It Was The Worst Hour of My Life

It was the worst hour of my life,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

You'd just suffered a rectal exam,

I wish you'd been feeling stronger,

Your spirits were crushed, almost defeated,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

They assisted your toilet, I won't repeat it,

I wish my faith had been a little stronger,

Your virtual silence, the noise of 'your' machine,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My awkwardness, won't you minister to me,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

32 names, only yours stood out,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

I see in you the first seeds of doubt,

Maybe the roots grew a little deeper,

Cancer is the seasoning that brings out the taste for life,

The hill of faith got a gradient steeper,

In the car I cried to Springsteen when he sang of his wife,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My fire's impotence in the face of the sun,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

Your shallow breathing, I cling on to your thumb,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

'cos your drip's in the way, my dearest Mum,

Please, please, please, just a wee bit longer,

If I could I would fold your paper-like skin,

If only my faith had been a bit stronger,

And write on your page your best friends hymn,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

And fold you to an origami swan,

Oh my God just a little bit longer,

And set you free to flee like a bird from the coming storm,

Oh my God, just a little bit longer,

But we sit instead in silence,

Oh my Mother, just a little bit longer,

And awkwardly forgive each other's silence,

Oh Mum, won't you be a bit stronger,

And I can't fucking stand to see you this way,

But I wish I could see it for a little bit longer,

But now you are gone and I am sorry to say,

I know that I need to be stronger,

It was the worst hour of my life,

But I wish it had gone on a whole lot longer.

M. Joseph Burt   (20.8.5)



This poem was written just 3 weeks after my mother's death in 2005. She was just 56 years old and died 3 months after a cancer diagnosis. It was not the cancer that killed her but her death resulted from an embolism in her lung. She was on assisted breathing for the last weeks of her life and this was how she was existing at the time of the event described here in this rather raw poem, the last time I was to see her alive. 

I would happily retract the entire sentiment of the poem now, now enough distance has passed. If I had known the outcome was certain I wouldn't have wanted her to endure any of the indignity or suffering that she had to face. Given the nature of her condition, the speed was, in retrospect, something of a mercy to her. However at the time of writing this poem, in that exact moment, all I was aware of was that I would have given nearly anything to gain some of those extra moments with her, because even the awful moments felt better than the terrible and bleak prospect of no more moments.

I apologise for any offense caused by use of a particular Anglo-Saxon word, however It serves as a record of the rawness of that moment. 

God has bought me much comfort since, and the grief though not entirely gone (it will never go completely) is greatly, even mostly eased. Back then I wanted to cry and scream and howl and swear.

Poem Inside

I may be sh*t,

But there's a poem inside,

I may be beyond redemption,

But there's a poem,

A poem of pride,

I may be proud,

My neck may be stiff,

But there's a poem inside,

I can be spikey,

But there's a poem inside,

My heart under lock and key,

A place for my poem to  hide,

I bite your fingers before you get near me,

But there's a poem inside,

With toothmark scarred fingers,

You finally open me,

And read the poem inside,

It says;

I am quite scared,

And all alone,

And there is no place,

That I can call home,

And I am not worthy of love,

Not even from above,

Please,

Please,

Help,

I can scarcely manage,

A yelp,

As your scarred hands,

Start to gently cradle my heart,

It hurts to stand aside,

And let you read,

My poem inside.

M. Joseph Burt  (22.8.6)

The Golden Egg

White bread, Sunblest,

Stork margarine,

A thin blueish grey veil,

Of Rothmans smoke,

Hangs between us,

Formica table top,

With vinyl wood effect,

A plastic primary rouge tomato,

Gammy at the spout,

A thin arterial red vinegar,

Spurts out, over crinkle-cut chips,

You put one to your lips,

A solitary pallid, anaemic yolk,

On a crispy-edged speckled white,

Sidles suggestively up to a sausage,

You have tea for 1,

+1 hot chocolate,

We sip together,

All the Grannies and Nannas smoke and natter,

And smoke,

And chatter,

Like an arthritic birdsong,

Varicose,

Loud,

Business is booming,

At The Golden Egg,

In 84,

Before

The recession took its legs

And staggered into the town,

And our favourite haunt,

We had lantern traybake for afters,

A little laughter,

Something we shared,

At the Golden egg

M. Joseph Burt  (27.6.6)

Skinny Dip

Naked,

The amniotic sack of the sea,

All around me,

A vast womb,

And like a baby,

I am safe,

And free,

And I have room,

And space to be

M Joseph Burt   (27.6.6)

