wordsculptures

As in a dream

2012-01-27T11:08:00.000Z

As in a dream the morning wakes;

in misted dawning

it yawns into day.

Here, in cold breathed light

and hazed vaguery,

another meeting is birthed

part formed, incomplete.

For here the story of the day

builds, with slow revelation

and receding cloud,

into unbred eternity.

Soon the thrice-crowing

of reality will steal good intention,

stain the diary with some self-filled act,

smudge the page with need.

This is a quiet place

awaiting the clamour, the gaudy voices,

of unwelcome intrusion

dusking its own darkness into the dawning.

And yet, as in a dream, the morning wakes

and holds within its gift

all possible things.

Quest

2012-01-21T07:26:00.000Z

Christmas fades,

Easter’s bloody horizon

snarls at Lenten end.

A star that shone so brightly
in the constellation of lesser gods
beckons wise men still

from their learnèd gazing.

The journey remains arduous
‘cold coming’*

through savage landscapes of the day
with only faith as guide
and fellowship's dichotomy –

grace and duty
a constant companion.

Unwisdom of minor sages steal
at the hem of our garments
their impotent questions
draining energy and making each step
an effort of the soul.

‘There was a birth’* ,

there was a death,

at the entrance to eternity

and questing travellers

touch that death

with their own nativity.

*‘cold coming’& ‘There was a birth’ – from TS Eliott’s ‘Journey of the magi’

Journey of the Magi

This is part of the January blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

Resolutions

2012-01-12T10:10:00.000Z

Those words

fresh and crisp as laden snow

spoken in hearts

at the dawn of the year,

have faded now.

They hardened with icy blasts,

shell-like shields shattered

scattered and scoured

with chill.

The branches they were laid upon

yielded at the weight of their custody

bending or breaking under intentions’ load.

They are slushed and dirty

trodden beneath the walk of time.

Ring the bell

2012-01-10T14:23:00.006Z

Ring the bell

“ring the bell that still can ring
forget the perfect offering
there's a crack in everything
that's the way the light gets in”

Leonard Cohen

The bells chime,

their voices in choirful

coloured notes

in chordant hues.

This is not the tolling

of deaths dark hand

or beacon peal

or warning clang.

This, this is celebration;

gold frankincense and myrrh

quavering joyous

in accent song.

This, this is jubilee

wondrous star resonance

in the melody of night.

And as once in royal bleak winter

when faithful herald angels sang

to watchful shepherds in a silent night

the realms of glory again

ding dong their merriance.

so here's the man himself:

This tree has no candles

2012-01-04T10:32:00.001Z

My poem 'This tree has no candles' won the ChristianCreativeWriters Christmas poetry competition. christiancreativewriters.com

This tree has no candles.

This

Christmas

tree has no candles.

This tree has no needles

finely falling

on presents at its feet.

This tree has no splendour,

torn from earth, wrenched from root.

The adorned silence of eternity replaces

the rustling

of temporal branches.

This Christmas tree is pain-laden,

love created, garden grown, universal sown.

Cock-crowed carols surround it - searching for a tune.

This tree is advent epiphany fulfilled,

a sight for blinded eyes and the lame to dance their carols.

There is no Christmas without this tree, blood-brother to the tinselled child,

herald of eternity, gift wrapped present of a reconciled.

No other gift had such a wrapping nor was bought at such a price,

and neither would the giver plan another such device.

For here, and here alone, is there meaning for all things,

things of wonder, things of beauty, things of peace on broken wings.

This Christmas

tree has

no candles.

save the

Light

that

shines

in darkest places.

The bells begin

2011-12-25T07:42:00.018Z

The bells begin

The bells begin

sounding a birth.

So with the light of day

comes the new Light,

the new Day.

Shadows may grow

as darkness hides

but Light

breathes life

into frost-bound air.

Unwrapped presents

litter bedrooms,

tags and paper strewn

beside excited beds.

These are gifts,

tangible,

requiring batteries,

needing assembly,

ready to paint.

The gift of the heart

came earlier,

when in the quiet darkness

Father looked at child,

kissed a sleeping head

and smiled.

May the Father look upon you this Christmas morning and unwrap His presence in your life.

Happy Christmas.

This is part of the December blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

I don't want to die at Christmas

2011-12-21T20:52:00.001Z

I don't want to die at Christmas

I don't want to die at Christmas
cheated of that warm turkey sandwich
on the eve of day.
I don't want to miss the glint in your eye
as you unwrap the surprise
of a hint remembered.
I don't want to rob Santa of his jolly jaunt
and leave a gift of tears instead
wrapping the day in melancholy
and the promise of earth to earth....
I don't want to eclipse the word made flesh
by flesh unmaking itself
in the denial of breath.
But if I die
near the day of days
wrap me in tinsel and coloured paper.
Leave me under a tree
and sing carols by lamplight:
'Joy to the world',
'Come and join the celebration',
'See amid the winter snow',
and dance,
let there be dancing.
And place the last advent candle
at my feet
to warm
my
sole.

