poems: For Me, for others, Miscellaneous.

Poems: For Me, for Others, Misc,

Looking for a Blessing


Somewhere near the pier
In Weston Super Mare.
Sand sculpture exhibition.

A section near the end
Of famous film stars and
Others from the past.

So, having done the tour,
I sat down with my coffee
From a cardboard tasting cup.

As I raised my eyes
I saw Audrey Hepburn staring.
She couldn’t take her eyes off me!

It was disconcerting
But in honesty
Sort of pleasurable too.

Somewhere in the Bible
Is a blessing which is true.
May the light of God’s countenance
Always shine on you.

May His face shine and smile
Upon our very self
So we can bask in Glory.

Basking.
Glory.
Face to face.

Looking.
Just looking.
Perhaps reflecting.

(Even warmer than the stare Of Audrey Hepburn!)

—000—


A Living Sacrifice.

Did I offer Him
For my mis-deeds;
Because at the core
He is untouchable?

No! For to the depth
He is hyper-touchable.

I will crumble
At such touch
While He will face
The sacrifice.

Bread and wine,
And standing with
The evil perpetrated
On the sinned against.
This is sacrifice
That sustains us.

So I offer Him
As Eucharistic sacrifice
In hope that my sustaining
Will stop unnecessary blaming
And maybe even motivate
Our communion
With Him, and each other.

Did I offer Him
For my potential
That at the core
I might be more impressionable.

Is that what sacrifices do?

 

 


Dreamy dancer

My word
Was she a dancer?
My God
She burnt his lap.
She stretched and swung
Those long long legs
Just like a Venus trap.

Her multi-layered
Translucent skirts
Shouted loud
And swirling, slap.
Creating tidal currents
that rise and rise:
nearly drown the chap.

With sweeping motion,
And ample poise
She gathers scarves
To her cleavage gap,
Then disappeared
From a waking dream
Somewhere off the map.

 


Out-of-patience Waiting room
c1948-9 (3-4 years old)

Gazing
In anticipation.
Vigilance.
“Is she coming?”
Gone to get a cup of tea.

Scanning
In expectation.
Recognition?
No. it’s someone else.
“It takes so long – a cup of tea.”

Waiting
From that direction.
“Just suppose
The doctor comes
While she gets a cup of tea.”

Regretting
In separation.
Royal Brompton.
“Where has she got to
Just to get a cup of tea?”

Hanging
In suspension,
All alone.
“Must be half an hour
To get that wretched cup of tea”

Standing
On the chair.
Attention
Through metal casement,
“Would she bring that cup of tea?”

Peering.
“An apparition
In corridor?”
Yet not a sign
Of a cup of tea.

Relief.
An injection.
Penicillin
Not painful like
Desertion for a cup of tea.

 

 

 

 

Remenham Church 1962


Did I come here
For any reason?
Or was it more by chance
I sat down in that pew?

How did I sense
The “nothing else”;
Strange “no sensation”;
Overcome my body.

What else it was
I do not know,
Except the overwhelming
Need to wait on strangeness.

But then “no-name”;
While being there;
Could only be the same
God, in place, quietly shown.

Not tote’ly new.
I had some clue.
But now God’s holy ground
Had centred me: I found.

God was not seen,
More all around
Becoming seen. Re-viewed
In the light that God exudes.

It wasn’t much
A conversion
Of myself at all. But
Seeing everything anew.

Converted sight!
Enlightened view!
Creation. Enchanted.
Spirit filled. Energised.

I did not get
Converted to my God.
God is to blame
Converting all with light.

In your light, do
We see the light?
But now and again it
Breaks into where I am.

Had I come here
For a reason?
Or was it more by chance
My way was changed; enhanced.

 


Ordination as Becoming.

Authors
Invent nothing.
Just reshape what’s here.
Chancel
Invites being
Authentic; sincere.

Bishop
Awaits conferring
Ordination; that’s clear.
His hands,
And more, a-heading,
Pile in from ear to ear.