Stealing Woodbines And Sneaking Scrumpy

14

Stealing Woodbines,

From Gateway,

On holiday,

In Devon,

My parents pushing the trolley,

(And my siblings)

About,

The most daring of raids,

The boldest steal I ever made,

She's bent down checking stock,

My puffer-Jacketed arm,

Stretches illicitly into the kiosk,

In full view of anyone who would look,

The cigarettes,

which I can't see,

Ninety to forty-five degrees beyond vision,

Teeter at the tips of my fingers,,

I'm crapping myself,

On pure adrenaline now,

Clumsily I knock a pile over,

And one box of pure nicotine promise,

Finds it's way into my grasp,

My hand shoots back,

Recoils,

And in slow motion, it seems,

Some boxes fall to the floor,

Inadvertently creating a distraction,

As I thrust the box,

Into the stonewashed cargo trousers pocket,

Don't dare look,

And half run

To the safety of the toilets,

To inspect the spoils.

Incredibly, she never looked round.

Woodbines!

I had never before smoked a filterless fag,

I am so surprised I almost leave them there,

Dump them in the cistern,

But I am thrilled,

At my ill gotten gain,

And my daring,

Elated and guilty,

And only half ashamed,

So I keep them.

Spiting out course grains of tobacco,

Walking through the heather,

My brother and I hereafter,

The world is my oyster,

I have conquered the system,

I am high,

Until my brother says,

He will tell on me,

And I beg,

And cry,

And wail,

And throw my haul overboard

Privately returning and  searching later on,

To no avail,

And later still,

In the caravan,

Mum and dad sat outside,

Daniel in the awning,

I stealthily lift the seat to reveal,

The rusty brown bottle,

Of rat gut enhanced 

'Sillyider',

I see the cider,

I got high,

On a sip or two,

Not knowing, 

This was just a foretaste,

Of things to come,

I stand on the shore,

With my family,

While the surf,

Brings the foaming waters of adolescence,

Cascading over my green flash feet,

And the pull of the tide,

Of adult discovery,

Beckons,

Tempts seductively,

To pull me back with it,

To the tainted and altogether deeper waters of manhood,

With all its excitement,

And disappointment,

My heart is on the brink now,

But is in truth,

Already won,

Has crossed the line,

And innocence remains,

With Rachel,

And with Mum.

M. Joseph Burt   (26.6.6)

The Poems That Got Away

The hook of the metaphor,

Primed with the bait of melancholy,

Waits impatiently,

Amidst the waters of my mind,

Beneath the float of fantasy,

To catch the fish of inspiration,

If it bites,

the lines will come reeling off,

As I panic,

And spring to life,

And try to grab my rod,

In time,

Of all the poems that swam,

Down this lazy river,

The ones I never caught,

Were the biggest and the best,

The ones that nibbled but never bit,

Or worse,

That bit

And then got away,

I should fish to get them back,

Now and every day.

M. Joseph Burt     (26.6.6)

Skinny

We were both of us skinny 

Back then, Ruth Gray

Both of us skinny back then

Now I am not and you still are

But

We were both of us skinny back then

We were all elbows and knees

Back then, Ruth gray

We were all ribs and bones back then

We held a candle to Cambodia

And

We were both of us skinny back then

The Catwalk craves your figure,

Ruth Gray, Ruth Gray

Bulimically want to be you 

But you and I never did feel that way

We never did feel that way, Ruth Gray*

It's something only you and I knew

M. Joseph Burt      (26.6.6)

*I have no idea how Ruth Gray felt, but I always imagined at the time that she felt the same way as me.

