Born in a Barn

He was born in a barn,
He has no manners,

 

He allows disreputable women to touch him inappropriately,
He tells those in religious authority where to get off,
He is known as a drunk,  because he is always hanging out at parties,
He rouses the rabble, and the government quakes,
He spits,  and rubs mud in people's faces,
He disrupts public ceremonies,
He perpetrates armed assault on bankers,
He flaunts the rules,
He appeared naked in public,
He dies in disgrace,
He opened a door and he refuses flatly to close it,
He was born in a barn and he has got no manners,

 

Yes,
Christ the saviour has come. 

Word

In the beginning was the living word,
Before a word was spoken,
Before a sound was heard,
There was a nothingness,
A great and awesome void,
Pre matter, pre planet, pre asteroid,

And the word was spoken
Into the darkness
and "out of this darkness
The Father has sparked this",
The word was the light and the life of men,
We behold his glory, now as then,
Jesus, One of us, no more us and them
So he was born in the town of Bethlehem,

"And yeah, the world was made through him,
To redeem the world, the word became human,
He's more than a phonetic sound,
Gods word is a tangible, living kinetic, energetic noun,
An extension of God, so he's always been around"
To reclaim your soul from the lost and found,

The Word became human, became flesh and blood,
Left his throne and moved into the neighbourhood.
 Not sitting at the ringside, he joined the fight,
The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,

He walked where I walk, so he understands,
He feels what we feel, we call him the son of man,
But also the loving, Son of God,
Born to save his people,
To uplift the down trod,

He knows us, he's human, in every single way,
Yet somehow, God, able to save the day,
Not stood back, or far off, or judging from the sidelines,
But bloodied, and bruised, and walking on our time-lines,
God in it, with us, Immanuel,
The end of fear and lonely hell,
Flesh and blood, human, not God in human shell,
Not selfish, or power hungry,  nothing to sell,

This God-Man unlocks the paradox, Two opposites side by side
The first shall be last. Serving to rule, the flipside of pride,
He wouldn't ask you to do, anything He wouldn't do,
He proved it, improved it, He has done it too,

This baby, this manger, this unassuming scene,
Not fit for a noble, let alone the king of Seraphim,
But he did not consider it unworthy, of someone like him.
Because, like the lottery, you have to be in it to win it, and take it back again,

And that's exactly what he did.








*Quotes from Hazakim ''Crown' & DC Talk "Free at last"

Fall on your knees

Come to the stable
Come if you please,
Come all you faithful,
And fall on Your knees,

For here in this tiny stable,
Lies mystery unfurled,
Here in this manger lies something bigger,
Bigger than your entire world,

Come to the stable,
Come if you are free,
Come all you who are able,
And Fall on your knees,

Within this fragile frame,
Of a naked infant,
The everlasting God,
Your humble servant,

Come to the stable
Come free as the breeze,
Come you abandoned faithful,
And fall on your knees,

Fall on your knees,
All you who are able,
Fall on your knees,
And crawl into the stable,

Fall on your knees,
Oh hear the Angel Noises,
Repeat the sounding joy,
By Lifting up your voices,

Bow low at the manger,
Born, the Lord, of all your days,
And Fall on your knees,
In everlasting praise,

Fall before the king of heaven
Fall before the Lord of hosts
Fall before Alpha and Omega,
Fall before him who sends the Holy Ghost,
Fall before the babe in swaddling,
Wrapped up tight, and dribbling there,
Fall before God the Vulnerable,
The Holy arm of God, laid bare,

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the Angel Song,
In the Silent night
Join the heavenly throng,

Fall on your knees
Worship Christ the Lord,
The Brightest, richest Gift,
Heaven could afford.

Come to the stable,
Come if you please,
Come if you are able
And fall,
Fall on your knees.

The Personalised Cross

Can I get one,

That's a snug fit,

In your 'No nails' range,

Now I think of it!

Have you got something in red?

Dull brown's just not me,

Got to think how it looks;

This “Christianity”,

 

What about padding?

It seems quite rough,

And I don't want to get splinters,

If I'm going to be in the buff,

Also, can I wear clothes?

Or I'm going to look silly

Out on display,

And sometimes it's chilly,

Although Jesus pulls it off,

In the book,

For the rest of us, you'll concede,

Not a flattering look,

 

And can I take one,

With slightly less jeerers?

It can't have escaped your notice,

I am hardly fearless,

Besides,

I am quite sensitive,

And I would rather,

Live and let live,

And must I “take it up”,

All of the time?

Could I not work shifts,

Say five to nine?

(Till ten past nine)

I'll do the time,

Fifteen minutes,

Of fame on the cross,

Wait till I tell them,

Back at Martyrs-are-us,

Oh and by the way,

I hope you don't expect me to actually die,

But If called upon, I can perform,

A convincing cry,

Surely that will suffice,

There is no need,

For real sacrifice...

(20/06/2012)

Why I write Poetry

Why I write Poetry

I fell in love with poetry. When I remember my childhood, and hearing humorous verse, like Spike Milligan's 'Silly Old Baboon' or Pam Ayres, 'Oh, I wish, I'd looked after me teeth'. I liked limericks and the Nonsense of Edward Lear, Connecting later with bleaker and more haunting work, through Richard Adams Novel, 'Watership Down'.