Strange fruit

2011-12-16T09:12:00.000Z

Strange berries
bedeck transplanted tree;
strange companions -
Santa Claus and stable
star and shiny globe.
And, beneath,
where roots should be,
presents hide in plain sight
tempting as Eden's fruit
on forbidden tree.
But here's the difference,
here's the rub
on Christmas day
curfew wrapping is lifted
surprises gifted
and eyes shine like stars.
And in manger and cathedral
lonely home and city street
celebration comes as guest.

Behold I give you the morning*

2011-12-07T11:01:00.000Z

*a line from ‘I Give You The Morning’ by Tom Paxton.

Morning comes:

a searching beam,

light dripping soundlessly from the trees,

as the moisty mist recoils.

Morning comes

the new entry on a blank page

and with the drying of ink

passes as time.

‘Behold I give you the morning’

I give you the bright enlightening of day

chasing night into shadows

black dog grumbles and black horse dreams.

Behind hedgerow curtains

2011-12-02T08:40:00.000Z

Dene Hollow, Houghton Regis.

Behind hedgerow curtains
yesterday peeps into today
and retires to its
sleepy bed
contemplation.

From the roadside
a longing glance is returned
for simpler times
when the traffic din
was cloppity chorus
and squealing wheel.

As in a dream

2011-11-23T09:08:00.000Z

As in a dream the morning wakes;

in misted dawning

it yawns into day.

Here, in cold breathed light

and hazed vaguery,

another meeting is birthed

part formed, incomplete.

For here the story of the day

builds, with slow revelation

and receding cloud,

into unbred eternity.

Soon the thrice-crowing

of reality will steal good intention,

stain the diary with some self-filled act,

smudge the page with need.

This is a quiet place

awaiting the clamour, the gaudy voices,

of unwelcome intrusion

dusking its own darkness into the dawning.

And yet, as in a dream, the morning wakes

and holds within its gift

all possible things.

November

2011-11-20T15:38:00.000Z

The trees are shuddering,
cold blasts shiver their timbers,
damp mist hangs in their arms
like ghosts of washing day.
The sodden soggy clutch of discarded leaves
embraces every footfall.
Autumn loses its charm
in grey-filled November.
Crackling
fireside
beckons.

Remembrance

2011-11-12T11:37:00.000Z

We forget

we remember

He forgets.

We forget

we remember

He forgets.

We forget

He remembers

we forget.

Thank God
for forgiveness.

Remember, remember

2011-11-05T07:38:00.000Z

Confessions of a nine year old

(remember, remember the 5^th of November)

I remember the night.

Early, latter day, Guy Fawkes.

A month of knocking on doors

‘got any rubbish for a bonfire ?’

I remember the night.

Accumulated papers,

stale news and redundant words

filling the shed with its gossip,

its tindered words

and unfinished serials.

I remember the night.

Flashing lights in the sky

not fireworks in colourful array

not the cracking of bangers

but the spangling sparklers

of emergency lights

the tuneless braying

of the fire engine.

It had been dark in the shed

full of broadsheet anguish

inky wars and weather forecasts

that proved false.

The torch had corroded

lifeless and forlorn -

a candle was a good idea

cheaper than new batteries.

I remember the night.

Putting the candle

on a plastic saucer

was a mistake,

a fuse.

I remember the night the shed burned down.

This is part of the November blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

Shepherd's hut

2011-10-25T20:48:00.000+01:00

Shabby with decay

and abandonment

arthritic age tackles

the bones.

Rant and rage ravaged

by North wind’s gnarled breath

its balding roof draws

sun and rain and snow

in season.

The threadbare walls

invite lost sheep

and sanctuary crows

within its mantle.

For even here

there is shelter,

even here

is better than bleak

frost bitten peak

in the thrall

of Winter.

On the morrow

2011-10-19T10:13:00.000+01:00


photo: michaelmas daisy

Sunshine moment in michaelmas days,

the smile of warmth in Autumn’s glaze,

and Winter’s calling card displayed.

Gold and crimson wait in the wings

for the regal displays the season brings

with frosty glister and colder things.

Then days diminish and night ascends

with trembling hands and cooler friends

to proclaim a death that he pretends.

But it’s merely sleep that operates

as when small bodies hibernate

the warmth of love will liberate

on the morrow

on the morrow.

Harvest memorial

2011-10-14T08:00:00.000+01:00

…….For the beauty of the earth.

Incense of apples in a chapel,

bread, unbroken, on the lectern,

flowers spilling from the communion table

like troubled wine.

…….Come ye thankful people come.

The ‘five-a-day’

unknown at table

displayed

before a bountiful God.

…….We plough the fields and scatter.

Stolen bites,

apple cores pocketed -

disposed evidence

of thankful appetites.

…….All things bright and beautiful.

Children parading like soldiers

with baskets

fused with runner beans

armed with potatoes

as the clock

ticks away innocence.

The world turns,

seasons wax and wane

in tidal sweep.

’Seed time and harvest,

while earth remains…..’

slides into the oblivion

of famine, war,

ethnic cleansing -

a tarnished harvest

of unthankfulness.

This is part of the October blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

The mirror lies

2011-10-06T13:36:00.000+01:00

The mirror lies.

The mirror lies.

The reflection I see is untrue,

things are out of place

a mirror image reality.

Neither do I see what you see.

You do not see ‘me’.