Transform
Into priesting
From what was before.
Replacing?
Or just flowing?
Enhancing for sure.

 

Wine
And bread-changing
And forgiving. Unseen
Authority
To be gazing
Into a space between.

Fulfilling
With suff’ring
In the space between God.
Changing;
Belonging.
Becoming;
Perspectives to infuse and prod.

 

Isolation, Solitude and Loneliness.


Eye-sol-lay-shun,
Is not the same
As Soll-it-tude.

Eye-sol-lay-shun,
By deaf-in-nissan,
Disco-neck-ting mode.

By contrast, no
Sep-oration
In Soll-it-tude.

Soll-it-tude is
In relation
To others who belong.

Lone-lea-ness is
Mo-men-tarry when
Thinking Soll-it-tude.

More constant; feels
Lone-lea-ness, with
Eye-sol-lay-shun.

Eye-sol-lay-shun,
Brings riven-ness,
Torn apart, undone.

From E-sent-shall
Togetherness
Soll-it-tude knows.

It stands beside
The ground of being
And becoming.

Soll-it-tude knows
Itself as belonging
To a social home.

Eye-sol-lay-shun
Is anti social
Broken and divorced.

So lift up my
Lone-lea-ness, Lord,
Into soll-it-tude.

Transform my hate
To love all else
With; even sep-oration.

 

‘ot Pot.

I had some fried otters
Down at the Potters
But wasn’t as ‘ot as could be.
It needed a smidgen
Of fricasseed pigeon
To make it a delicacy.

 


Taking lunch with us.

I caused the Argy Bargy
When I stood on her Onion Bhaji.
It was left on the floor
Inside the passenger door
Hid in a carrier
But I was the worrier
Because mini pork pie
Have seemed to survive.


Hermit-hood

A Benedictine said to me
He joined a community
So he could be
A hermit.

Being a hermit
Still needs people
Even if it needs them
Somewhere else.


Seventy five.


Seventy-five
And still alive?
Who on earth
Would dare contrive
Such an event
With such conceit,
and bold intent,
To come and eat?

The attendance rises
Each quinquennial.
For we need to say
We were at the final.
Cos when it comes
To Twenty Twenty-five
The poor old chap
May no longer be alive.

It’s with such Joy
That you appear,
Making visible, enjoy,
And keep indulging here
Our esteeméd clan
Keep in mind this dear old man
On this, and every future
Eleventh Day of Jan


The Market closes.

Underneath
The overarching shadows
Of the noise,
Reverberating echoes,
As silence does emerge
And brings
Its peace,
And quietness sings.

Stilled!
Encompassing the bustle
All becomes
Petrified, industrial.
Frenetic business gone;
Has given way,
Left to ‘windswept’,
Littered on display.

Escape
Occupation of the day;
Transition’s steps
Journeying away
Starts at lightning pace
Until one’s feet
Amble, when sight anticipates
Our home and street.

 


For others

Nineteen Eighty More

I remember
Nineteen eighty.
Maldon Hospital.
Mum gripping my belt
During labour,
Singing loud: top of voice
‘Gospel Songs’
Mid-wife joining in.

Me taking Leon,
Taking Ruth.
Snow White
Disney
Cartoon film.
Maldon Empire,
Or whatever
Place was called.

Secreting
Miniature Rum
For the mid-wife.
I saw
The little bottle
Disappear, undetected,
Into the folds
Of her medical skirts
So swiftly.
Unbelievable.

Coming to visit
Mother and child
On my motor-bike;
Or something like.
Big day too.
First ‘home-grown child’.
Was something new
Or something wild.

Dad


It’s Lime Wash Day.

It’s lime wash day,
Sant Sannan’s Church,
Volunteers abound
And tip-toe ‘cross the ground
Between idle wheel-barrow,
And sacks, and giant
Tubs – labelled
LIME WASH.

There are boiler-suited
Goggled covered eyes,
That makes the people
Hard to recognise.