I later wrote my first poem, for an assignment in 2^nd year English, about a crow, settling on a branch, in the midst of a wind storm. As instructed, I used all the alliteration, and similes I could think of, as I tried to ape the melancholic style and bleak imagery of Richard Adams. For me, at the time, it was oozing with metaphor. I have the feeling now, that my teacher may have thought it oozing with the pus of pretentiousness. However my predominant feeling, on writing this masterpiece, was not dissimilar to the feeling I got when I first tried to ride my bike with no stabilisers. Though wobbling all over the place, with huge potential to career into the road and the path of an oncoming truck, I was thinking 'I can DO THIS' 'I AM doing this. I am a poet!!'

And a year later, Studying poetry for GSCE English, the work of Ted Hughes and Wilfred Owen, in particular, blew me away. Ted Hughes in the unpicking. You had to take it apart to see how it worked. I loved the discussion of the ideas behind his poetry, I hoarded the gold that mining his verses gave up. It took my breath away. Two poems in particular. The Thought Fox, which I used for my GCSE art project, and 'The Warm and the Cold', which remains my favourite one of his.

And then Wilfred Owens 'Dulce et Decorum est', For the exact opposite. It did not need explanation. It needed experiencing. The raw power of it, the violence and shock of it, the righteous anger behind it, and the killer punch at the end, "My friends you would not tell with such high zest, to children desperate for some ardent glory, the Old Lie, 'dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori."

I fell in love with the very idea of being a poet, from these lessons onwards. To be able to express yourself with such potency? That was something of merit.

And a few years later still, when my talented friends were branching out into Music and Art, poetry became MY thing.

I started to self define as a poet. And yes, I probably WAS pretentious, but it connected me to a creative side that hitherto had been left untapped. I began to carry a pen and a bit of paper with me everywhere I went. And in that rather teenage unconscious way, I would frequently stop whatever I was doing and pull out the folded bit of A4 from my back pocket, and start to scrawl.

And I kept on scrawling. With varying degrees of success. It is not so much that I went on a poetry journey, but rather that poetry became my constant companion on my journey through life. And the A4, and the occasional back of an envelope, eventually became a note book, which became a Lap-top, and then a phone. But every now and then, an envelope still comes in handy.

I began to see in my life that poetry was everywhere, that, As the poet Pablo Neruda puts it, the 'Heavens unfastened'. That the world was indeed an awesome place, and by that I mean full of awe, and poetry helps us revel in the wonder of it.
And, as many poets I suspect will resonate, some of the most painful moments of life are poems that never reach the land and evolve, never grow words, font, syntax and verse, but are reclaimed by the sea of forgetfulness, from which we failed to rescue them, dragged back into the receding tide of memory. Good ideas for poems, like the biggest fish, are usually the ones that got away. Let me tell you. The great Poetry I haven't written. You would be amazed.

And like I said, Poetry became my companion on the journey, but it became more than that. Through all life, it became a way understanding, of giving form to a yearning, be it spiritual, social or sexual. It was the means, in part, by which I processed my loss and acquisition of faith, and the bereavements of my Mother first and then my marriage.

It became a way of marking the miles. It punctuated the otherwise long and monotonous sentence of my time-line. Poetry became my diary.

And it allowed me a voice. Often, in private, I would write things I could never say socially. I could re-imagine conversations, I could add caveats to ones in which the last word was denied to me. I could express doubts about all kinds of things. Probe the darkness a little. Shine the light of verse into the shadowy recess, and see if there was a monster lurking there.
And those seed thoughts that we all have at times? I could explore them. Poetry has been a joy and a gift to me.

And just occasionally, what I love about poems, is they can reinvent you. People who have heard you read a poem, often find that you are not quite the person they thought you were. If we dare risk it, poetry can pin the heart you have kept in your pocket all these years, back on your sleeve.

As Alan Ginsberg said, Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.

And while I am quoting a great poet, why not let us see what some other of the finest poetic minds have to say on the subject of poetry and it's purpose.

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.

Soren Kierkegaard (Danish philosopher, theologian, poet, social critic and religious author)

and somewhat less flowery, T. S. Elliot asserts;

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

T. S. Eliot

Salman Rushdie has an even higher view of poetry,

A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.

Salman Rushdie

I think I may have just about managed to take a few sides here and there, maybe even started an argument. But Poetry can wake us up. It can shape our world, and in shaping us, then those around us. And it can challenge. Oh yes.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost

It seems to be the translation of the soul to paper

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg (American Poet)

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.

John Cage (American Composer)

I just threw that one in for contrast....and humour.

Leonard cohen, perhaps one of the most poetic of lyricists, and a poet in his own right, as this quote will demonstrate says; Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.~ L. Cohen

And this is the sense that I want to get hold of, in my own writing, and for all of us tonight. Life converts into poetry. Life is poetry. Poetry, if not life itself, as the singer asserts, is evidence of life, It is not separate as we sometimes suppose. Cohen makes this vital connection, but of course, he is speaking AS a poet. We are not ALL poets though....are we?

