born. I hope you all enjoy this one.
Mark began to announce his arrival at first,
On the eve, so that all would begin,
To worry and fret and think all the worst,
What he controlled at the end.
He held us at bay, eighteen hours or so,
He tried to hold out for more,
But the doctor convinced it was time for his show,
So the medicine he started to pour.
Evidently the taste was not tasteful to Mark,
"cause he kicked and let everyone know,
To bring out the sheets, he's coming out of this dark,
Into the light where he'll grow.
So he came to the world with a cry that was heard,
From L.A. to the Florida coast,
If he could've talked, I'm sure his first words,
Would have been to St. Patrick, a toast.
But since he can't speak, I'm sure he'd thought,
In a stubborn and ornery way,
I've given them worry, uneasiness I brought,
And now I am here to stay.
Mark Anthony Buckley I would be proud,
Of great grandson, the Irish born boy,
Who showed them the Irish can still draw a crowd,
And with them you'd better not toy.
When Mark looks at his mother, a squint in his eye,
His mind working ever so hard,
To plan and to scheme and boy, I know why,
He's not through and he holds the cards.
So, a toast to the Irish, a toast to this day,
A toast to St. Patty's born babe,
Mark Anthony Buckley III had his way,
Attention and concern he had made.
May God Bless Us All and especially this day,
We thank him for our little son,
Whose laughter and tears will show us the way,
Of God's love that was beautifully done.
As you will soon discover, Mark seldom titled his poems. If something occurs to me, I may attach it or just leave it numbered. I hope you enjoy his thoughts. If you'd like, don't hesitate to comment through my email address. Donna
firstname.lastname@example.org (Donna Buchanan)
This Poetry Webring
site owned by Donna Buckley Buchanan.
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