What you see is incomplete

for you see only my actions and reactions

my motives and thoughts are cloaked

skewed by our deficiencies.

God does not see what we see in our mirror,

nor care for what others might see.

God sings over us -

He sees in us

a work of His hand

and as on every day of His creation

what he sees,

what He has made

is good.

Megalith

2011-09-29T08:56:00.001+01:00

photo: Stonehenge, Wiltshire, England. Aug 2011

Homecoming

2011-09-15T08:16:00.001+01:00

The darkling evening creeps

into Autumns shortening days,

cold beckons to overcoats

hidden from the Summer wardrobe.

Birds vacate their chimney perches

disappearing with the fading light,

their solemn night-calls

crying into the clouds.

Colour drains from landscapes

and the tainted hue of street-lights

stutters into half-life.

This is not our country

this place filled with evening,

mask and masquerade.

So we shelter from the disguising

at the hearth, a lap of God.

It’s warmer here -

in revealing light

where the heart is,

in the heartbreak of lovers,

where what is seen

is all there is to see.

This is part of the September blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

nine-eleven 10 years on

2011-09-10T02:05:00.004+01:00

When demigods play at war,

mortals die many deaths.

An incoming tide of emotion

flows heavy through unfilled hearts;

would that it scours the debris

as an ebbing tide ransoms a shoreline

or poppies claim a battleground.

The heart-wounded cannot seek justice

when, unmasked, justice is revenge.

Revenge separates the soul -

leaves crying as its sole reward

a graven graveyard of salty regret.

Tomorrow beckons with promise

new day, new pathways -

dawning light's release

or the tightening grip of darkness,

the strangling suicide of the soul.

Stonehenge

2011-08-29T10:24:00.001+01:00

pic: Stonehenge August 2011

Cathedral, calendar, map

these monoliths hide their secrets -

Chinese whispers in history.

Sculpted rock, daily proclaiming a quest:

a desire to move from unknowing,

a search outside for something within.

The genetic drive to celebrate

pushed, pulled, sweated and cried

these giants into place.

Lost now,

like eroded letters on a gravestone,

time has stolen their meaning.

Now we search for their search,

new savages, dissecting and analysing

not for our celebration

but for theirs.

62

2011-08-17T10:11:00.036+01:00

This is part of the August blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

Susan's grave

My heart pounds my skin
like a boxing glove
in round three,
though the score 120/80
is a distant memory -
we hit higher these days.

I wear my heart
on my chest.
An ancient encounter
left its mark -

a commemorative tattoo
for the day we bounced,
in mother's womb,

on the pavement
like a soggy bag of groceries.

Who won that encounter ?
Your prize was eternity,
mine was life with a sore heart -
a memory that cannot be shared
like an untransferable ticket.

feather bed

2011-08-08T07:25:00.000+01:00

A goose feather bed

calls tired eyes

to savour downy sleep.

Snuggled soft in plumage pillow

the day will amble

into flights of gentle dreaming.

Sealife

2011-08-04T04:45:00.001+01:00

From the deep and ancient depths

watery kings survey their realm -

in swift or loitered passes.

Curiosity draws them to the curious;

looking out or looking in

we share inquiry.

Though our worlds are different

the glass has us ensnared.

Beyond the pane

gossamer parachutists

dance in briny skies.

Light and airy

in faerie ballet

they pulse and wave

to silent undulations.

From pastel parasol

they trail their sting -

for beauty

has its price.

iii

Roarless these lions roam

magnificent with feathered scales,

royalty in jungled seas.

Menace and splendour

effortlessly searching

and stunning to view.

I drink

2011-08-01T14:16:00.000+01:00

I visit here.

This is not my home,

this is the magnet of invitation

the seduction of colour and sweetness.

I drink deeply of the occasion

burrowing the awning lips of its summoning.

We share this delight

my purple friend and I.

I dowse between its fellows

both midwife and thief -

bringing the offering of reproduction,

taking the syrup of life.

Your beguiling is short-lived,

this seductive enticement passes

as colour falls and petals pass away.

But we share these moments

as I drink your beauty

and you shower me with gold.

first published Aug 2011 in FaithFilledFamily magazine

Distortion

2011-07-22T11:29:00.000+01:00

We argue, my mirror and me.

Though we are twins we see things differently.

I see an image, it sees flesh

I am flesh and pulse and breath,

it is an image pulsing in tandem

but breathless.

In the image sdrawkcab era sdrow

but time remains - I get no younger.

Maybe if the mirror was in the attic

I’d fare better.

God made me in his image,

is that why I get things wrong?

Time

2011-07-14T10:37:00.001+01:00

I have a watch on my wrist

but I have no time;

grains seep undeterred

through the glass.

I have a clock on my mantle

but I have no time;

ticks and tocks

toll my body.

I have a timer on my video

but I have no time;

programme stealth

taxes the evening.

I have spent time

and the only coin I possess

is now.

I have fallen

2011-07-13T08:57:00.000+01:00

I have fallen into your folds -

beguiled by light and shade

enticed by incense of promise.

The gentle fragility of siren petals

tempts me close cheeked

to experiment with soft touch.

I have fallen into your folds -

a conspiracy of moment

holds me

as you unwrap from bud

flourishing, unfurled -

the drawing of newly laundered silk.