John Fowls, a novelist, who brings a brings a word-smith's sensibility, to his understanding, and speaks with a poetic heart when he says;

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

John Fowles (Novelist)

Which brings me back to a vital question. What IS poetry?

I sometimes feel like a poem is whatever you want to call it. I recall a discussion, in my first year music class, on what was 'music', and my teacher told us of an experimental record, in which, on both sides of an LP, silence was recorded. We were asked to discuss if THIS was music.

My music teacher concluded that Music, was whatever it's creator defined it to be. He argued and noise, or lack of it, if it was used intentionally to create 'music' was worthy of the name music. He hastily added, of course, that doesn't make it GOOD music.

The same arguments exist around art, of course. There so many views of what constitutes art. But following my Music teachers principle, anything that is used to create art, can be considered art, because art, like music, is in the intention.

So if Life is poetry, and poetry, in some sense, is life, what makes poetry? The writing and composition of poetry gives expression to something that pre-exists, because it is the substance of life that inspires us. It comes from somewhere.

Can John Fowles be right? Do we all write, unwritten poems, save the poets themselves, who occasionally commit them to form. What Fowles is saying is that our lives ARE poems.

This is a high view of poetry, indeed.

And here is my last quote from Michael Franti (An American rapper, musician, poet, and singer-songwriter.);

He is quoted as saying “Every single soul is a poem~”
 

Although Franti was born in the sixties this idea he is espousing is just a little older than he is. I am a believer in Jesus and I regularly read a certain book that is ancient in origin. A book full of, and bursting with poetry, the intentional expression of the heart behind creation. St Paul espouses a concept that sits not too uncomfortably with greek mythology, which states that within each of us humans, is the 'spark of Zeus'. St Paul in Ephesians 2:10 says that 'WE are God's workmanship',

The word 'workmanship' in Greek is Poiema. Sound familiar? Poiema, I am informed, is the route word from which our word Poem, is derived. Workmanship can also be translated, as Masterpiece. A work of art. So then we are a divine poem. And, from my perspective, the divine creator, placed in us, at our core, a longing for creativity.

There is a sense in which we are a creative expression of the divine heart, a poem, written not on screen or paper, but on 'the tablets of human hearts'. And through our lives we are shaping that poem.

And so our written poetry is the intentional expression of our hearts, and connecting our emotions to thoughts, and our thoughts to words, is the most human of things to do. To write is to pertain to a sense of wonder at the world, and sometimes, to express our dissatisfaction with it....and everything in between. Poems can be written about all life. About a chewed up bus ticket, or a cheating partner. It can be about the lifting of depression, or the simple beauty of a raindrop. It can express frustration with a late train, or it can lament the death of a loved one. It can rage against the elements, or serenely accept its fate. Poetry encompasses and enhances life. All life. And it gives a voice to whomever finds it. Because 'Every single soul is a poem', then 'every voice is valued'. Poetry is a way for us to register our arrival and presence on the planet. It says 'I am here'. And that is why I write.

(Written as an essay to be delivered at 'Speak Easy'.  A gathering of poets.)

I Met You Last Night

I met my dead Mother, in a conversation last night,
Coming the other way in words,
If I hadn't lifted my head,
They may have gone by,  unheard,

But in your remembrance,  from a mutual friend,
I saw you like it was the first time,
Through fresh eyes,
Distanced from the distortion of familiarity,
Free from familial contempt,
The contempt of contentment,
When new information,
Is kept waiting at the door,
Or is barged past on the crowded Street.

 

No I saw a flash of you.
It was a glorious ghost,
I saw your smile in their fondness,
I trod the steps,
From alienation to affection,
As they grew to love you,
And you warmed to them,

 

I felt the burn of your shyness,
I recoiled at the heat of your cool reserve,
I felt the tingle of thawing numbness,
As your guard came down,  and your defenses melted,

 

I too had known it once,
I was on occasion,  kept at the door,
I knew what it meant to be invited in,
And to sprawl out, fireside on the floor,

I saw you smile, as they recalled your warmth, 
I saw your face in the smile of the words,
I saw the flash of it, and It caught my eye, and it was free from all remorse,

 

It was you,  and devoid of me,
It was you standing apart from the cage of memory,
It was you,  in colour, sepia free.
Filterless and feisty,
You and you alone,
No memory to bind or blind me,

And you were as living as the words
You had life, beyond them,
Your life was in them,
As they recalled your goodness,

It was the surprise of sight,
That took my breath on a journey,

I saw you in the words of another,
And touching their words I reached out,
And kissed the face of my Mother.