With brushes
Deftly dab,
With misting sprays
Dampen – not the spirit
But the stone,
To then retain
The wash of browning cream?
Or is it creaming brown?

The scaffold stands
Beside the tower
To give the brushers
Another course of stone.

But within the tower
On LIME WASH day,
Are ringers
Campan-olog-ing
With discipline.

The ringers ring.
The bell ropes rising
And then falling,
Guided by their hands.

The ringers seem
To be unshaken,
And even nonchalant,
Certainly as much
As the task
Will they allow.

I saw a kettle
Make the journey
From Sacristy socket
To the back of church.

Soon the energy,
From ringers within,
And washers without,
Will each receive
The reward for toil.
Now the kettle
Has come to boil.

 

For Peter Jones
Lime Wash Day organiser.


For Amy.

I’m so grumpy
Down in the dumpy
What am I to say?
I want to be chirpy,
Sing-y little birdy,
Just not feeling that way.

 


Telly Tubbies.

This is for Sunny.

Uh-Oh! Uh-Oh!
I’m a telly tubbies fan,
But I’m not very tubby
From watching telly when I can.

Grandpa.

 

Miscellaneous

God of rest.

Re-imagine church
With lots of sabbath rest.
No energetic busy – ness,
And all that business.

That kind of game,
Just more the same.

Instead
More sabbath resting.
ZZZZZing more.
All together:-
And
Snore.
Amen.


Bonny Face in Credit town.

By the slope
Beyond the road
A Holy Well
Of Boniface.

An ugly heap
Of ill-placed stone
Both side, top,
Interrupted
With what seems
A worn steel bolt,
Incongruous
On tin door.

Obscuring
All inside!

Not right here,
‘Sentimental
Sloppy prayer.’
But ascetic
Faithfulness
Is now required,
Stark black and
White, not coloured,
But greyscale
Beauty, speak.

No need of
Soft adoration!
That God knows;
Knows full well.

Get to grips
With urgent need
For shaping
Perspective.

 


Well! Square box
Around this Well
Awkwardly
Juxtaposed
Beside a sharp
Rectangular
Of cherished
Bowling green.

Sixty steps
along the path
the statue form
of Boniface.

Him very self
On a column.

White, sunlit
Stone. Giving him
Boyish looks,
Eyes raised,
Lifted up
From open book.
Near snobbish
In his tone.

He gazes
Past the bandstand
As if it
Needed some…….

…Orchestration.

Awkwardness
Describes this place,
Like faith does
In this world.

 

A Present God.

 

If praying deep
Is an emptying of thought,
A detachment of mind,
I think I have
A reservation
In my heart.


In the silence
With the presence of an
Overwhelming beauty,
I fix! I stop!
Half apprehending
Something hid.


It’s just beyond,
Yet tangible-y there;
Invisible but real.
Subdues that fear!
Yet all but hidden
For our sake?

It’s there all right
But why behind a veil?
To protect us from a
Beauty? Too bright
And far too blinding
For our eyes?

And when I pray
I’m only part-conscious
Of overcoming fear.
Driven! Desire
To see God face to face.
So Brazen!

God’s presence here,
Not, a parallel
Spiritual universe,
But here! Not inside.
Beside us now? But closer
Than our skin.


Doing right.

Some things are just right.
Treating people fairly.
Loving what is beauty.
Talking what is true.
Becoming more the good.
Some things are just right.

Consequences may need to be judged.
Outcomes may need account.
What drives us is what’s right.

Don’t let the practical blunt – imagination.
Don’t let results blunt – desire.

Imagination nurtures hopefulness.
We forget unintended consequences when we plan
so keep intended one’s
in their place.

Let pragmatist and consequentialist thinking
be shrunk to its proper size,
and if it has a place at all
find it in the doing right for – the sake of right.

Whatever you do,
don’t shrink ‘right’
into what are called ‘values’
in our managerial world.

Resist the shrinking of a truth
Into a matter of personal conduct.


