The Cushion of The Years (Shield against Apollyon)

 

Tonight, at 51, With the duvet pulled up to my ears,

I will play myself to sleep,

With the cassette replacement,

Of the tape my mother bought for me,

To mark, at 15, my passing into a sort of infant maturity,

A bud that does not resemble but contain,

The bloom of tomorrow,

And it's foregone conclusions,

She tucked me in with words,

And self fulfilling prophecy,

"You're old enough now, to appreciate this"

She predicted.

Tonight, at 51, I tuck myself in.

And in putting on the cassette, I pull up the covers,

The padded cushion of the years,

I pull them over my head,

I kick fast to warm the bed,

Like I'm running home,

And I am 15, 

And the Shakespearean blanket of warmth,

Covers my ears,

And forms a barrier from my thoughts of the present,

A barrier for all the years that are out there,

I am home

And she is in the other room just feet away,

As near and as far as present day,

And for some reason, Apollyon, comforts me,

With his scathing enmity:

"I am an enemy to this prince,

I hate his person, his laws, and people,

I am come out on purpose to withstand thee!

Here will I spill thy very soul!"

And for all the spat out fury of the blow-hard,

And as dangerous as he is,

It gives me resolve,

To stay beneath the shield of sheets,

The field of sleeps,

Until my fears dissolve,

And the cushion of the years is thick

And thicker the more the years go by,

And I will burrow in that bed,

And shelter from Apollyon's cry

Even a Broken Clock

Even a broken, old fashioned clock

Is correct 2 times a day,

And perhaps if I stay as I am,

You'll come, in time,

To see things my way,

If time is the variable,

And not the nailed down, sealed in truth,

Then the fixed hands of opinion, 

Though opinions rotate,

Will point to the proof,

And if truth is the variable

Then what good is it to me,

If I require the eternal energy

To keep up, constantly,

No, The truth, this truth is my truth

And the time is on the shelve 

And what ever time it is, the truth is,

It's always 1 minute to twelve.

Thrown To Wolves

Bequeathed to me by the glare and crackle

Of the grey-black TV light 

And lurking lurid colours

Late in the lacking night,

The door cracked open,

I saw fear without fright,

I woke without waking

I could not see but somehow knew.

I saw without sight.

And I, by the sly of the older boy,

In the recreation ground,

Lost innocence of eye through a window

After church, at the back of the mound,

And no amount of gouging could pluck out

The loss that I'd found,

And so from man to boy to man,

We go around and around

I was thrown to the wolves

And wanting

I was shown to the water

And left to drown,

And all the flesh that followed me

And the hot seed of desire

Smouldered in the scorched earth

As it forged its false path of fire

And the trail I blazed

And left

And found and left and found

Is the path I trail with breadcrumbs

and led my children down

And threw them to the wolves

As I was thrown before,

When I woke up in the night

Looking through the crack in the door,

But the wolves are much hungrier now

They are ravenous and bold

They are predator and four dimensional

Not like the wolves of old

And the demons that they summon

Or the demons that summon them

Will not stop, will stop at nothing

And the wolves will come, and come, 

And then will come again.

The Investment

 The investment

one drop,

in an ocean of drops,

one cardboard cut-out,

in a sea of props,

one stop,

in a mall of shops,

the least,

the beast,

the mundanity that's so underwhelming,

 

and who will notice me

would you look on me?

 

one ant,

on a hill of ants

one lonely kid

in his gym pants

and vest a vested interest

in the uninteresting

but here comes the investing

 

you believed in me

when frankly you were out of your omniscient mind

you invested in me,

when bluntly, I don't mean to be unkind

but there were better candidates

people who would validate

such attention

did I mention

that your undeserved favour,

was a flavour I couldn't savour

like a drink offering

I am merely proffering

the notion

like the ocean,

of drops

the favour never stops

and though you spend a billion

for one in return,

like a crazy fool god

you never seem to learn

I'm afraid to say

that slowly,

I'm coming to see it your way

and I'm just starting to receive

the thing I must believe

 

that you love me.

29.01.2011

The Oboe and The Clarinet

Oh no,

She played the Oboe,

Secured her place in the music group, 

Yet I played piano to such poor standard,

I'd never get let,

Into the loop,

(Never could jump through that hoop)

For Tuesday nights practice she'd walk down the path, all staccato,

Heels on the path that led to our home,

And as the group tuned up in our lounge, all vibrato,

I'd sit in my room, on my bed, all alone,

(and follow the tones of the drone)

I'd see if I could pick out the notes of the oboe,

The oboe was the one that sounds like a duck,

And I was a wolf that hunted those sounds,

And lay in my lair, just cursing my luck,

(and the taunts of the blow and the suck)

Sometimes while the worship group practiced away,

I'd slink out and see if the door was ajar,

And a slight sight of her would shine through the sliver,

And 8 feet away, I'd worship her from afar,

(Her glorious hair was the sun and the star)

I'd watch her on Sundays, licking her lips,

Puffing her cheeks, fingering notes,

Furrowing her brow in pure concentration,

Pinning it down while my fantasy floats,

(Thoughts floating away like cut-adrift boats)

"As the deer pants for the water" played,

But my soul longed after you,

I pictured our duet, me stood by your side,

Our notes making one out of two,

(Our harmony creating melody new)

And how, as a boy of 14, to make this happen?

To facilitate this fantasy?

It would take a miracle of biblical proportions,

To make my fingers smooth 'cross the keys,

(Like the calming of Galilee's seas)

I'd never make the grade for the the worship group,

With my playing so bad it made everyone groan,

And with so many pianists, filling the chairs in our church,

I needed a niche of my own,

(where my hidden talents could be shown)

She had the oboe all covered, 

And Jenny the bird on the flute,

And Robin rocked violently the violin,

So what could I play that would suit?