I have fallen into your folds

a shadow passing with the sun.

Freedom

2011-07-10T07:04:00.000+01:00

This is one of a month long blog chain on the subject of 'Freedom ' by members of ChristianWriters.com others can be found via the link at the left of this page.

Cloudy lips kiss the air

with fleeting gossamer smile,

this is freedom.

The lofty suspension of love

in the atmosphere of God

An island in the sky

unfettered by anchoring care,

free of need,

nebulously precise.

And more than this;

the promise of shade

a shield in the sky,

watery refreshment

to parched places.

This cloud of witness

to the careful hand

of God.

This freedom sky

of scuttling cloud

tickles the wings of dove and gull

who swim in its heights

on tidal breezes

feathers plucking the updraft.

Birds safely stride

an invisible solidity

a ‘terra firma’ of atmosphere.

The deep blue freedom draws me

into the mind of God.

Blood red standard

2011-07-06T09:45:00.000+01:00

Blood red standard

against a stone cross

singing communion

and the crumb of God

that passes lips.

The highlighting –

a tenderness of accent

upon fragility,

a glowing ember in the fire of life.

A peace descends

that passes understanding.

Beyond the stile

2011-06-30T10:39:00.000+01:00

picture: from Solomans Temple, Buxton, Derbyshire

Beyond the stile life goes on,
in misted street and soaken lane,
where earth and sky embracing meet
and kiss upon this meeting.

But vantage offers no advantage
from hill in shroud of dewy haze
and the voicey breezes mutter loud
ears cursed with such shrouding.

On this hill in sodden garb,
alone I sit on windswept peak,
feet firmly placed on limestone, grit,
misted future also sitting.

But sure as hill and rain and God
I'm not alone in this dilemma
and, mind wondering, I pray and groan
the Spirit within, without, is groaning.

Nectarine

2011-06-21T18:09:00.000+01:00

The unlikely X-man

visits, unbumbling and unsung,

to take payment

for its midwifery.

Pollen dandruff on his costume

showered in transit

takes life - bloom to bloom

in cycle of time and generation.

The drone of a million wingbeats

zzips the air on solstice day -

fertility on in the breeze.

How unlikely are you

a wingēd barrel with ‘go faster’ stripe !

But, touched with God’s grace

you too cherish life.

Fresh air

2011-06-20T08:08:00.006+01:00

Stealthy invisible gusts

bow pastured blade

in homage -

a passing comb

across the brow.

Fresh air sings between feathered reach

rustling grasses,

a feathered breath

within the sky’s blank canvas.

There is no signature cloud

tracery to reveal its route

just the bending of reverent sward.

And the sound of a rushing wind

fills the room of day

the breath of God upon the waters.

And mixed among this genesis of creation

the simple act of direction

holds a rook aloft

and fills its lungs.

The breath of God

gives life.

This is one of a month long group of blogs on the topic 'Fresh Air' -
Visit some of the others and get other freshnesses. The links are on the right.

Lincoln Cathedral

2011-06-16T11:17:00.000+01:00

From castle vantage I see its twin

in similar stature piercing the sky.

The cathedral cloaked with centuries of worship

shining with mason’s craft and toil

against overcast backdrop.

This is a beacon for the people’s

red-bricked prayers,

a monument to faith,

the calling card of God.

And though I worship

beyond its skirt of grandeur and of pomp,

beyond its ostentation,

it still inspires;

stirring, like all testaments of faith and artistry,

reverence for a creator

whose art and craft

is measureless and extravagant

even on cloud-filled days.

Roller coaster

2011-06-06T14:48:00.000+01:00

picture: 'Fantasy Island' roller coaster Ingoldmells, Lincolnshire.

In this entanglement

exhilarant speed and accidental scream,

centipede legs frothing in free air,

the clatter of carriage

is an umbilical cord to safety.

Heavenward route slows,

earthbound accelerates;

the rush and gush of air

spreads nostrils

and widens eyes.

Hands grip the haven

of safety rail’s metal claw

as they are hoisted,

by a mechanical bird of prey,

through this meshed nest of steel.

The garden sings

2011-06-05T08:53:00.000+01:00

The garden sings -

gospel harmony

birds in full bloom

warbling, wheeping, chiffing

colouring early summer.

The garden sings -

bluebells ringing

poppies swelling with pride

primroses shining

and weeds among

the great and good.

The garden sings -

an evening melancholia,

blues to greys,

as the sun dips

beyond factory and house.

Evening crumbs on the lawn,

shadows wait in ambush,

night raises a watchful eye

as curtains draw

and the songs of sunset

segue into dreaming.

A rose

2011-05-28T12:41:00.003+01:00

I could fall into your petalled folds

and breathe your scented smile.

I could trace my fingers round your hem

and linger here a while.

For beauty captivates my eye,

my every sense enthralled

in wonder at your perfect form

your pink enfolding shawl.

Summer starts as you unfold

from bud’s embracing grip

and untold eyes admire with awe

this wondrous workmanship.

For though you’re here today,

and tomorrow you’ll be gone,

such beauty is not wasted

when all is said and done.

For your charm and innocence

has touched another heart

and, though shortly lingered here,

it pains me to depart.