Some things are just right and stay like that.

 

 


Meteorological Baptism.

My friend John, when he was writing
Said with his Dictaphone in place,
‘God knows it raining,
God’s own feeling,
Feels the raindrops
splashing on my face.’

God doesn’t mind if I get grumpy;
Or let my disappointments show
It’s how God knows
My ‘down-in-dumpy’
Restoring hope,
God’s mercy’s flow.


My uprising and down-sitting prayer.

Am I under scrutiny?
Do you really know me?
Can you see what I am going to do
Before I even do it?
Do you know what I am going to say
Before I even think of it?
You fix me by touching me.
I can’t compete with such knowing.

And so I clutch,
And dig my fingers in.
Into subcutaneous
Layers to hold on.
Fearful
That you may go,
Leaving my ignorant and dependant flesh.
How could I stand unless I know…..

It was you who knit me
Altogether?
Predicted. No!
But could have done,
If you had not wanted
A companion.
But you lure me and anticipate
My involvement in your future.

Apprehension
In the sense of fearfulness
At the limitless
Possibility.
But apprehension
Too in the sense of seeing through experience,
The experience of being made known.
By the one who made me what I am.

Faith and trust
Is not knowing.
It is being known

 

Questions of God

Do you love me?
Do you really love me?
Oh yes.
I heard your promise.

Did you promise?
Did you really promise?
Oh yes.
But can I trust you?

Can I trust You?
Can I really trust you?
Oh yes.
Are you truly faithful?

Are you faithful?
Are you really faithful?
Oh yes.
But what about me?

Have I attitude?
A faithful attitude?
Oh yes,
Even though I do it wrong.

I’m not OK.
But God’s OK.
The difference?
Grace and Mercy.

 

Joseph, O Joseph.


Joseph
O Joseph
Why stand there
Vexed, frowned, and unsure?

Mary
O Mary
Why?
She with child.
But from where? Or whom?

Joseph
O Joseph
He wants to believe
But has doubts about what is true?

He makes up
His mind.
To be just
And kind.

To protect her
From public disgrace
And quietly
Let her remove from his place.

Joseph
O Joseph
You’ve made up your mind
To be just and kind.

—000—

All your thoughts;
All you have given
To shoulds and oughts.

But God disagrees.
He has another way.
So what does he do?
He sends an angel to you
How dare God?
After the time I spent
In worry and hurt
To just dispense.
Why not just blurt?
If he had some to say
And save me the thinking
And trouble – anyway.

Despite the pleading
The Angel comes
Without any heeding
And issues/
A Manifesto.

—000—

Workers of the world unite.
Joseph and Mary
Parents of the Spirit’s baby
Will name him Jesus
(meaning He saves.)
Saving people from people’s sins.

—000—

Don’t be surprised,
You’ve been told before
By prophet who
Was called Isaiah

“Don’t you listen to what
I say to other people.”

Virgin conceives,
Has a Son,
Who will be called,
God is with us.

No miracle in virgins
Bearing a child.

Miracle is
The whole of God
Is squeezed into
A little one called Jesus.

—000—

Advent is nothing like Lent.
Advent’s about hope
Restored to our souls
Anticipating
The whole of God
Squeezed into human flesh
like ours.
(With crying tears
And wet bottoms
Baptising the world from both ends.)

What could prompt
Greater hope and possibility
And rejoicing.

—000—
Joseph
O Joseph
Why stand there
Vexed. Frowned and Unsure.

He comes to save.
To save the people
from the people’s sins.

For Advent 4 – 2016
Matt 1 18 – end


Giving the priest a lift
at Crumlin Traffic Lights


On your marks,
Matthew, Luke and John.

Getting set
The amber’s far too long.
Holding Revs,
In nearside seats
With dog collars
But minus starting gun;
Braking with anticipation.

Then we GO!
GO! GO! Green.
‘Go the Mass has ended’,
Or,
So it would
Accelerating seem.

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