Timothy Murphy

Agnóstica

“Is it harder to pray in rhyme or rhyme in prayer?”
asked a great lady, who led me up a stair
to a tall tower, climbed by John of the Cross,
who succored my dear Latina through every loss
which might have cast her soul into despair.
And who were there? Christ, John of the Cross,
a lady who prayed in rhyme and rhymed in prayer.

Classmate

“I fear that you are in the gravest danger.”
— Francis Xavier McCarthy,

I would have splashed my brains against the wall
seconds later, had it not been for your call,
and the world could have washed its hands of Tim
and jettisoned his verse, most of it grim.

Now you confess that you have grown depressed?
Fly to Fargo, I’ll clasp you to my breast,
such as it is, and with a healing kiss
whisper what I have learned of mortal bliss.

Two thousand miles and forty years away
I hear your youthful laughter as I pray,
“Defend my friend from Satan’s fatal charms.
Lady, enfold him in your blue-robed arms.”