A Child at Rest

Be still and know,

Know you are loved,

Loved from above,

And all I require of you,

Is that you be still,

Still, in the centre of my will,

Like the eye of a hurricane,

My love is a Tsunami,

Of calm,

 

If you can keep your head,

While all about you are preening theirs,

Then you will be,

A whole lot better off,

Just be still,

And sup my milk,

Satisfied,

At last,

In eternal arms,

Put your breathing,

In synch,

With mine,

Our heartbeats matching,

You have no wants,

No needs,

Outside of this,

Still your soul,

Like a millpond,

Still your soul,

My child,

Find the centre,

And rest,

 

You are blessed,

For I made you,

I love you,

I have a place for you,

Rest in that truth,

Do not strive,

Be at peace,

At last,

Release,

Let it go,

You are mine,

I have called you by name

M. Joseph Burt   (9.4.6)

Quake

When you said you would shake,

The heavens,

Until only what can stand,

Remains,

I believed you...

But...

I had no idea,

How small a grain,

Would remain,

In hand,

That so much would be shaken,

So much chaff taken,

By the wind,

And your winnowing fork,
And the purifying work,

Of your furnace,

When I survey,

The aftermath,

Of the pre-quake tremors,

I worry for the quake that's to come,

I wonder will I hold on,

What will be left,

To rake from the ashes?

But this pearl may be small,

And the seed of faith,

The smallest of all,

But it's worth is pure,

Come crucible,

See this silver is sure,

It's metal is true,

If I burn, so be it,

May I burn then for you,

The talent may not be buried or stored,

Maybe my logic is tragically flawed,

But,

The grain,

That remains,

Must be true,

(it's the faith in my hand;

my small piece of you)

Can never be undone,

Cemented in time,

By the victory won,

Set like a jewel in your crown,

Set like a nail-print,

Crimson as your gown,

And the blood that slowly ran down,

Where it watered my faith,

Stored deep in the ground,

Yes, this is your seal,

For all that's unreal,

The royal seal on my soul,

That simply says;

I'm yours,

Your guarantee,

And you're coming back,

Coming back to get me.

M. Joseph Burt  (23.09.07)

Plank

You must be stoned,

You must be high,

To be staring like that,

To give truth to the lie,

To set yourself up,

As the one in the sky,

You can't be getting specks out,

When you're Mr Plank-Eye, 

Whatever you treasure,

The measure you apply,

Will be measured to you,

With pressure supplied,

In the end the pleasure you take,

In judging this guy,

Will become painful to you,

Mr Plank-Eye,

If you're doing alright,

Or if you're just getting by,

If you're proud you've been humbled,

Or you're living the lie,

If you're losing the race,

But claiming a tie,

If you're lifting yourself,

Looking down from on high,

Best watch out for the fall,

Mr Plank-Eye,

I know you can work hard

And I know that you try,
But like one pig judging,

The other pigs in the sty,
You all need the feed,

And a cleaning, besides,

The cleanest of pigs,

Still, I'm afraid, doesn't fly,

And you should stay grounded,

Mr plank-Eye

I think you know now,

And I think you know why,
You know who you are,

Mr Plank-Eye,

I hope that I know now,

I hope I know why,

When I'm judging you now,

I'm Mr Plank-Eye

When I'm judging you,

I'm Mr Plank-Eye

The Year of His Favour

Thank you Lord,

For the mercy I find,

I'm Jezebel,

I'm Gomer,

I'm Eve of a kind

For I sinned first,

But you first loved me,

I sinned second,

And third,

Add infinity,

And when I felt like,

I'd reached capacity,

Your grace

Lets me fall,

So I can really see,

How deep,

And how far reaching,

This sin thing can be

How dark and relentless,

And unending 

The unbending enemy,

And you restore me,

And forgive me,

And show your love to me,

Knowing all the while,

I'll fall again, eventually,

The event may even come sooner,

Even while you're restoring me,

This wellspring of wandering,

As wide and deep,
As the deepest, widest sea,

The year of favour,

Is so good

And so long,
The door is held open,

For mercy all life long,

But

The great day for vengeance,
Will be swift and short,

And the hills will be levelled

And the great reduced to nought,

And your Kindness,
Would have me remember how it feels,

To know the year last a long time,

But the day is on it's heels

Seven Years For Leah

Seven years you work for Leah,
Seven years and your labour frees her,
Seven years until you see her,
It's Seven long years, you have been deceived for,

For seven years beneath a boulder of misapprehension,
Did your Laban, conveniently neglect to mention,
It's Rachel that you want,
It's Rachel that you want,
It's Rachel that you really want.