You Were Taking Your Time

You were taking your time,  you said,
 Cradling my first-born baby's head,
 Taking it nice and slow,
 "There is such a long way to go "
 You were keeping your distance,
 Hoping to win us with your persistence,

 And you were not in it for the short haul,
 Taking the long view over all,
Not stepping on my wife's toes,
 But wearing her shoes, donning her clothes,
 Imagining yourself in her skin
 Measuring out the space that she had to be in,
 
You were cautious because of the past,
 And the chasm created, deep and vast,
 And the rift that seemed to have healed,
 Sewn up in ripping baby squeal,
You knew empathetically,  what to do,
 Space and love would come shining through,

 And so you were taking and biding your time,
 Never quite placing your hand in mine,
 That would come further down the road,
 Love pending,  awaiting download,
 Five per cent of it slowly processed,
 Ninety-five per cent, never possessed,
 
There were no comics, nor walks in the park,
 There were no late night cuddles, to squeeze out the dark,
You said You were taking your time, when time was taking you,
 If you only had known, you'd have thrown off restraint, and resistance too,

 You would have gathered us all to your chest,
 And our last years together would have been blessed,
 With memories of unchained and unedited love,
 But sadly, when push came to shove,
 While time was taking you, you were taking your time,
 And it took away, along with it, potential memory's of mine,

 Memories of knowing you with my son,
 Two years shared and barely a one,
You were taking your time
 Whilst time was taking both yours and mine. 

Drone Strike

I don't wanna be your drone
And I don't wanna work from home
I don't wanna end up all alone
So I'm on strike, I won't answer the phone,

 

And I don't wanna be remote controlled,
Mindless, lifelessly do what I'm told,
So I'm outta the game,  I'm leaving the fold,
This drone has a voice and it won't be sold,

 

I don't wanna chase your pot of gold,
I hate what you love, I detest it's hold,
Nothing has changed from days of old,
You gain the whole world,
But forfeit your soul,

 

I don't wanna live for a Web of lies
I don't wanna become what I despise,
I won't be kept down,  my soul will rise,
You pin me to the earth,  but I'll reach for the skies,

 

I don't wanna work anymore for you,
I reject your terms and conditions too,
I've seen their effects and what they do,
I'm telling you now,  that's it, we're through,

And you can chase me down the street,
Take me to court, I'll take the heat,
I'll keep walking to where sky and land meet
Even if you nail my hands and feet,

I don't wanna be your pet,
The treats you offer, I never get,
You stroke my ego, I take the bet,
But the winner has never materialised yet.

I don't wanna be your wage slave,
Or live in the land of the broke and the brave,
I've seen your success and what it gave,
The cess pit, and not Aladdin's cave,

No, I don't wanna be your slave,

I don't wanna make the noise
The drone of complaint from the girls and the boys,
When within the pram, we keep the toys,
We satisfy ourselves with such trivial joys,

No I'm on strike, here's what I'll do,
I sit on the bog and write a haiku,
on the wall to say why I am leaving you,
So you can read my resignation when you're on the loo,

And now that I have left the hive,
You will still go on and thrive,
You can replace me in less than five,
With more dead drones,
But at least I am alive

This drone is on strike, that's it, I've gone,
You'll barely notice, you'll carry on
It's hardly like I dropped a bomb,
Whilst here, It's hardly like I shone,
But at least I left with some aplomb,

No, I don't wanna be your drone.

I won't live for a Web of lies
I won't become what I despise,
I won't be kept down, my soul will rise,
You pin me to the earth,  but I'll reach for the skies




 

 

 

 

 

The Next To Me Person

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to,
Although I am easily within reach,

And you ask,

Who is my neighbour?

All the migrants & refugees ,

The next to me person,

And the person next to these,

Trafficked people who reach out for help,
Those whose voices are silenced,

Not a whimper or yelp,

Someone who needs me.....

The next to me person,

You only live once,

And there's no rehearsin',

A neighbour is literally someone next to you,

Close in distance, akin in feeling,

Symmetrical in understanding,

So my neighbour is everyone....

Even the worst person in the world,

And the most demanding,

They are not my neighbours ,

They are my brothers and sisters,

Listen to me mister,

As the children of God,

We are family,

I am their brother,

I am their sister,

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to,
Although I am easily within reach,

Who then is my Neighbour? ,

The rich young man demanded,

To justify his lack of care,

To weasel out of being reprimanded,

Who “THEN”, is my Neighbour?
For, who 'Then' shall I serve?
For whom shall I labour?
For he who is worthy?

For they that deserve?

 

Tell me who!

who then is my neighbour?

Someone in need, anyone in need ,

Anyone less fortunate than me,

Drug-addicts, Junkies and those who smoke weed?

People who have been sanctioned,

Victims of greed?

Who Then is my neighbour?

People who surround us,

Homeless, refugees over here,

We may or may not like them,

Those we may distrust or fear?

They may be the person we envy,

But should be pleased for, congratulate,

When you stand their frozen, hateful,

And starting to stagnate,

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to
Although I am easily within reach,

My Neighbour is,

The next to me person,

This isn't a play,

 We are not rehearsin' ,

People who we interact with in every way,

The Atheists, the Muslims,

The straight and the gay,

The people who wind us up and irritate us,

People who have wronged us,

Day after day,

 

The next to me person,

This is not an act,

You are not rehearsin',

Good teacher,

Who is my Neighbour?