Poppy 2

2011-05-25T10:37:00.000+01:00

The poppy’s eye scans sun’s early warmth

its light-seeking array, seizing its quarry,

reveals its inner sanctum.

A birthing pool of colour and sweetness

opens wide its scarlet lips

to kiss the day.

In thankfulness it tempts bees

to taste and see

that God is good.

With intent

2011-05-19T20:19:00.000+01:00

With intent

the stag moves on

a calling pasture gleams his eye.

Velvet clings to his antler crown,

lordly ermine for stately beast,

threat and proclamation

in a single package.

Some way off the harem grazes,

doe-eyed ladies

safe beneath his sentry gaze;

keen for nature’s progeny

and a place in tomorrow.

the congregation of May

2011-05-10T19:53:00.001+01:00

Waves of blue

ripple their ringing heads -

meeting the sun

and the sounding breeze:

the congregation of May.

Bees and butterflies attend

enjoying early glimpses of Summer

and the lengthening of days.

Deer loiter in shadows,

hiding from the alarming

stench of man,

waiting for dusk

and the closing of flowers.

The sky is filled with song

as the animal kingdom

does ‘church’.

Patterns

2011-05-01T07:55:00.000+01:00

Patterns

The beginning of patterns
youths early windings
ribbons of weft
threads that begin indistinctly
unfolding with each
infiltrating skip.

I may hold this anchor
but others spin and twirl
in passing pirouettes
that web their lives with mine.
I have no control of this pattern;
mine is the spasmodic touch
the gravitational pull
which momentarily holds
your orbit before you snake off
to other moons.
Star trek on the village green
before sputnik or satellite
pierces the sky.

There are other patterns at play;
in sounds
which leave no trace
by their transient recreation,
and in shadows that mime
dumb ethereal bodies
prostrate mimics that bend no grass.
When the music calls I will move on
adding my fleeting touch,
blessing or curse,
upon other ribbons.

NB. the little boy in the centre of the photo was ME !

Uniform

2011-04-29T12:50:00.000+01:00

This is what uniforms are for,

not for blood red war

stamp of vitriol

nor flags of death,

but pomp and colour

to blush cheeks

and underwrite vows.

A fanfare of grace and love

and romance

to a thirsty world.

Palette

2011-04-25T12:02:00.000+01:00

photo: Ashridge, April 2011

A blue haze carpet,

untrod by deerstealth

or brandished hoof,

silently fanfares

the coming of warmer days.

We wander this palette,

through sunlit trees,

wary of indiscriminate footprint

upon such beauty,

dazzled by colour.

The abundant blush of blue

sways in time to the conjuration

of occasional breezes,

as the tuneful breath of God

sweeps through the woodland

with a melody of care.

Palm Sunday

2011-04-17T07:35:00.013+01:00

Palm Sunday

(Elation)

Behind, in the hot distance,

in dust and haze,

a mystery-cloaked cloud approaches,
a playful meander

breaking the monotony of day.

The anticipation of something special
catches the pulse and breath of pilgrim souls on the road to celebration.
Whispers grow to discussion,
opinion to argument,
theories fleet between mouths and ears.
A dignitary on his way to the feast….

A groom going to a wedding……

A prince comes…….
All forward trudging stops -

expectant voyeurs,

glad for the chance to rest,
turn their weary bodies
to view the distant disturbance.
Children look up, their enquiring glances
piercing parental armour,
breaching their ignorance:

answers hidden in that veiling distance.

No music escapes the approaching cloud,
no prelude clue to a wedding party,
nor mournful wails precede the dust,
no funeric suffering or life-engulfing loss.

Occasional gasps ripple the lookers-on,
sidelined and puzzled.
Prophetic words begin bubbling
through grey remembrances

in uncoordinated trickles.

Palm leaf fans keep the heat at bay
as, foot-weary, they stand and stare
into the distance, into the past.

Someone glimpses a colt
fading in and out

of the approaching cloud.
Another makes an association,
begins a mental journey through scrolls,
half forgotten temple arguments.

A donkey, a king, Jerusalem,
meeting, melting, intertwining.
History, legend, prophecy, melding:
a whirlpool of delight and fear.

Discussions become awed whispers.
Palm leaf fans drop – early Autumn

coming upon that dusty pathway.

Glimpses become sightings

unencumbered by the fatigue
that dogs other pilgrim marchers.
Half-heard phrases Chinese-whisper the roadside.
Noise becomes words, become shouted greetings:

“Praise to David’s Son”, psalmist’s words,
its speaker’s thoughts finding voice

in trembling recognition and surprise.

The party passes by,

and the sea of souls parts before its riding figure
taking their cues and echoing words

“Bless him who comes in the name of the Lord” ,
a clamour of “Hosanna”.

Each excited voice adding adrenalin

and volume,
accelerating the expectation,

the puzzlement, the wonder.

A prince rides into Jerusalem,
a groom comes for his bride;
this excited festival crescendos
in a swell that storms the gates of heaven
and will shatter the doors of hell.

NB this is one of the poems in the 'journey through Easter' section of my book 'in moments like these'

This is complicated Dad

2011-04-08T11:42:00.000+01:00

There are bigger questions,

deeper enquiries to be made

in the life that yaws ahead;

a cave of secrets

exposed one by one

in lantern light.

