Chances

The blower of second chances

The aquireror or unrequited romances,

The stumbler through many death-defying dances,

The giver of third glances,

Blows that landed on him like lances,

Pierced the heart but grazed the cheek like a lover's entrances,

Lazy-eyed love, the languid look full of nuances,

But that the chance is the chances,

Were slim to skin and bone, do none, no nothing to enhance

His days were done long in advance,

His chances blown, like his finances,

Thrown away with all those fiancés 

First second, second third?

What were the chances?

He blew them all,

And off he dances

Two Kinds Of Poet

 There are two types of poet:

Ones who portray themselves,

As an aesthetic of their own creation,

A verbal skin to be inhabited,

A lens through which to view the world,

A better reality,

Then there are those,

Who simply disrobe,

Exposing themselves as formality,

And maybe this is too simplistic

And I like to reduce to the dualistic,

And neglect the nuance of my willful self-deception,

Too caught up in the mirror for my own reflection,

But can you guess which of those is me?

And which I aspire to be?

Crushed

The oil from the olive,

Comes from it's crushing,

From giving foot to the grape,

The will-be-wine comes gushing,

The flour for the bread,

Formed from grinding the grain,

And so the help for the healing,

Pours out of his pain,

If his body was not broken,

Then there was no bread,

There was no wine, nor forgiveness,

Without his blood being shed,

The oil wouldn't overflow,

Without his being crushed,

But the Spirit springs forth from the crushing,

And wells up within us,

The olive, the grape, the grain,

The oil, the wine, the bread,

The Spirit, The Blood, The Body,

Was crushed, 

Was shed, 

Was dead,

And from our crushing comes,

An increase in the flow,

So let the crushing come,

And let the blessing overflow

But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.~ Isaiah 53:5

Graceline

Grace is the baseline:

The least that you need

And the most you that you'll get,

The bottom and the top,

The bank and the bet,

The minimum investment,

With the greatest return,

Rewards you cant lose,

A wage you can't earn,

Grace is the baseline:

The line that marks,

The courts you can't leave,

Where the game is played,

Where you can't misconceive

The rule of the game,

And the rule from above,

Are one and the same,

The baseline is love,

Grace is the baseline:

Between home plate,

And bases one to three,

The line that marks your way,

The line you'll want to see,

The line from which you'll never stray,

Whatever troubles come,

The line that lead you safe thus far,

The line that leads you home,

Grace is the baseline:

The line that traces the path of words,

Ever present, yet unseen,

Notable by it's absence,

It walks the in-between,

All words ascend, descend from there,

From there we fall and rise,

From the grace-line my poem's written,

Once bitten, twice tasted of the highs,

Grace is the baseline:

Grace is the bassline,

Now, how low can you go?

What are the depths of love,

I'm afraid you'll never know,

The lowest notes you you could ever reach,

you'll never have to face,

The line of love has it covered,

So, drop the grace.

His Goings

 His goings 

Are from everlasting

He was always going to,

And his goings 

Always became comings,

As he'd come, to someone,

Patriarchs blinked,

And in a flash,

A flutter of lashes,

He was come and gone,

Melchizedek made many times over,

A night long tussle,

A fiery companion 

God's servant.

Don't think the thing with the fish was a first.

He's been making goings since the beginning,

Shimmying in and out of history's paper thin membrane,

Peekaboo with adult people,

Instant in their infancy,

Even Abraham, in his dotage,

A sapling, searching for forest-light,

Beneath branches of the ancient of days,

His comings and goings,

His means and his ways,

Found in the fallopian highway,

A suitable vehicle,

He sidled in,

Immaculate,

Infinite,

Instant,

Insistent,

In Utero,

He smiles and turns the key,

Yes,

He came,

Good to go.

Ephrathah

Rachel didn't make it,

Her bones rest by the roadside,

Saul saw nothing,

Though he came so close,

Another man,

He turned, dejected,

The steep slope of his sword,

Summoned him,

Returning to the earth,

There seven sons passed,

But failed,

Fell by the wayside,

The poet preferred to their prowess,

For the suitable successors;

The shepherd shall be substitute,

But Bethlehem's bread,

Was yet to be fed,

The one who would come,

Came from before,

The One whose goings are from everlasting,

The genesis of recreation,

The head of the snake,

Eats the tail of revelation,

Oh Ephrathah 

Never far,

From where we are,

You are by no means the least

Genesis 35:19. 1 Samuel 10:2, Micha 5:2 NKJV

My studies took me to Bethlehem this morning. I am studying the anointing of King David at Bethlehem. It turns out, the first mention of that place in scripture is that Rachel (Jacob's wife) died, and was buried on the way there. Then comparing Saul to David, a thematic contrast between the flesh and spirit, Adam and Christ (As they respectively are types) I found that Saul had been sent there, to Rachels tomb, by Samuel, but not to Bethlehem itself. And of course the brothers were passed over at Bethlehem, in favor of David. David was anointed there, but he himself was a picture, and not the real thing. The bread that would be provided in Bethlehem ultimately, was yet to come, and even now, although he has come, he is still to come. So many nearlys, so many not quites. And it turns out that one we are waiting for (Micha 5:2) IS already, and his goings are from everlasting, and his redemption is only ever just around the corner. Late in time? well, yeah, kinda....