The wages of sin are death,
The wages of dead love; Bereft
The sweat upon your brow,
The way your backs stoops just a little now,
The shortness of your breath,

Yes your living wage is death,

There's nothing wrong with Leah,

No there's precious little wrong with Leah,
She cooks and feeds
Takes and grows your seeds
But your heart just cant receive her,

In the field, with the flock,
Do you dream of Leah,
I think not,
Its Rachel in the wings,
Beneath her veil she softly sings,
Listening for the bells on goats,
Dreaming of wedding rings,

It's seven years for Leah,
Like seven years bad luck,
Knuckling down for Lady Day,
Ending up with Lady Muck,

The Lastest Bestest

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

M. Joseph Burt (13.09.07)

Religion is Rebellion

Religion is rebellion,

Against common sense

And indifference,

Rebellion against apathy and sin,

Unkindness, selfishness and the urge to just win,

Rebellion against rebellion,

For heaven's sake,

Rebellion against a nature,

Which wants to just take,

Rebellion against a nature that wants to just sit,

A nature that wants love,

But fails to give it,

Fails to give,

What it needs to receive,

Fails to sow, 

So never harvests the seed,

Religion is rebellion,

Fuck what they say,

Religion looks after children,

The safe and the stray,

And widows and wrinklies,

It looks to all life,

Religion, as God sees it, 
Rebels against appetite,

A rebellion that begins,

In the heart of the unloved,

Rebellion that pays out,

When push comes to shove.



M. Joseph Burt (10.09.07)

September Poem

In September,

Accept an ember,

A glow of hope to remember,

To bring to kindling,

Returning blaze to sender,

In September,

Accept an ember,

That summer may accompany you,

Through at least to,

November

That of hot and cold,

Autumns a blender,

When all is dark,

From God,

Receive the ember,

Become a member,

Of hope club,

In September,

Go on a hope bender,

In September

M. Joseph Burt (05.09.08)

After The Fire

Can we just skip the wind?

I can't stand anyway,
And I know I've sinned,

And can we skirt around the quake?

The chasm will catch all and,

I've fallen already, into my mistake,

Can we just not light the fire?

My faults are in flames,

I don't need them higher,

Can we sit, if I get the choice,

In my cave, the two of us,

And whisper, in your smallest, stillest voice,

I don't need the pantomime,
Theatrics ain't no friend of mine,

As for explosions and CGI,

I'd want to shrug and ask you why?

I'll respectfully skip right to the end,

I know you're powerful, my only friend,

I Just need you now,

In the stillness,

No matter how,

Speak still and small,

Speak soft and strong,

This whisper is all I've longed for,

For so long,

Speak

The Blessed Hawk

Why should God,

Bless the hawk,

And curse the mouse,

(Not all is well in my father's house)

And why should God,

Bless the mouse,

And curse the hawk,

(And should we indulge in this idle talk)

And should not God,

At times let well alone,

Let cogs turn,

Let moss grow on standing stone,

And declare,

Throughout the universe,

Let it be, what will be,

For good, mediocre and sometimes worse,

For we are but lines and words,

That make up his verse,

His masterpiece,

From incubator to hearse,

We are his,

To bless or curse

Holding Hands (Under Instruction) With a Man at Church

There is a glance,

A knowing glance,

Between us.

It is not friendship,

Or even the fellowship in the suffering,

Of fellow Englishmen,

Just an acknowledgement,

That this is for the cause,

His hand is extended,

As, simultaneously, his face is retracted,

The north face of the mountain,

Taking its reluctant turn in the sun,

Taking its leave of where the wind blows,

Where the shadows fall,

Where I stand,

His hands are a good size,

Strong and confident,

His skin not as rough as it could be,

An office job for an outdoor type,

He applies enough pressure,

To let me know: He does not shy away from this,

But not so much as to convey any other meaning,

Neither competition nor compassion.

He simply holds my hand.