Where is this ‘air’

we breathe but cannot see?

Why must a jump always

be followed by a landing

as if some invisible hand

will not let me go?

Why does skin go funny colours

when we bang it

and leak when we scrape

our knees.

But right now,

whatever you say,

I am not convinced

that this froth of bubbles

with little black dots

are frogs.

aging trunk

2011-04-01T15:39:00.001+01:00

I wonder how the bark
on this aging trunk
would settle on the spruce next door.
How my familiars would fare
in more supple, less subtle branches,
whipping in the breezes
that merely tickle me.
Wishes, like new patches
on well washed cloth,
stretch reality
beyond elastic bounds.
So, even as I creak and groan,
I thank God
that I am older than I think I am
and younger than my age.

Catching bubbles

2011-03-29T08:20:00.000+01:00

Living

is catching bubbles

when muscles disobey,

life is round corners,

and everything is out of reach.

Tantalus rules this empire.

Reaching out, touching

where things have been,

feeling only echoes,

shadows of

burst and tickle.

Yet the smile that

fills your life

brings a sheen of rainbow

into ours.

In quiet moments

2011-03-16T09:14:00.000Z

Statue guardian, custodian of life,

where do you go in your quiet moments ?

Do you consider your creator

as you survey the creation

which grows and changes

under your care ?

On a Sunday do you croak a hymn,

as dusk falls do you speak to a god ?

Do you have rules,

do you have sins,

do you contemplate tomorrows ?

Is your soul the hundred spawn

gathered jewels beneath your gaze ?

Come tomorrow I will ask again

for you do not tell -

but ask me, deep inside,

where I go in quiet moments.

in swirling tides

2011-03-10T08:08:00.000Z

Our story is written on sand,

etched on other lives,

beached shadows in the sunlight.

Memories swim in and out,

breathless on cold mornings,

but a maelstrom daily engulfs

as time, in swirling tides,

steals away our reality.

And on another beach

in another time

a night without catch,

in a single morning cast,

becomes a festival of fish.

Another life, written in sand

and the dust of eternity,

brings peace to raging torrents.

Old bones

2011-03-08T12:19:00.001Z

Old bones

from fertile soil,

grown and aged in sun and rain,

disappointment and joy.

Old bones

weathered, wind shaped,

touched by nature, nurtured by time.

Old bones

wearing each other out

by daily use and common purpose.

Old bones

arthritic with life’s dust

and memories

returning to dust

to dust

ashes

to ashes

and the comfort

of a shoulder to lean on.

Handful

2011-03-04T12:13:00.000Z

God's got it all in his hands
an ocean droplet in a caring crease.
Nation boundaries, culture cliques,
regimes in abundance
all within one shepherd glance.
Though the wash-basin, in siren call,
demands He wash His hands
the heart of love, though holy,
is not contaminated by this dirt
but further fills His palm with tears.

over and beyond

2011-02-23T14:57:00.000Z

Over and beyond all fathoming
I clambered
a higher mountain,
pathed an untrod ambition,
because You were there.
Your breath held me
through rarified atmosphere
and freezing ground.
I climbed because there was more to see
than an enveloping reality
that only proposed what has been,
obscuring what may be.
This is no resting place

nor seat in the auditorium

this is life

higher ground
and a chance
to taste tomorrow.

to the sea

2011-02-20T10:18:00.001Z

I must go down to the sea again;

the lonely sea

to cry,

to add my briney bitterness

as time’s memorium

passes by.

For stormy power

and doldrums gentle caress

touch deep within

my carelessness.

The pierce of gulls

as darkness departs,

the tang of seaweed encrusted breeze,

the greeting purge

of wavelets on the shore

persistent siren memories

of the sea.

rust and tide

2011-02-18T10:11:00.001Z

While rust and tide invade and salty mist encamps,

I may decay, or age, upon their onslaught.

I may display some tremorous shiver, at their grip

as their fingered touch seeks bone and sinew

beneath wool and cotton unequal to their task.

This chill assault may batter my battlements

making patterns on my walls with its eroding whispers,

may send me beneath my collar seeking shelter.

But my heart is safe, my soul is free,

as we pound this beach alone

just You and me.

Cloud rolls away

2011-02-16T08:34:00.000Z

Cloud rolls away,

light penetrates -

a beaming promise

smiling through

the shabby grey shutters

of adversity.

Unfounded worry

dissipates

as time, roguishly

pulls aside the curtain

revealing reality.

The light, though hid,

has ever been there

warming the backs of clouds

unnoticed.

Illumination discloses,

disclosure illuminates

the perpetuity of truth.

In truth’s wake

the heat of justice

even-handedly lifts

or lays bare.

Forgiven

2011-02-12T10:13:00.001Z

Forgiven

Every breath destroys, every touch bruises, every thought contaminates.

I must breathe to live;

inhaling rich, sweet, air

breathing out only waste,

all I need drawn from the well

in selfish survival.

I must touch to love;

drawing in the close touch

of lower case worship,

a demand from delicate ego

for a kiss upon the bruises.