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to
Although I am easily within reach,

My neighbour is the one that's in need of my help, my care, my attention,

The one with the skin condition that we barely dare to mention,

My neighbour is the person next to me,

Without a smile on their face,

The one no-one sees,

The person too stubborn to ask for help,

When you can tell they are desperate for it,

The one who's hoping you will see,

And hoping too, you wont ignore it,

The person without a shoulder to cry on,

Or a friend to talk to,

The one with no-one to rely on,

The one who doesn't need your bible quotes,

Who wont hear the word,

But maybe just a hug,

When Love is the loudest sound you've heard,

Beyond the talk,

Beyond rehearsin',

The far off, far away, near to me,

Next to me person,

 

It is the person you do and do not see,

And in as much,

As you have done it unto these...

Every day family, friends, acquaintances or complete strangers,

All are neighbours to me,

 

So then,

In a Global village, is this something you could savour,

In our global age is the whole human race your neighbour?

 

In a day of technology and easy flights,

In a world that recalls in an instant, a web of horrific sights,

In a world of resources from an agency,

One woman stood in a kitchen , in Birmingham , cooking tea ,

May not be able to jump on a plane to comfort another,

Shivering-in-a-tunnel, escaping-a-war kind of mother,

But she can pray, for release of those who can, .

And She can stand with those who give a damn,

Neighbour cannot any longer be confined to people we meet,

They no longer reside only in the house, either side, along our street,

So many people are our neighbours,

But when I'm overwhelmed by the plight of ALL,

Of them, who I connect with through the media,

When my feet should be racing,
But my heart starts to stall,

I remember, somewhere, somehow,

That God has put me, where I am now,

And he gently reminds me

Not to overlook,

The "next to me person".

That this life is real,

And I'm not rehearsin',

That he is in heaven & here, and he sees us,

And in loving friends and enemies alike,

We are really loving Jesus.

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you reach out to,
 I am The One, who is within reach,

You Are Here

Red dot upon the map,

The words etched in black,

This is the place you feared to come,

And came to fear,

Worry and Don't worry, 

"You are here"

You pinched yourself twice,
But no spoonful of sugar can make this nice
So swallow down the medicine my dear,
because every way you look at this,
You are here.

And lost along your way,
When paths had gone astray,
And betrayed your feet,
which dragged you far from near,
You thought you'd never reach this point,

You thought this day would never come, but, Now You realise,
You are here,

You thought you'd never sink this low,
But here you are my dear.

It's worse than being lost
This facing up to cost,
So, let me whisper the price into your ear,
Yes this is what you've done,
This is what you have become,
And yes,well and truly,
You are here.

But worry and Don't worry,  now,

My dear, 

It's kind of reassuring, 

To put your finger on the map, 

And be able to say that 

You are here. 

From here you can get to there, 

When before you were nowhere, 

And drifting year on year,

When you know you're down from up, 

At the bottom you can see the top, 

And finally acknowledge , 

You are here, 

Before, it felt like mystery, 

Like you barely existed, 

Like you were a figment of some childhood fears, 

Like your soul was in the ether,

Like your body was all numb,

But now, connecting to the pain, 

You know you're here,

And pain is just a signpost to the lost,

And shame is lost upon the found 

The signpost points to another place, 

Where joy and honour will be your solid ground. 

Red dot on the map, 

The words etched in black, 

This is the place you feared to come 

And came to fear, 

But be Worried and yet don't worry now my dear, 

Because there you were and you were there but now for real,  you can say that, 

You are here. 

So trace your finger 'cross the contours, 

Dig your nails into the earth, 

Take one last swig from your glass of beer, 

Get your feet back on the road, 

Leave behind your load, 

And leave behind a note that says that, 

You were here, 

And leave behind a life that says that, 

You were here.  

Flotsam

Look what got washed ashore
The Flotsam and Jetsam of some foreigners war,
And no. No dead kids on English beaches, that's for sure,
But then this is only an inadequate metaphor,
And that Turkish beach, is just as much mine, as "theirs" or "yours",

I will tell you now, as I told you before,
They beg for shelter, and we slam the door,
This is none of our business,
This is not our War.
These are not our kids, being washed ashore,

You can't throw anything away, when there's no such place as away,
And what the tide takes out this morning, will return sometime later today,
And we reap what we've sown, on the earth, and it returns to us in the serf,
And with shame we cover our eyes, this "Jetsam" was human by birth,

Not Arab, nor Black or Caucasian,
Not Latin, American or Asian,
Not Egyptian, nor French, Nor Haitian,
Not English or Jamaican,

But Human,

Not Muslim, nor Hindu
Not Buddhist, or Christian or Jew,

But Human,

And the Human race is not competitively run,
Tripping others to hold onto the prize you've won,
When we all have to live under the same sun,
We all stare down the barrel of the same gun,
Of Hatred.

Look what just got washed ashore,
The Flotsam and Jetsam of some war we caused,
And no. No dead kids on English beaches, that's for sure,
But then this is only an inadequate metaphor,
And imagine that child is just as much mine or yours,

I ask you now,  David, as I asked you before,
If they beg for shelter, will we slam the door?
This is all  of our business,
This is all of our War.
These are all of our kids, being washed ashore,
Because this garbage is real, and no metaphor,
Because there is a real human being, behind the closed door,

Flotsam and Jetsam of our times,
The returning evidence, of crimes,
Against humanity,
To do nothing, is simply insanity.