Borne

 The manger,

And the cross,

Wooden scaffolds.

Would hold the weight,

Elevate,

The naked state,

Man and God combined.

On wooden arms,

In wooden palms,

Christ the saviour is borne.

The Fashion(s) of The Christ Pt 2

 From Our Winter Collection

This season,

Our Lord will be wearing,

A rather fetching,

Figure hugging,

Rustic all in one,

In swaddling cloth.

Perfect for cold nights,

Traditional and yet casual,

For putting important guests at their ease.

And a scent of frankincense,

Perfectly accessorised With 'Manger' by Anonymous of Bethlehem.

The spring collection.

 This Spring:

He will be wearing

A less than fetching 

Figure

Your sin,

Pure nard,

And what's left of his skin.


Coming up Next Season:

Something a little more bling,

White horse,

Crowns,

A long robe,

Golden sash,

Accessorized with 7 stars,

And a certain fire in his eyes.

The Fashion of The Christ

 This Spring:

Our Lord will be wearing

A rustic 2 piece,

(Accessorized with 9 inches of Roman iron)

Made from locally sourced wood,

A jaunty little headpiece,

Shame,

Humility,

Love,

The sins of the world,

And nothing else.

Boy's Best Friend

I used to talk to my cat.

As a boy.

Telling it all my troubles.

I identified with the cat, I suppose because it was different from people.

People were always the problem.

The cat like me, I felt, Stood out.

Stood apart.

Usually found on his perch half way up the stairs.

Optimum heat, as it rises.

Optimum vantage point for spotting danger.

Optimum inconvenience for it's humans, ascending and descending.

If the fire was out.

If the range wasn't on.

If it wasn't sunny out.

If the food bowl was empty.

Usually found on his perch half way up the stairs.

I would go up or go down to find him there.

And I would pour out my heart.

Pour it on thick.

"We are not like them"

"We are not like them"

"We are not like them"

But never being satisfied until I had pushed it too far.

And then the fateful. "You understand me"

"You love me unconditionally"

Projecting onto this animal, perhaps precisely because he couldn't speak to debunk the myth.

His voice an insufficient instrument or weapon, he would let his body talk.

It was usually at this point, he would wriggle and squirm his way out of my arms,

And then he would walk.

If only my parents had been Dog people.

Reflecting now, I feel. I was never really easy with those words. 

It made me nervous to say them. 

I feared deep down he didn't like me.

I think that came over.

I think he sensed it. 

It spooked him.

I think perhaps he was more like them than I would have ever dared to think.

The Reason I Don't Get Up

 The reason I don't get up,

Is that you cannot fall off of the floor,

The same reason I am still curled up in a ball,

While the world kicks me some more,

(One of those blows might land,

If I actually try to stand)

The same reason I reason I wont take off,

And the reason I never attempt to fly,

Is that you cannot fall if you do not climb,

And you cannot fail if you never try,

The reason I don't know love,

Is love can't let you down,

If you don't let love come anywhere near you,

If you don't get in the water you'll never drown,

It's better off somewhere over there,

In movieland and works of fiction,

A  place of make believe and escape,

Rubberless, roadless and free from friction,

The reason I hang on to this silver,

And never really invest it,

Is you cannot lose what you did not invest,

You can return it to the one who entrusted,

'Fear can stop you loving,

But love can stop your fears'

A lesson I heard for those who can learn it,

A song for the one who has ears

The Deer That Wasn't There

 On the way,

I walked, in wonder,

Where would it come from,

God today?

Where is your word, 

Here in the hedgerow?

At home if the half-light,

Hiding in plain sight, 

I should say,

Open my eyes,

In expectation,

Open my mind,

My heart would say,

Where in this wasteland?

Where in the wanting?

Where is the word,

In the world today?

Where is my manna,

My meat and my measure,

My portion and pleasure,

Arrived to stay,

Where in this wide world,

That you have created,

Is the delight I've desired,

Through night,

Till the day?


I can do nothing,

Without your word,

Without the wonder,

Of you to sway,

My heart like a tree,

In your direction,

The wind of your spirit,

Will blow me this way,

I've seen your word,

In wilds and wastelands,

Wetlands and wet sands,

And in the sea spray,

It comes to me, 

In Winter,

In Robins like ravens,

If feeds me, as they feed,

On my feeder each day,


The words walks by,

As I walk out in nature,

It flies high, and glides by,

The wind 'neath it's wing,

It's lifted me too,

As it's left me at landfall,

Listened with laughter,

As I lift voice and sing,

The word is a hider,

Habitually hidden,

But it's also a revealer,

An ambusher-king,

It sneaks up in surprise,

Swoops down from the skies,

From the ground it will rise,

Suddenly showing everything,

So where in this wild world,

Where in this wasteland,

Where in the quicksand, 

Is your word today?

Where is your olive branch?

Save me, I'm sinking,

Stuck in the stagnant,

Miry clay,

There in the cornfield,

There by the oak tree,

There with it's four legs folded,

In the distance, is a deer today,

Bowed at the bottom,

Slipped into slumber?