I must think to survive;

stealing from restorative silences,

filling the quiet with intrusion

lest Your words impose

and my personality coalesces

with the random universe.

Each breath and touch and thought

applies its wounding thrust

blow upon blow.

I breathe

a compulsion I cannot overcome,

to breathe is to live,

to live is to need forgiveness.

I touch

bruising and healing in unequal measure

touching – the function

of the give and take of forgiveness.

I think

and amid these careless thoughts

You wander; showing me

above my name written upon Your palm

the nail marks I write there daily.

Jewelled day

2011-02-10T11:12:00.000Z

Jewelled day

bright diamond light

transient adornment

dripping time away

in cold sunray.

The beauty of ice.

Crystal watergem

gilding the fountain

at boundary hem.

The magnificence of winter

visits grey days

bringing the sparkle

of God’s eye.

Legacy

2011-02-08T10:00:00.000Z

Thundered growl of the sea

the homecoming salt-spray

delights upon the shore.

The foamy mantle,

cast like a native net

over dried weed and untrod sand,

savours fresh taste

with each pulse

of its briney moonblood.

This is but the emissary spy

of tomorrows tsunami -

the space invader alien invasion.

This the understated calm before the storm

a judgement on

yesterdays blindness.

I will love you

2011-02-06T07:58:00.001Z

I will love you

Before I see another day,
before tide or moon
steal time away,
I will love you.

Before I know another breath,
before living blood
calls life from death,
I will love you.

Before that sweet taste of wine
has passed by lip
to tongue of mine,
I will love you.

Before this bread is broken

and crumb from crumb

becomes loves token

I will love you.

I glance up

2011-02-03T20:05:00.000Z

I glance up

I glance up;
you look down from your frame -
our eyes meet.
My expression changes
with the warming of cheek
and tightening of eye.
Your expression,
tied to canvas,
conveys only the love
you had
when the shutter fell.

River of stones

2011-01-31T06:44:00.001Z

A river of small stones,

the flocking crowd of thought,

pebble-dashes the shoreline.

The imagination estuary

a playground without boundary

varnished by the caress

of tidal dreams.

Foundling

2011-01-30T08:05:00.003Z

Alone and downy

tired heartbeats pulsing life;

this flight is easy.

Brink

2011-01-29T08:01:00.001Z

Teetering on the brink of sleep,
when fascination and fantasy
creep between the sheets
of the unmade bed of imagination,
I hold you close
and pray for dreaming.

Directions

2011-01-28T07:13:00.002Z

When destination is undefined,

target indeterminate,

the arrowed words

upon a post

give no recommendation.

The wanderer

has far to go.

Compline

2011-01-27T06:25:00.001Z

Evening, in contemplation,

the sun’s amazing grace

in early compline

prays a benediction

on the day.

SIlent now

2011-01-26T07:22:00.002Z

Links to the past,

anchors away,

how many lives

have you held fast

in ripping tides ?

Silent now

your clanking tasks

whisper redundancy.

Dune path

2011-01-25T06:06:00.001Z

Pathway to the sky

testament to straggled footfall,

softly broken falls,

and the laughter of children,

it creeps slowly

to meet sky and sea.

Rock pool

2011-01-24T06:04:00.002Z

Abandoned by the tide,

limpid microscope,

glassy mirror to the sky,

the rock pool

looks both ways.

A song unsung

2011-01-23T06:01:00.002Z

A song unsung

on a diminished stave

waiting for the conductor

to tap attention.

Evacuees on aerial platforms

anticipate the whistle of a train.

The birds chorus together

for the hymn of flight.

Unsat

2011-01-22T07:30:00.002Z

Wind swept sleeping leaves

curl upon an empty seat

while leaching sunlight

searches for its place to rest

and evening casts a lazy eye

over the horizon.

Polperro between tides

2011-01-21T08:09:00.000Z

In the ebbed waiting

the unslept maul of gull cry

sweeps through cottage clusters

like a returning tide.

The rock eye

2011-01-20T07:24:00.004Z

The rock eye,

a solitary view,

its glance fixed focus

and looking only in.

Never blinking

but tidal tears

wash away

the daily dirt.

Voices

2011-01-19T07:20:00.002Z

The maw of rock,

facet blustered by salt and wind,

calls for silence in its eternity

and waits for the echo of gulls.

Winter prayer

2011-01-18T07:18:00.002Z

The tree bears prayers;

an answering breath of God

considers the wind.

Sounding on the wind

2011-01-17T09:06:00.000Z

small voice on the breeze

bamboo woodwind whispering

timeless cypher songs

Roots

2011-01-16T07:33:00.002Z

The arboreal arbour

chooses to embrace

dust and debris,

drawing me into its

lumbering arms.

webbed

2011-01-15T07:30:00.001Z

A constellation, delicate,

dangerously beautiful

an ambush for the unwary

traps my eye.

Looking out

2011-01-14T07:24:00.002Z

A tiled and cobbled outlook

on the pleasantness of life;

the journey

beyond the threshold,

beyond the door,

beyond the wall,

has its own horizon.

Touched and touching

2011-01-13T09:24:00.001Z

Turn and turn about

the intermeshing of lives -

gears moving onward.

Your movement moves me,

we may scrape against each other,

but touched and touching

life changes.

