When someone leaves this stage who was a friend
All lines fade into a blank obscurity.
On stage he rallied words and lined them up
Blowing them canon-like into the air
To fall upon the ears, sweet sentinels of meaning.
Out of his being he conjured
Tears, anger and the subtle waverings
Of thought. His pauses filled the air
His tongue hung syllables on the ear
So that we knew and understood the man
Behind the dream. We were saddened, joyed
Bewitched by how be spoke and felt,
And he is gone.

The stage is bare and empty
And we have lost a friend.
Someone who would tell me my forgotten line
In a single glance,
Who forgave me all my lapses
And laughed at all my silly fuss
Whenever I lost my way.

Even the applause
The ovation, the audience yelling its approval
Was just passage. He loved the life and craft
Knew their names and lived life
As it should be lived
In the moment's beauty
In a lost syllable
Wandering
Somewhere towards the light.

Oh how I miss him.
The stage, a cruel mistress at the best of times
With a whip of steel
Ready to punish vainglory,
He tamed with honesty and style.

We scrambled together through the streets of Limerick
Played old biddy women and priests
And reaped the laughter
That warmed the soul.
Oliver died
And each night I wept to hear his story.

Now, like Oliver
The undertaker's put him in a box
And I cry
That I will not hear his voice
Or see his like again.
Nor share a stage so proudly
With a man who knew himself
And loved his wife and life
And all his friends.