What is it doing?

I cannot say,

If I am quiet,

I can creep closer,

I can sneak slowly,

And see it's display,

Dead though it may be,

Stopped like a still stone,

Dropped like a mill stone

At bottom of bay,

Is it still breathing?

Can't decide in the distance,

Draw near to the deer,

Hush now as you slink,

This must be it,

Your word in waiting,

And for the first in a longtime,

I've found it, I think,

All the lessons from learning,

Songs from the psalmists,

Deer and their drinking,

And I'm thirsty that way,

Perhaps that is why,

You lured me in my longing,

You chose a deer to deepen,

Whatever it is, You are going to say,

I sneak even more slowly,

Cling close to the hedgerow,

Hide in the shadows,

Hold my head out of sight,

The deer doesn't move,

Though I came out of cover,

Coughed and then crouched,

But it doesn't take fright,

This deer it seems,

I say as I near it,

This deer must be dead,

Or deaf or blind,

I know I'm down wind,

But that doesn't explain it,

It must be dead,

What will I find?

I'm staying the right side of the oak tree,

Now I have cover,

I discover my mind,

Suspects that the sight,

I am set upon seeing,

Is something else,

(A deer of a different kind)

And breaking my cover,

I discover the deer isn't there,

But an oak branch,

Slyly suggesting the shape that I saw,

'Gotcha', says God,

Getting the laugh in,

Setting the bucket,

For me to walk in the door,

But the image of that deer,

Doesn't leave me,

A picture of chasing,

A metaphor,

The deer wasn't there,

But the lesson learned,

Is what it wasn't there for.

Talks

There was a time,

I talked to people,

Who showed concern,

That you did not talk much,

I am not worried, I would say,

He talks to me all the time,

Just not so much in public,

(I exaggerated)

Laughing inwardly at their insecurity,

Needing feed back for affirmation,

But nowadays,

I can only laugh at my need,

In my insecurity

The joke is on me,

And the talk

Is memory.

Burn Babylon, Burn

 It's time to disable Babel,

Satan, your kingdom shall fall,

To topple your tower,

Unplug your power,

The hour is here for you to answer to all,

Time to tear down your toy towns of treasure,

To rip up your playbook and rules,

To revoke all your pleasures,

And every half measure,

To expose the wolf 'neath the wool,

Time to expose your lies for half truths,

That you twisted as you thrusted them in,

Dipped in the poison of guilt,

Driven up to the hilt,

The wound seeping sin upon sin,

Time to search and destroy the destroyer,

The poisoner at the well,

To force it back down his throat,

Every last gloat,

Remind him he's going to hell,

To smash down the idols he sets up,

To cut them down at the root,

To burn all the wood,

For the undone good,

The tree that prevents all the fruit,

It's time then to bow now to Jesus,

Time to bow, yes bow down and fry,

You'll hiss and you'll spit,

As you're thrown in that pit,

But no pity, not even goodbye,

Burn then you kingdom of Babel

Burn brightly, burn Babylon, burn,

You've spent your entire,

Time setting people on fire,

And finally It's now your turn,

It's the end of the year of God's favour,

It's time to call in all grudges and debts,

He's kept his account.

He knows the amount,

I think you'll find it's you that forgets,

The end of the year of his favour,

The great, terrible day of the Lord,

His tool belt includes,

All the tools he will use,

The Fork, the Hammer, The Sword,

He's held it all back for so long now,

His anger is stored like a flood,

On the day it's poured out,

Don't be about,

On the day of the vengeance of God,

He's held it all back for so long now,

Stored up his wrath like a flood,

Against every misdeed,

And action of greed,

The only thing that can save is Christ's blood,

Burn for the blood that you've spilled

Burn then Babylon burn,

Burn for the lies,

Let your smoke fill the skies,

Burn now for the love that you spurned.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bmrts8y663A&list=TLPQMTYxMDIwMjCydT2r_ilFOw&index=3

I See You

As you sit there stewing,

Brewing concoctions of revenge extractions,

Of prolonged explanations

Vitriolic justifications,

Fire breathing soliloquies that are as likely to appear,

As the dragon itself,

In this circle of chairs,

As you steam and stew,

I see you

As you struggle to not let them know,

As you can't take it up, but your mind won't let go,

As your voice is dulled,

As you feel robbed of choice

As for my sake, you hold your peace,

Though the tide's not yet turned,

And release is a lifebuoy ever edging away,

I whisper to you,

And you hear me say,

I see you,

In your anger do not sin,

This saying nothing, 

This sitting here,

Is not a loss but a win,

And being angry is okay,

Just keep watching what you say,

This too shall pass,

Though it will smart,

It will not last,

I see you,

Take your pleasure not in them but in me,

And practice intensive caring unity,

I see you,

And now, 

You see me.

Hold your peace,

Peace,

Be still,

Remember what we are speaking of,

Not yours, but my will....

Strange Lament

 As old as the universe itself,

Older than the bricks on which it was built,

The solid cornerstone, from which all vibrations emanate

And in turn, return to.

His Love,

Is steadfast.