Direction Haiku

2011-01-12T08:32:00.001Z

While light draws the eye

the path wrestles to a gate:

the challenge of choice.

They speak rivers

2011-01-11T07:20:00.003Z

They speak rivers;

their torrent flow

a rush of rage

uncontrolled.

In their wake,

the slime and waste

of vitriol

sullies and taints.

They are blind

these who only see

their own reflection.

Ice cycle

2011-01-10T09:12:00.000Z

Chilled finger day

raw with ice

sculpts its own

masterpiece

before warming conforming

normality

steals

from this gallery

and abstract art

cries real tears.

Morning haiku

2011-01-09T06:32:00.001Z

Morning sun kisses -

a warm breath in frosted air

lighting rosey cheeks.

Angel wings

2011-01-08T07:38:00.001Z

Gracing the water

with your feathered touch,

beauty smiles.

When you were made

in the cauldron of eternity

He gave you angel wings.

So soon

2011-01-07T06:46:00.001Z

And, so soon, it’s all over:

excited stars unplugged,

tinselled leaves laid bare,

mangers vacated

for the child of Easter

and the crowing

and the crowning

of eternity.

The sea claps

2011-01-06T08:14:00.000Z

The sea claps,

its foamy fingers

course to the shore

in a moondance

to its creator.

A moment frozen

2011-01-05T07:30:00.001Z

A moment frozen;

delight for words

beyond words -

books,

wow.

Rusted

2011-01-04T06:18:00.002Z

Neglected, shadow

icing topped, nowhere to go;

yesterday’s wreckage

is covered in snow.

But there’s rusted beauty

in all things

touched with grace.

A children's park in Winter

2011-01-03T06:43:00.003Z

Icy fingers grip the children’s swings -

frosted slide stands empty.

Too cold for unwrapped play,

Hamelin silence ghosts the park.

Memories of childhood

climb and stumble

filling the empty spaces -
time rats.

whimstone

2011-01-02T01:26:00.002Z

A whimstone ponders,

basking like a shore held seal

thinking tidal thoughts.

winter haiku

2011-01-01T06:00:00.003Z

winter haiku

Fettered frozen roots

iron-clad in fisted earth

I reach for the sun

Prelude

2011-01-01T00:01:00.002Z

Prelude

Adam among the days

pristine and clean

I enter the door

of the year.

Christmas Greetings to all my readers

2010-12-24T15:26:00.000Z

Advent candle 5

2010-12-20T12:22:00.000Z

The Fifth Candle (The Christ Candle)

Advent candle #5

And so the die is cast

in form of child

the God has come.

Earth cradles the King

in poverty

misplaced, misunderstood.

The sacrifice of confinement

clothing for a while

outside eternity:

the covenant

signature.

The star shone

2010-12-18T10:53:00.001Z

Glenwood 'Special' School nativity 2010

The star shone

The star shone.
Angels came,
their singing inspired.
The stable backdrop
was all that was still within excited fidget.
For though these angels have runny noses
and fly only in their dreams,
their place beside the manger
has been ordained.

Shepherds, shepherded and straying,
struggle in, bemused,
eyes searching, not for God or promise,
but for mum among the gathering.

Kings came,
a multitude of stars light the way
bright and sparkling from their eyes.

Mary cuddles the doll-child,
joy written on her face,
while ‘Joseph’ wondered why he was there

as Josephs always do.
The ox and donkey, in wheel-chaired
ballet, share the crowded moments.

This stable is not pristine and sanitised,
does not adorn cards with cherub, saint or fable.
This is worship from hearts with broken bodies
to break the hearts of the whole.

Advent candle 4

2010-12-14T17:36:00.001Z

The Fourth Candle (The Candle of Peace)

Advent candle #4

The dove is loosed

from eternity’s door

bringing the olive branch

warm with love.

Waters of darkness recede

before the dove-light

love-light

peace.

So even now

men of peace stride wars

in alien wisdom,

their pace of hope

shines promise.

Stars are for lovers

2010-12-11T12:48:00.000Z

Stars are for lovers

Stars are for lovers,

was it ever so; trysts in secret

span the dark encompassing.

Stars are for moments,

snowflakes in the skies

melting with the dawn.

Stars are for lovers,

was it ever so;

for love places them there.

So with that single star,

redemptions light,

that draws inquisitive strangers

to an alien land

and a greater love.

Stars are for lovers,

shadows of loves ‘greater light’

reflections of a wondrous night

and choir-lit hillside

resounding with glory.

Advent Candle #3

2010-12-07T20:19:00.000Z

The Third Candle (The Candle of Joy)

Advent candle #3

Heaven’s voice is ringing early

its seasonal chorale

cascading through the well shopped streets

with the waterfall of glory.

And the tills sing out their victory

as the bankrupt bleed

on the battleground of greed.

Yet joy is to be found

in shopping mall and marketplace

when quiet voices

with shepherds’ hearts

respond to heaven’s greater tone.

Advent candle 2

2010-12-03T09:07:00.000Z

The Second Candle (The Candle of the Way)

Advent candle #2

The star begins its journey

and eternity spills

upon the lost.

A lesser light beacons

the greater light

and feeble footsteps

find the way

to eternity.