(Something that would quickly bear fruit)

What would sound good and what would be easy?

And at what could I quickly get good?

Woodwind would be the most complimentary,

I probably should get wood if I could,

(an instrument, just to be understood)

If I chose the oboe it would be too obvious,

And that, I'd obviously regret,

But the need for the reed seemed to impede,

Most other instruments, but not clarinet,

(And they had one at school I could get!)

So I abandoned my seven year piano itch,

And borrowed my Dad's Acker Bilk

Taking up the Clarinet, Starting out rough as rope,

I determined to become smooth as silk,

(and to get all the sweet sounds I could milk)

With practices racked and hallway passes,

With lessons booked and time off classes

With blown up blood vessels burst and red cheeks like arses,

And dry chapped lips, enough time at last passes,

And I persuade my dad, to let me join the group.

And he concedes reluctantly to let me into the loop,

But only the practices 'till I'm good enough,

And I agree because clearly my playing's abominably rough,

And so at last my first Tuesdays night comes,

And I'm dressed up and my hair is all gelled,

And I'm wearing something smelly and sticky under my arms,

 But I'm not sure how good it smelled,

(and I was just praying that the gel held)

The Clearasil is clearly not working,

and you can clearly still see the spots sprouting too,

The fashion is more than questionable,

But maybe the music will shine through,

(Maybe she'll hear 'I love you')

So shyly I sit in a corner,

And decide to play only the notes I can play,

But to do that I have to read the music,

And read it in time, to my horror I find there's no way,

(I'll just pose and sort of awkwardly sway)

And it turns out I'm not Simon or Garfunkel,

And the sounds of silence won't bring me women or fame

And Oh no, not the girl with the Oboe,

With slender fingers and hair of flame

(And six months practice now thrown down the drain)

And my first was the last Tuesday night practice,

And I went back to worship from afar,

And a few weeks later dumped the Clarinet,

And the next year picked up the guitar,

But oh how the wolf was outshone

By that little red-head riding hood,

And the mournful seductive sound of the duck,

That had caused him to want to be good

From Stable to Table

The famine of the word of God

Finished: The word in full: Supplied,

The Word fulfilled, The Word made flesh 

Jehovah Jireh would provide:

Into the House of Bread

Long before the bread was torn

In Bethlehem where he laid his head

He came: The Bread of Life was Born,

Being in very nature God

He took on flesh, to be one with us, 

He took on himself our sin and sorrow

The bread was broken on the cross,

His Body broken now for us

Born into the House of Bread,

Provision of the bread was made,

That would feed us evermore,

And in the manger, the babe was laid.

And on the cross his body splayed

For the bread of God comes down From heaven,

Whoever comes to him, He'll never turn away,

And they will never need go hungry,

And he shall raise them on the final day,

And brethren, we are his body now,

And broken often, yet we are one,

One bread-one body-one church-one Lord,

And so, now in unison we come,

Because we partake of his bread,

We are one,

So to his table, 

We now come

Woken Stirred

 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ~ John 1:1

I'm woken and stirred,

For the spoken word,

Not choking or slurred,

Let the broken be heard,

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

Lazarus come forth;

Let the graves be opened,

Let living lies die

And the dead come alive

Let the voiceless be heard,

Let their voices arise,

Their joys realized,

Let their noise fill the skies 

Pray silence, then, 

For the king to arrive,

He's the living, walking sacrifice,

The Loving risen Jesus Christ

Word become flesh

So we heard it afresh

Born in a stable

In Swaddling dressed

Born on the run and laid in a manger

Born in a barn and into danger

Born to a mum who was just a teenager

Faced disgrace so you wont be a stranger

He was displaced, misplaced for his people's sin

So if his people will turn and believe in him, 

You're no longer a stranger but you're welcomed in

It's no longer death but instead life never-ending

It's mind bending what this little baby can do,

He can transform this world like he can transform you,

Your story may be filled with anxiety and dread

But I promise you he's the King who turns things on their head

*The loser wins,

The winner loses,

The free man cannot,

Do as he choses,

The first is last,

The last is first,

The worst is best,

The best is worst,

The poor are rich,

The rich are poor,

What's yours is mine,

What's mine is yours,

The bereft shall sing,

The happy weep,

The grabber forfeits,

The giver keeps,

If you lose it now,

You gain it later,

The greater the lesser,

The lesser the greater,

If you want to be master,

Then learn how to serve,

Pray then for mercy,

Not what you deserve,

And follow the King,

(Through whom all is made)

As he washes our feet,

On his victory parade,

He became sin for us,

He who was pure,

He was locked out for us,

He who opened the door,

He became last for us,

He who is first,

To gain best for us,

He endured the worst,

He endured shame for us,

He endured the worst,

Now glory is his,

Forever the first,

The dead come alive,

While the living are dead,

All hail the King,

Who turns things on their head*

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

Lazarus come forth;

Let the graves be opened,

Come forth from that tomb

That you've made your room,

You have to leave now,

You have to leave soon,

Leave the grave clothes behind

And take Jesus' hand

Come into the light

And take the stand,

I'm woken and stirred,

For the spoken word,

Become flesh and moved

Into the neighbourhood

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

The word become flesh

Let fresh hearts be opened,

*Poiema: The Lastest Bestest (matthewjosephpoet.blogspot.com)

I used the above existing poem and incorporated it into 'woken stirred', which was written primarily for performance at Ridgeway Community Church's carol service (2023) as it seemed to serve the idea well.