05/09/2015

Dedicated to Aylan Kurdi

Fanfare for the Common Crumpet

Trumpet the crumpet
it deserves fans and fanfares
like it or lump it
with marmite to comfort you, in your cares
from tarts through to strumpets
no one would dare
pilfer my crumpet
they're too good to share
If Iron Mike took my crumpet
Though I may lose my life there
I'd just have to thump it
If you're holding my crumpet
Son, you are going no where.

Trumpet the crumpet
Warburtons' best
till the butter runs down
my chin to my chest
and till  my tummy
silently swells under my vest
the golden crumpet of comfort
has got me, in handcuffs
and under arrest
I'm slave to the crumpet,
I'm at it's behest
I'll take the crumpets
And you keep the rest.

Kite

The diary is clear,
The desk is cluttered,
Before a word, is thought, written or uttered,
The screen is blank,
Before it could rise, the word sank,
Falling from skies,
Into a sink tank,
An unthink tank,

And whom should I thank?
The bank is bust,
But think, I must,
Before my thought-wheels rust
And creak, squeal, squeak,
Gone to ground,
Ground to a halt,
No dynamite image,
To blow open this poetry vault,

Listless and in the beginning,
The lazy, languid and indulgent sinning,
Patience scoured, worn and thinning,
Impotence conceived, it's sperm are swimming,
The baby dying, inertia winning,

Words, words, everywhere,
And not a thought to think,
And drowning in words,
All but submerged,
And my time is starting to sink,
To shrink,
Creation is closing,
Receding,
Conceding,
And dragging me over the brink,

Beyond this desk,
And through the glass,
The stillness of the Sabbath cries,
And beyond my garden,
Hardened I gaze into the skies,
And through vacant eyes,
From below the houses,
I see it rise,

In the net of it's silhouette, I am caught,
Its red tail forking my thought,
Its curving crook beak,
Has proven a hook,
And I am helpless to write,
But sit,
And look,

As I wrestled and writhed, chained to this chair,
All the while,
The kite,
Was wheeling out there,
Arcing and swooping, and soaring free
As I had intended, a poem to be,

Never gone but just out of sight,
No ties that bind,
To limit this kite
As free and as easy,
As my thoughts ought to be,
But eyes on a screen,
Are unable to see,

And now distracted, drawn taught, and taunted,
Its freedom of ease, in the breeze, leaves me haunted.

Mesmerised, I sighed,
And like sighs sink,
And breathing chests rise,
I resign myself,
And stare after the kite, into the skies,

"Oh well", I say, though there is no one to tell,
Recoiling  after a while into my shell,
"I'll never write a poem now".

Etmol and Machar (Backs to the future)

laugh at days to come

don't fear, don't fret
don't look back with longing
or regret
don't stand on the precipice
of what is yet
toes tipping
over the edge
don't endeavour to forget

that the ledge is crumbling

stumbling backwards
through the door
way of what's to be
anchored to what's come before
past is an anchor
sunk into the floor
past faithfulness speaks of more

tethered to the eternal core

not letting the rope go slack
not focussing on what you lack
not looking  up or down, just turn your back

 and abseil into the future

two arms, the brackets are set in place
etmol faces machar in an embrace
and in the middle is the time and space
for you to be
caught in the grip
of faith and grace
in communion, face to face

the future is locked and the past is the key
to all you are and are to be
His faithfulness from all eternity
brings us such security
holding onto his promise's purity

"Most blessèd, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, Thy great Name we praise"

we turn our backs to the future
and abseil into the future



              *********************


Etmol and machar are the Hebrew words for past and future. "The Hebrew language has a peculiarity when it comes to the looking back at the past and facing the future - it has the two concepts switched up entirely. The word for yesterday, אתמול (etmol) is connected to the concept of being opposite to, or facing something. We are facing and looking directly at the past, not the future. Equally, the word for tomorrow, מחר (machar) is connected to the concept of being behind or after. The future is behind our backs. We cannot see it. We have our back to the future, so to speak. "

*Quotation and inspiration for this poem taken from the blog found at ;

http://www.oneforisrael.org/blog/105-the-power-of-Passover

Like my photo

Five likes and steadily climbing
Usually I'll only get three
But no matter how far this thing goes
Only one like matters to me

Twelve likes in twenty minutes
Perhaps this is starting to spiral
Believe me, I know my limits
But to me twelve likes is, like, viral.

Only three more likes since two thirty
It seems to be slowing down
I must find a better way to be flirty
Than just hoping you'll be around.