It has never changed nor wavered,

Kick as hard as you like,

It won't wobble.

It never ceases, depletes or decreases,

Through trauma and trial,

Eon upon eon,

Mile after mile after mile,

Add infinitum,

His love wont be moved 

Or be undone,

He is love itself,

The Ancient one,

Yesterday, today,

Ever after, the same.

Steadfast, stood fast.

It was never rocked,

And it shall never change.

But let me tell you,

Every single day,

His mercy,

Is born anew,

Like dew,

Fresh every morning.

The way in to this unmovable castle,

The mighty fortress of his love?

Every single morning,

The Mercy gates open,

And let the wanderers in.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
    his mercies never come to an end;
23 they are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.~ Lamentations 3:22-23

I do a Dance

 Every now and then,

I do a dance,

That only you would understand,

 An enacted memory that cannot be changed or altered,

Or ever forgotten,

It did not exist before you, 

And it wont disappear now I'm gone,

It's a piece of you

I carry forever,

I see your your smile when my shoulders shake,

I hear your laugh when I wobble my head,

I perceive your  playful pout,

When I looked to you for approval,

And it makes me want to do the dance,

All over again.

Sweat Like Tears

 

Hands and knees,

Down in the earth and mulch,

The roots of weeds weave,

They duck and burrow and break off,

To live and fight another day,

But the rich soil of the Kingdom,

Is worth working for,

And sweat forms on my brow,

And wearying I bow my head

And the drops run freely now,

And one in particular, leaps somehow,

Over the ridge of my eyebrow,

It hits my highest point of cheek,

Cascading down towards my mouth,

It feels like a tear,

A tear that comes from a deeper  and less emotional place than the ones from my eye,

This too, is a kind of cry,

And I,

Am digging,

Am weeding,

Am sowing in sweat and tears,

And knowing I've been sowing in the wrong kind of tears,

For years,

And years,

And years,

Maybe this kind,

Will bring that morning joy,

I'm fighting for my land now,

And the dirt is beneath my nails

Resurrection days

Every time I fall
Every time I fail
Every time I find myself
Chasing my own tail

And I hear your voice
Calling me back to life

That's a resurrection

Every time I let you down
Every time I sin
Every time I sell you out
To be saving my own skin

And I hear your gentle voice
Call me back to life,
Call me back to faithfulness

That's a resurrection

Every time I'm deserted
Each time  I'm betrayed
Whenever I am let down too
And I've got down on my knees
And prayed

And heard your loving voice
Call me to forgiveness

That too is a resurrection

And at the end of every road
That's led to a dead end
I've found the strength to turn around
And start all over again

Well that's a resurrection,

Each time I turn to Jesus
A kind of resurrection,

A resurrection
A new-life connection
A grave rejection
A forward projection
An insurance, a protection
A dark-to-light defection

Switched sides,
from dead to alive

Resurrection
Sown into the DNA of earth
In the shadow of every death
The dawn of a new birth

Each night we sleep, as dead
In the morning we arise
And the sun appears to rise
From the ground up to the skies

All around us
Resurrection

From the death of a single grain
Comes a harvest you cant contain

With Christ we're never dead and buried
When all is lost there still is hope
When down and out, we're never worried
There is always resurrection scope

We worship a living, risen saviour
His name is Jesus Christ
Victor over death and hell
And he holds the keys to life

Internal reading

When words are things I cannot feel or see,

And "I cannot read inside of me",

Or begin to describe the message my feelings send,
"I push my lungs up and pretend,

I pretend to be fire at them."

 

 

I Asked My Love

I asked my love

What things define me
Three things she replied

A poem
A cross
A mess

Disgust Discussed

I look back now
At my 23 year old self
A roll of fat
Pinched
Less than an inch
Between my finger and thumb
Unclothed down to my bony bum
Naked before a Barcelona hotel mirror

And for the first time
Began to feel a distant sense of disgust
The slightest swell,
All is not well

And he disgusts me.

He disgusts me
Not for his paunch
But for the launch
On a projected trajectory
A tragic story
The magic inglory
Inglorious in ignorance
Ignorant in innocence

That his first step down the staircase
Will lead to the step that stumbles
Tumbles
Into a face-plant
Landing in the cellar
Of Disgust

That the truly disgusting thing
Is the presence of disgust itself.

If you had known
What that was
Or where it would take you
You'd have been grateful.

Kingdom Principles In a Post Service Coffee Apocalypse

The Last Shall be First:

Unless I see him first
And let him jump in the cue in front of me,

Just to teach him a lesson,

(And maybe steal the real blessing)

And the First shall be Last:

Though his thirst shall not last in the temporal,

Though his lips are wet,

And his cup is full,

Though his custard cream crumbles,

And his belly no longer rumbles

He has received his reward,

And answers to the Lord,

That is, oh wait, unless....

He has found a way to invert humility,

And really he seeks to bless,

By going first and taking for himself the last place,

I bet that's it,

He's using grace,

He takes the biscuit,

And wins the race,

Or perhaps I am overthinking this,

In this post service coffee apocalypse,

Please Don't Love Me

 Please don't love me,

Like I am,

'Cos what you have to understand,

That what I am,

Is not me,

Save your love,

For me.