It is impossible to simply hold another man's hand,

Without a certain amount of thought,

I think he gives this just the right amount of thought,

He wouldn't want to give me too much thought,

Any more than he would want to apply too much pressure,

As I hold his hand,

The words of the prayer for which we are now connected,

Blend into other white noises,

And I begin to think,

(Perhaps it's not always wise to think)

This hand has done so much,

It has drafted letters of promotion,

Wiped the bottoms of children,

Been held in exchange of rings, at the altar,

Caressed breasts,

Of wife and lovers,

Been clasped,

In Prayer,

Held out begging for mercy,

Stroked tears from his son's cheeks

Formed into awkward arches,

In music,

In worship,

Picked up stones to throw,

Applied plasters,

Picked flowers,

Parted thighs,

Held new born babies,

And now,

It holds mine,

The judgement I'd felt initially,

Starts to subside,

And I feel a surge of merciful warmth for him,

With which to temper the judgement,

I don't think he likes me much.

He is my brother.

And this,

Is church.

(A poem I wrote maybe about 2012, but I have no record of when)
M. Joseph Burt

Tangled (Jacob and Esau)

Tangled as we are,

Joined in a wrestle,

Joined at the hip,

A socket-pop at which,

We will walk separate,

Henceforth,

Forth with,

And neither of us,

An Angel,

The wrestle was not 

Until the break of day,

But eternal,

Eternal as the earth,

In love, 

In mirth,

In fire,

In birth,

Separate together,

No longer,

Forever,

Brothers,

Whatever.

Sleepy Fox

Now I lay you down to sleep,

On the curbside,

On the curbside,

You look so peaceful I could weep,

As I pass you on the curbside,

See you on the curbside,

And you surely were not counting sheep,

Sleeping on the curbside,

Sleeping on the curbside,

In the muddy puddle where you lay your feet,

Soaking at the curbside,

Soaking at the curbside,

The reddest fox that time won't keep,

Sleeping at the curbside,

Sleeping at the curbside,

Perfection preserved by the wheel of some jeep,

Bleeding at the curbside,

Bleeding at the curbside,

You curled and died, in a little fluff heap,

Crumpled by the curbside,

Crumpled by the curbside,

Sleepy little fox that will not sleep,

Goodnight, Red Prince, and make that leap,

To the world beyond the curbside,

The world beyond the curbside.

29.02.08 M.Joseph Burt

Save Me (From Self Preservation)

Save me from getting there first,

 

Save me from quenching my thirst,

 

Whilst others are gasping,

 

Take the glass that I’m grasping,

 

To quench the thirst that is worst,

Save me from malnutrition,

Save me from a diet of ambition,

From pulling them down,

So I rise and not drown,

Conditioned to need recognition,

Save me from spilling my guts,

 

Save me from joining the sluts,

 

Selling my soul,

 

To shin up the pole,

 

Kissing up to the ‘Ifs’ and the ‘Buts’,

 

Save me from shoving my head,

In the sand or hiding in bed,

Open my eyes,

And make me wise,

To those dying, who soon will be dead,

Save me from sitting on hands,

Save me from watching the sands,

Trickle down through the timer,

Sitting by, feeling finer

Than I have any right to demand

Save things from going as planned

Save me from the promised land

If they can’t enter heaven,

Without me putting sweat in,

Let me sweat till I’ve dried out my glands,

Save me from my next slap up meal,

 

Save me from expository zeal,

 

To preach the word,

Can be so absurd,

When the poor are still hungry, for real,

Save me from turning away,

My lord, when I meet you today,

If I have food and water,

 

Make me ready, ‘cos I oughtta,

Give you a meal and somewhere to stay,

And save me from having to ask when,

 

When did I see you again,

When did I say,

To you, ‘go away!’

When Lord? Won’t you please tell me when?

And Lord, save me from my condemnation,

 

And save me from final damnation,

 

From ‘keeping my life’

But loosing it twice,

Save me most of all from self preservation.

Teach me Lord, to take up my cross,

 

To count it up, but consider it loss,

 

Teach me to say,

 

'I'm dying today',

 

For you are worth any cost.