Hoping you'll happen to see
Maybe flicking through on your phone, with your tea,
Hoping it will make you smile
When you come across a picture of me

Hoping that before you scroll down
Or click on that spurious link
You're watching your finger hovering over the thumb
beneath the dumb pic of me, with a wink

You liked that picture of a kitten
You liked that cheesy internet meme
So wont you click on the person that's smitten
Who is worth at least ten of them

Well, maybe just nine and a half
Okay, a seven or eight
Alright, a very decent six
Now click and stop making me wait

Now I've maxed out with like twenty six
And it's not even a profile pic
And you've gone and liked someone much younger than me
And I think I feel physically sick

You liked your friends post
Of a hunk who is stripped to the waist
A tanned hunk with a ripped torso
While I'm fat and more pasty of face

If you wont give me something to go on,
"What chance is there of us getting together,
If you wont like my pic quick, and so on,
I fear the answer is 'never'.

I checked out your profile a few times
I scrolled through your list of likes
Some two hundred and thirty seven
Including some dodgy web sites

You liked a million giraffes
And forgive me, I don't mean to scoff
You liked the Kings of Leon
AND You liked Ferris Beullers day off

So if you can be so dualistic
And have taste that's both good and bad
Can't you please just like one photo
Of someone who's closer in age to your dad

I want you to like my photo
I want you to like my face, you see
I want you to see past what I look like
I suppose I just want you to like me

You see, although I barely know you to speak to
I think you shine in all that you do.
You look simultaneously like home and adventure, to me
And I think that I simply...
Like you.

I think you're the bees knees, now, honey
I think you're sweeter than Jam
And I kind of get the feeling
For a taste, I'd give all that I am,

I'm sounding increasingly desperate,
So please save me from my misery,
I don't care if you don't like my photo
Just as long as you actually...
Like me.

Twenty six likes and no longer climbing
Usually I'll only get three
But no matter how well this one has gone
Only one like matters to me

Risen Rap

He is back from the dead
The one and only
Come back king
Just like he told me
The king came back
forever he'll hold me
first in my heart
I'll love him only
Jesus Christ,
So pure and so holy
risen from the prison
And I'm so glad he showed me

yeah. I'm so glad he showed me.

When it was all over
Back from the dead
down but not out
Remember what he said,
I'll be back
And that's what he did
The prince of life
The come back kid

The crowd goes silent
The king goes down
man starts to count
he's lost his crown
The devil is dancing
The new king in town
The man gets to 9
he starts to frown
The king springs up
And the devil goes down
Yeah the devil goes down,

Resurrection
Yeah, you heard me
Goodnight Satan
arrivederci,
sayonara sucker
Asta la vista
I'm praising my Jesus
All over Easter,
Cos this is a small taste
Of the feast ta
come
In  heaven

I'm talkin Jesus
The great I am
The lion of Judah
The risen lamb

Risen from the prison
And forever I'll praise him
Defeater of Sin
God saw fit to raise him

Justified
glorified
Lifted to
The fathers side

Name above
all other names
I'll praise Jesus
I'm not a shamed

Risen indeed for our vindication
The living hope for the dying nations
The author of salvation
Back from the grave, on a short vacation,


He took the sin
He took the pain
On the cross
scorned it's shame,
Rose from the dead
Back to life he came
Risen forever
Risen to reign
King forever in the hall of fame

He is back from the dead
The one and only
Come back king
Just like he told me
The king came back
And forever he'll hold me
The first in my heart
I'll love him only
Jesus Christ,
So pure and so holy
risen from the prison
An' I'm so glad he showed me

Yeah. I'm so glad he showed me.

Resurrection poem

This poem,
Is like a resurrection
Ideas dead
The page empty
No sign of life
And then
Almost from nowhere
The cursor moves
and breaks the curse
of stagnation,
And absence of inspiration ,

where once we had nothing,
we have something,
Life from death.

You want proof
well you're reading this
Aren't you?

Two Thieves

Two thieves hanging,
Either side of Christ,
In turn we hear them speaking,
Beside the sacrifice,

Thief One

Look at you, Jesus,
What do you think you've done
You just hang there, bleeding
You couldn't save anyone?

With nails through your hands,
How are you gonna help me
You couldn't even get yourself
Down from this tree

All your miracles and preaching
Where did it get ya?
Did it get you crucified with me?
Yeah, you betcha,

You had it all, man,
Loved by all the Land
What did I ever get,
Except what I took with my own hands?

You've blown it Jesus,
You've thrown it away
How you getting out of this
Let alone rise on the third day

If you really were the Saviour
If you gave a damn for me
You'd Save yourself, and us,
And get me down from this
Murder tree,

But you're nothing
Your cause as good as lost,
Your dead and going nowhere,
Nailed to this wooden Cross,

I wish I could believe you
But that crown upon your head
Makes you the King of fools
And your dream; as good as dead,

I may be hanging here, on this cross
Same as you, fool,
But at least I never thought
That I was born to rule,

Messiah, King of Jews?
Pull the other one,
You' re hated worse than me
Who do you think you are, Son?

Thief Two

Don't you fear God, man,
What, not even now?
When we've been justly caught
And we're strung up anyhow?