Feel The Spirit

 You wanted a miracle,

And here it is,

The temporal touched eternally,

The physical world,

Hard copy,

Moved by unseen hands,

Invisible force made visible,

The evidence of the wind,

We don't see it,

But we feel it,

It moves the trees,

And though we don't know what 'it' is,

We give it a name,

It is not Christ 

Commanding into being,

Muscles and sinews,

Skin and new bone,

Stretching out the arm,

Where there was no arm,

It is not the leathered soles of sandled feet,

Succumbing to the resistance of water molecules,

It is not the dividing of the indivisible,

The subtraction of bread,

Becoming the addition of bread,

The division a form of multiplication,

It is not the immaculate conception,

It is no resurrection,

But here it is,

 

This tear,

That wasn't here,

And now is,

Carving a path down my cheek,

Through the tiny forest of miniscule hairs,

That sense it's passing,

Send signals to my brain,

In the code of a tingle,

That yes, it is here,

And a moment ago it was not,

Like the tree,

I am moved,

By a presence I cannot define, describe or contain,

Let alone explain,

Like the wind,

I feel it,

And without seeing,

I see it,

And though I don't know what it is,

I give it a name.

You Were The Sea

 You were the sea,

When he moved to the coast,

A locked in land-boy,

Bereft of waves and their wonder,

When he arrived, he'd daily dive in,

He made it a practice to go in and down under,

Sea starved his whole life long,

He thought this love affair would run and run,

He swam in September and all through the year,

Regardless of rain,

In spite of the Sun,

You were the waves that lapped over him,

That called from afar, that drew him back in,

The tide that pulled back the sheets,

He'd lose hours in that water,

Lose count of the weeks,

He'd run fingers through the surf of your hair,

He'd comb the beach for the gifts you'd left there,

Little signs of the things that you bring,

Residues of your rise, and it's love offerings,

Hard things you had softened over time,

Foreign objects and trinkets with no value,

No reason or rhyme, 

But precious to him to find,

And the beauty it bought;

A rare and unique kind,

When he held them,

It bought your presence to mind,

Exotic and domestic, at the same time,

A sense of safety, an essence of freedom,

Your watchful eye would oversee them,

Unpredictable and dependable,

Sensuous but rarely sensible

Always there, Always moving,

Always changing, never changing,

Always changing, never changing,

When he moved to the coast,

You were the sea,

For that first year,

He'd live and he'd breathe

Salt and Sea air,

Were his only reprieve,

Though he'd drift back to land,

He would never leave,

The sound of the surf 

On the sand, filled his ears,

Calling him back,

From salty spilled tears,

To the place where all rivers run,

To the source of the salt,

And the birth of what had begun,

The love should never have gone,

With resources that deep,

It should have gone on,

But eventually the sea became the background,

The backdrop, that never came back round,

He could hear the tide all day long,

But he tuned it out, like a radio's song,

He got used to it being there,

Like he no longer noticed the salt in the air,

The sea was for the tourists,

Sure it was nice,

But he was a purist,

Some time he'd go further down the coast,

One day he'd go and chase that ghost,

Inverse

 Warm on a lazy, late September day,

Only blue down there,

No trace of grey,

In the depths,

The red tail Kite swims by on his back,

On the surface, in an opposite direction,

The uptipped dragonfly hovers back in his track,

The vampiric Pigeons between,

Perch precariously, hanging from the fence,

And inverted I , look down into the depths of the sky,

And sighing give up all pretense,

That there is up or down,

As I'm pinned to the earth by unseen force,

Gravitated to the body,

That holds and sustains me, 

The heavenly body which dictates my course, 

And up and down are meaningless,

Without the planet's orientation,

And direction only comes with a place to leave,

And a place of destination,

You are my West and East,

You are my South and my North,

My down and my up,

My far and near,

 Creation cries out,

It's speaking forth,

You're my home and the land that I leave,

You're my awaiting destiny,

You are the train and the station,

The departure and the destination,

Without you, I'm going nowhere,

Floating off into space,

A vacuum oblivion without you,

A  prize-less, 

Directionless, 

Endless race,

The shining Sun is in the deep,

On the deep September day,

The creatures continue on; upside down or backwards,

And carry on their way

Bottom

When all was drunk,

And it came down to it,

Drowning in dregs,

Sinking in my own vomit,

My belief was burst,

Not a life jacket, but a millstone,

But much as I hated I could not reject you,

And you must save me,

And you alone,

I want you to know,

I got to the bottom,

I found deep truths,

Long forgotten,

And if faith is something,

Rather than taken up,

Something of which one cannot let go,

Then yes, I'm a stubborn rebel,

But I have to say,

I found at the bottom,

I have such faith,

And I love you so,

On the bottom, looking up,

I saw the surface, 

The shimmer and glow,

And from the bottom,

It was more beautiful,

Than angels on clouds will ever know,

You're Christopher Robin (The division of Characters)

 My Brother you're Tigger, If I am Pooh,

Though I'm a bit more Eeyore, and some Piglet too,

Yes you're Tigger, and sometimes Roo,

Although if I'm honest I see some Kanga in you,

And sometimes you do what Rabbits do,

But neither of us was ever Owl, That's certainly true,

But mostly I was known as Pooh,

A Bear of Little brain,

In the forest I was Robin Hood, And you were a little John,

In the Jungle I was Mowgli, But you were Tarzan's son,

Boy the jungle went on and on,

The laws of play seemed never done,

I was Akela at the Council rock,

At times: Shere Khan, You were Bandar-log

Grey Brother, you were Bagheera, I was Baloo,

Although I'd have much rather been you,

I thought I was D'artagnan, But I was Richelieu,

You were Porthos and Athos and Aramis too,

Without the poetry of course, 

And of course mine was the religious discourse,

I wanted to be Flash Gordon, You were Superman,

More suited to do what a hero can,

I was Luke, you were Han Solo,

You were Captain Kirk, You would boldly go,

Where no brother of yours had been before,

But you'd follow sometimes, When I'd walked out the door,

You were Obelix to my Asterix,

You were the whole village to my Cacocophonix,

You were Tin-Tin and Snowy, I was Captain Haddock, son,

Also the bungling Thompson and Thomson ,

I was Penfold, You were Danger Mouse,

Bringing character and story to life all over our house,

But most of all you were Christopher Robin more,

You, my brother, were who the stories were for.

The Miracle Factory

The shop floor,

The conveyor belt,

The mold, 

The fold,

The iron smelt,

A pinch of flesh,

And some calcium,

Hair follicles, hands,

And, here they come,

Down the line,

One by one,

The miracles,

Machine made. Done.

The government,

The law, the schools,

Conventional wisdom,

And unwritten rules,

Shape their minds,

Weed out the fools,

Whittle down the clowns,

No frowns, let's all be cool,

There is no robbery,

Here's all the tools,

You'll need to feed,

The spoon-fed liberal gruel,

Get rid of God

Supply the fuel,

Independent Individuals,

All kind, Tolerant and Cruel.

Miracles made,

For the miracle pool,

Man in the image of man,

Man in the image of man,

Manufacturing miracles 

Man does what he can,

Full

 From the highest heights

To the deepest depths,

From the pathway of choice,

To the reluctant road to regret,

From the moment you fell, 

Till you woke up in bed,

Every second, every minute

Every beat, every breath,

As you first filled your lungs,

Till you expel them in death,

Though you know it not,

Or if you tend to forget,

Though it surrounds you now,

And unaware you are wet,

You are soaked, you are drenched 

You're immersed in it,

The whole earth is filled 

With his glory,

From the seas to the sky,

To the radiant sun,

From the molecule, the atom, and neutron

From the mountain top, 

From the eye of the storm,

From the life wrestling free,

 From death being born,

In the science, the energy of the bomb,

There's a whole lotta glory going on,

In fact there's even more to come,

It's full, full, full,

And yet it isn't even close to being done,

The whole earth is filled, yes,

But have you met his son?

I tell you, there's a whole lotta glory going on,

But you better believe,

There's more to come,

If you ask for an equivalent,

You can ask but there is none,

He's holy, holy, holy,

And you'll be undone,

The earth and heavens are just a showcase,

Of the glorious one,

And the whole earth is filled,

With his glory,

So from the sperm and the egg,

And the space in-between,

From the spectacle of galaxies,

To the sight unseen,

From the before to the after

To the ends through the means,

It whispers, and speaks,

It shouts and it screams,

To those who have ears,

To those who have seen,

Just the smallest of glimpses,

In waking or dreams,

It's full up to bursting,

Bursting the seams ,

Of our reality,

Or whatever that means,

Full, full, full, 

Of glory 

And the whole earth is filled,

With his glory,

I bow to the king sat before me,

The whole earth is filled,

With his glory,

Slip Gentle

 I'll slip gentle into that good night,

Why should I rage,

Why should I fight,

As if my going,

Is some dying of the light,

Not the death of the dawn,

But the birth of the bright,

Tell me, for what am I holding on?

For more of the same?

More empty days, scorched by the Sun?

Better to cut free and run,

Let go of the weight of what you'll become,

Life is for letting go,

You shut out the light and smother it so,

In your grasping, nothing can grow,

So mourn for your pride,

And your fragile ego,

Embrace the life that's to come,

When 'all of the colours bleed into one'

Release your hold back into the wild,

Where it wont hold you back,

You've been held like a child,

Restrained by the reach of your fear,

You thought you'd be kept by what you kept here,

But you threw yourself out on your ear,

Chasing the dream,

Year after year,

(When really you've always been here,

Behind all the blinds,

Beneath the veneer)

Then let go, luminous one,

Surrender the days,

Let them become,

Become whatever they may,

Whatever becomes,

Let go the moments, 

One, then, by one,

And slip gentle into that good night,

For it is good,

And not the dying of light,

If your heart doesn't fear

If your  soul is set right,

Let go to God,

Surrender the fight.