Can't you see the truth, man,
Cant you see it plain,
We deserve to die,
We deserve to have this pain,

You know what got us nailed?
You know what got us pinned?
You know we're a pair of sinners,
You know we've always sinned,

You've gotta hold your hands up,
To what they say we've done,
But looking at this crowd I'd say,
We're no worse than anyone,

But not this man,
He' shouldn't be here,
He has done no wrong,
I can see that now, so clear,

I can see in him, beneath the blood and cuts
I can hear his breath of life,
Beneath the jeers and tuts,
I can see, that he, in spite of everything
Holds himself with dignity, and innocence,
He really is a King,


And this man is,
As innocent as the day he was born,
Stretched out between us,
Cut up,
bruised,
Torn,

He is silent Like a sheep is silent,
Before being shorn,
Though I hang here dying,
I feel like I'm being born,

Jesus , Jesus, you hang here, the same as me,
There isn't much between us, hanging on a tree,
But as we wait here, Jesus, to meet eternity,
When you come into your kingdom,
Lord, remember me,


Jesus

This day I tell you
In paradise,
You'll be with me,
Because when you looked at me
You could really see

And it's the same for all people,
Who see me for who I really am,
Not a tragic joke,
But the sacrificial Lamb,

For all those who see,
Just what it is I give,
Well they don't see a joke,
They look on me and live,



Narrator


So ask yourself a question,
Is there something you may have missed?
And what kind of man
Loves like this?

Flint-face

Set my face like flint,
Face into the sun,
Don't squint,
Turn towards the wind,
Don't blink,
Slitted eyes, fixed prize,
Don't teeter on the brink,

Face into the sun,
Not bursts, don't run
Just walk till you cant
walk then some more,
Tired  calloused feet
Stone hardened floor
Set your face,
Like cooling Iron
Molten no more
Set for Zion


Flinted sharp
Like the prow of a ship
Raised chin, stout lip,
Firm grip, on walking stick,
The belt and sword
Swinging round my hip,
Don't fall
cant slip
Flint faced for the finished race,


Come desert Sun
Come Hurricane
Come avalanche
Come Monsoon rain,

I'm flint-faced
For the finished race

I'm steely eyed
For the final prize

I've set my face
To see grace
In the expression of
My saviours face

To The Praise Of His Glorious Grace

For he chose us,

Blessed us

Hand picked us

Before everything

The Love that will remain

When all else is gone

Ever was

In the beginning,

In him

Who has no beginning,

And in that love

He chose us,

Chose us,

In Jesus

He who sees all things

Who truly sees us

Saw our unformed bodies

Saw the stretch of all our days

And recorded them all,

In his book

Before we could ever give him praise

Recorded them.

With loving care

In his book of days,

Through heaven's gaze

He chose us

Before he formed stars

Before he spoke light into being

He saw the spark, that he would place in us

He saw the love, that he would grace in us,

And he saw that it was good,

That we would praise him as we should,

And in the darkness of the formless void,

Pre-planets, pre-galaxies, pre-asteroids,

Pre-time

He chose us,

He chose us, To be blameless,

To love Him more, and fame; less,

To be holy in his sight,

To be translated,

From the land of the language of darkness

To the state of the speech of light,

So we never languish
So he summons peace from anguish

To the Praise of his Glorious grace

In love, he predestined us

In the heart of mercy

In step with the heartbeat of compassion

In tenderness, he determined

To draw us, with cords of Kindness

To lead us, in our blindness,

To adoption as his sons,

Something holy, this way comes,

The cords are not puppet strings

They are lifelines

Drawn from eternity,

Through lifetimes

From the flatline of sin

To vital life signs,

To the praise of his glorious grace,

Beheld in the beautiful face

Of his One and only Boy,

Big Brother to us,

The source of all our Joy
The wonders of his love and grace

are seen first in that face,

And I have seen that grace

That raises my downcast chin,

That warms my upturned face,

That strengthens me in weakness, 

That subverts my pride with meekness, 

The unending, 

Unbending

Undeserved, 

Unreserved, 

Favor of God, 

Unworthy I, boldly approach the throne,

And claim with reverend fear

the crown of grace, and grace alone,

And lay it back down at your feet

For all that you have done

And Praise your great and glorious grace,

In the face of Christ, your son,

"So turn,  turn your eyes,  upon Jesus, 

Look full in his wonderful face, 

And the things of earth willl grow strangely dim,

In the light of His glory and grace"

(Ephesians 1:3-6)

Perspective

You think that you see clearly
That no one else can quite figure you out
That if they saw you from your perspective
They would know without a doubt

That you're better than they judge you
That you're worse than they had ever worked out
That your story's always evolving
That you've every reason to scream and shout

That nobody understands you
Nobody has breathed from within your skin
No-one's seen from your perspective
No-one's felt the your crushing weight of sin,

If only they had seen you,
If only they had heard your heart
Pressed their ear up to your chest
Maybe they could have made a start

But the truth is somewhere out there
The truth it never lies within
True perspective always evades you
Its the snarl that lies behind your grin

You're the least reliable narrator
You're the most bias of all the witnesses
To the truth of your condition
You are the fount of greatest prejudice

Perspective comes from distance
Up close its all a blur
And my friend you were least likely
To ever see who you truly were.