(Written in part as a response to Dylan Thomas's poem 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'. It's one of my favourite poems and his performance of it is one of my favourite poetry performances of all time, but he and I do not share the same worldview (nor the same talent, I might needlessly add). Thomas may not have been thinking of the afterlife when urged his fading father to fight the 'dying of the light', and I have a similar themed one about the death of my mother, but this life isn't all there is, and I write, not for a loved one but for myself. It's not so much a letting go of this life, as a letting go of the hold the fear of my death has over me. I am happy to stay as Long as the Lord allows, but I want to be ready to go when the time comes.)

Perhaps I Was Redeemed Too Young

 

Perhaps I was redeemed, at too young an age,

In movies it comes at the end of the story,

Your character arc arches toward the final stage,

It would undo all the narrative,

Perhaps rob it of some of the glory,

If our hero was left to grow old,

Letting the bitterness and cynicism unfold,

If the reformed romantic lead,

Grows disinterested, bored,

And finally leaves,

And I was redeemed too young,

Perhaps if the rapture, or Jesus had come,

Taken me from this life of temptation,

To dwell instead in this new heaven,

The arc would feel complete,

The boy swept off of his feet,

Rescued from a life of sin,

Though he barely understood where sin can begin,

In the smallest of smallish things,

That big sin was never what would conquer him,

But the desert of time was what would expose,

His heart to the elements,

The longer it goes,

The more the flaws are on show,

The desert deserts this desert rose,

For faith can flower a while,

But it's only faithfulness,

That can retain the smile,

I suppose this is where the lack,

Shows that I'm grown from the seed that fell in the cracks,

No roots you see, 

And the sun rose, and it scorched me,

It scorched me real good,

With no deep root in love,

I think I misunderstood,

Not rooted nor grounded in love,

Or at least not rooted deep enough,

And my youthful valour is all gone,

The hope I strung out, burned up by the sun,

And for a drop of moisture I've hung on,

But it's now that redemption should finally come,

And finish me off for good,

Instead of stretching me out between what I should and I would,

Well I suppose,

I suppose,

I suppose,

The older I get,

The more the grace grows,

And the glory is all yours for keeps,

If you can find any,

While the sower sows,

And the reaper reaps,

Scream Directions (for a Screenplay)

In all of my youthful dreams,

It never fell apart at the seems,

I would be golden, I had the means,

But now my nightmare arrived in waking screams,

The wasteful composure,  concluding these scenes,

Skinny longings in skinny jeans,

But all of that crap's 

Gone in a clap,

Cut to fat,

(Fade to black)

When I was a lad; a little boy,

I thought the future might hold joy,

Daily/nightly I would employ,

The device of dreams as they were my toy,

Look into the lens now , Don't be so coy,

Pucker up, son, praise, acclaim and fame ahoy,

Smiles make up for the lack,

Of blue-sky's gone, not coming back,

Cut to me cutting hope some slack,

Now cut the crap,

(And fade to black)

A lifetime spent in vain pretense,

That the future held more than the present tense,

That potential held the best defense,

Unassailable, unquestionable in a sense,

The weight of the unknown, could be immense,

The potential heft of what could be hence,

Weighed: found wanting, a has-been hack,

The weight of expectations broke his back,

Pinned with excuses, under attack,

Cut to cancer, or heart attack,

Finally run out of slack,

Shrug to camera,

(Fade to black)

The dream is gone, and the dream is dead,

The dream was a beast that should have never been fed,

On a leash, but it was I that was being led,

And all hope scattered before it and fled,

And I became what I came to dread,

I should have loved God and others instead,

Instead of the pride that filled my head,

Cut to me, gone way off track,

Boxed in whilst the mourners dress in black,

Cut to the smile that will never crack,

Fixed in death, etched in flesh like wax,

(Close the lid)

Fade to black.

(The disparity betwixt the dream the reality. The fake fur trimmed coat of what could be to cover me from the cold of the hard reality of what was and what would be. I pulled up the hood and hid my face in the tunnel vision of that snorkel. Life is gone in a moment. Like flowers we fade and fall. Use your bloom wisely. Love God, love others. Find fulfillment in these.)

A Spit Amidst The Imagining Of A Deluge

 

From a bridge over former glory

I spat into the bed of a dried up stream

Imagining the torrent 

As if in some dream

But my spit is absorbed

With no difference, it seems

But the parched bed awaits

A deluge to redeem,

And the channels of my prayerless heart

Are also dry, directionless and mean,

Come then and return to purpose

Come then and redeem

Rain then and redeem, I say.

Redeem me, 

Redeem.

Redeem away...

(This one is kind of like, ok then God, surprise me. You're a redeemer, do your stuff then. Redeem away....)

Focus

I have a tiny little hole in my eye,

Some embolistic rupture from the pressure

That pushes my blood through my veins,

Which carry it round my body,

When I look at white paper, or a blue sky,

I catch glimpses of what is always there,

But of which I am usually unaware,

A tiny dot,

A blurred little burr,

To the lower left of my right eye's vision,

Putting it overall, just right of centre,

It is always there,

Weather or not I am aware,

And on those occasions,

When I notice,

I try to look at it more closely,

But it evades the capture of sight.

Every time I look directly at it,

It moves,

Being part of my eye,

It moves when my eye moves,

And so the tennis game goes on,

40 love to the embolism,

Game, set and match,

I'll never catch it,

Unless the whole eye goes dark.

It lives in the peripheral.

I have a tiny hole in my soul,

A spot, 

A speck I cannot see,

And whenever I look at it,

The bugger moves,

And I can never focus on it,

For it cannot be looked at directly,

But lives within the periphery.

It is all I can do to acknowledge,

It is there,

And from time to time,

When the environment is bright enough,

It floats around on the edges,

Just to remind me.

Specks.

Eyes.

Planks.

Thorns,

Prayers.

Grace.

Sufficiency.

To My Lord

To my Lord,

I give the meaning of that word,

I bequeath him all the lies he heard,

From my lips,

Knowing the truth of it,

Before I conceived a word,

And yet he heard with a smile,

And loved me still,

Knowing beginning from end,

That indiscretions like good intentions,

And promised mentions,

Were laid thick with ripped up paving stones,

 I stole from my path to hell,

Sure, I intended well,

You went there first,

So you knew,

What good I would,

Or would not do,

You paid my debt,

Knowing how often I would throw it in your face,

Christ is that not the very definition of grace?

And I have the tenacity to call you Lord,

When I have scarcely learnt the meaning of that word,

I bequeath my heartfelt lies,

And all I've come to despise,

And lay it at your feet,

Oh for perfume,

That I were a prostitute with a pot,

To pour on you,

Rather than just these tears

In my unworthiness,

It would be better 

And more truthful by far,

Than the word Lord,

Simply thrown off from the cuff,

Oh Lord Jesus,

When will enough be enough?

(Not all who say to me 'Lord, Lord' will enter. The double use of the title almost infers we are over familiar and complacent, like 'daddy, daddy'. In one sense we should be confident in his affection, but also we should never be complacent. The title 'Lord' has a meaning.)

Disappearance

The disappearance of the day begins at dawn,

Born dying, the sunlight ascends to height,

Night, sees its descending,

The ending of flight,

The light of the sun,

Spawned ending, even as it has begun,

Clung-to moments are already on the run,

Spun leaving the second they come,

We are all of us leaving,

Cleaving, we are, everything, leaving.

Believing seconds are for sentience,

Sentiment settles on our decadence,

To lavish ourselves upon the hours,

Like a leaper lavishes themselves upon the rocks below,

Go, take every second by storm,

Born dying, but living and reborn,

Scorn shame and waste the same,

I came to spend them both alike,

Like the disappearance of the light.

When I Was A Child

When I was a child

I reasoned that although I was a child

The fact that I was a child

Bore no bearing

On who I was

And I had no concept of becoming

I did not feel like an incomplete soul

I was not waiting to be made whole

I was not enriched by what I stole

Nor depleted by what was stolen

I was not held

Or beheld

I was not emboldened 

Nor beholden

I was me

And I longed, more than anything, to be free

My fantasies were winged things

Wolf-raised loners or kings of the invisible,

My longing was for the infinite

Stretched out for ever before me

Never diluted nor divisible

Risible though they found me

Climbing trees

Scraping knees

Caught in rainstorms

Playing windmills in the breeze

They tried to encage me

But they could not

I would not cease nor freeze

Simon did not say

And I never wanted to adapt

That was pure essence

That which you thought play

I was the skinny, day-dreamy cry-baby kid

I was too sensitive

The teacher told me 

I looked at hawks

In books

Paddled with the other boys in brooks

Put people off by my open hearted sincerity

I clung as tightly to friends as I did to dreams and desires

And thus suffocated the air out of friendships

Quenched fires

And retreated 

Beyond the walls

Within the earth

To the inner life,

Perhaps that is why I write poems

Because beneath the crust, and tectonic, melancholic plates

The magma is still moving

Still flowing 

Cast Down

Laid low, lost my glow,

Nowhere to turn, nowhere to go,

In free fall, in tail spin,

Nothing to grab,

To stop or slow me,

From falling in,

From the toast of the town,

I'm cast down, to class clown, 

Lost my crown but found my frown,

Cant do a verb, 

Slowly

A doing word became a noun,

A non-swimming swimmer,

Quickly drowns,

The whirlpool, Sucked me in,

Murky waters but lucid wallowing,

Despair licked lips start swallowing,

I feel peeled,

Hope's core is gored,

And hollowing,

Where is the voice,

I could be following?

The waters have, washed over me,

Like the breakers of the sea,

Your water-falls down inclines so steep,

From heights of flight, to the deepest deep,

You call to me,

To wake from sleep;

The Night time dawn-songs,

Sound morning-sweet,

And as my breath is squeezed away,

I hear my voice begin to say,

Why so downcast, soul, today?

Why disturbed and in dismay?

Look up, look up,

And hope in God,

I will praise him anyway,

I had been downcast

Cast down,

And drowning fast,

But now I'm free, 

Free at last, 

And for this time the time has passed,

The trial tried,

But it did not last,
And freedoms praise 

Is glorious, expansive and vast,

I'll tie my colours to the mast,

I'll raise the flag and praise with every gasp,
He is good, 

And His goodness lasts.