Prophet

I am the prophet of my own demise
The blower of my own disguise
The architect of my own destruction
The shoddy builder of this unstable construction

I am the General of my own loss
The adviser who refused to count the cost
The Foolish king who fought on when all was lost
Who refused the crown and the cross

I am the reaper of this forlorn field
The harvester of this diminished yield
But I am the sower of all the tares
And share in the fruit of what I planted there

I am the one who did not listen
Who sought the wisdom of all that would glisten
The daughter of the passing trade
I am the beauty born to fade

I am the solace found in beer
I am the wonderer of how I got here
I’m the morning after the night of cheer
I am become all that I fear

I am the one who was born this way
Amidst the riches of straw and hay
Who looked out as king at the dawn of day
The blindfold Lord of all I survey

Let Us Be Lovers

Let us be lovers, you said,

Let us be intimate,

Let me inside your head,

Let me into your darkest thoughts

Hear mine,

Hear mine,

Really hear,

Listen, my love

Lean in to my love,

Incline your ear,

Hear mine as I speak,

In a whisper

That can shake mountains

Shake foundations,

Listen little man,

Let there be light,

The light will come slowly at first,

Try and squint as you might,

Gradually appearing on the horizon,

As things lost in the darkness,

Are returned to your sight,

You will bare be aware,

It is now daytime,

No longer the night,

Translated, out of darkness

To light,

I've been so lost,
I said,

Though I know I'm still sleeping,

Still aching and dreaming,

And I don't know why,

Listen my love,

I told you, we’ve married our fortunes together,

You nestle into my coat,

Never mind the weather,

Have a look in my bag,

See anything there that you like?

What’s mine is now yours,

And what was once yours,

Belongs to me


All of it?

Yes,

All of it.

And the train

Clacks on,

And the fields fly by,

And I turn towards them

And smile,

And sigh

Song of a Psalm

God, I’m not a shepherd boy,

And I don’t want to be a king

But I take some comfort,

That you up on those hills,

Still regarded him,

Playing his harp,

And skinning wolves,

(While the pack assembles,

Back at the farm)

Singing songs,

Into the air, and to your ear

No one else,

To either care or hear,

You saw him,

You heard him,

You whispered into his ear,

'My goodness shall be on your tail,

For the rest of your days

And then I’ll take you in,

To live with me,

And that is how it will always be,

Ever after',

 

Perhaps you see me too,

 

And though I am scared to death of wolves,

I also sing,

And write this verse for you.

Childhood Summers

Childhood summers,

Were long and lazy days

Linked by daisy chains,

All conducted beneath,

The sweet and pungent aroma,

The odour, of the Malt factory,

The strange tang,

That started sweet,

Malt and Rape,

Stingers and docs,

Time told by dandelion clocks

And the setting of the sun,

My older cousins inexplicably

Chanting at me

“Who won the war

In 1974?”

But what did I know of war,

Or history,

Or chronology,

I was born,

In 73,

And suspect that they,

Were no wiser than me,

But the war was waged,

At the summer sun’s raging heat,

As it held back the darkness of night,

One hand pushing on the memory of dawn,

One hand holding back the prospect of dusk,

The corners and borders of constraints,

Kept out of sight,

He held those borders apart,

And we fitted everything we could ,

Into that grateful gap,

Time held at bay,

Like bullheads in buckets,

The descent of the hours,

Twirling,

Slowed like the helicopter spiraling,

Of sycamore seeds

Sick for more seconds,

Than we’d dare or bother to count,

 

Jasper keeps watch round the bins,

For straying sweet succulent skin,

For fingertips running in Lolly Juice,

Cider, or Lemonade,

Or spilt strawberry split,

To keep our distance,

We’d flick the sticks,

And my cousin would run screaming,

At the wasp’s peaked interest,

And quickened erratic movements,

We’d run with her,

We’d run,

And we’d play,

All day, and all summer long,

And Father time would eventually clasp

The grass blade between his hands

Stretched out between thumb’s heel and tip,

 

 

And the screech of some unearthly creature,

Cut through,

Ripped through the peace of the day,

Dragging our senses back,

The haze evaporating,

The sun’s spell pierced,

Pierced and broken,

Awoken from the enchantment,

The creature's cry ripped through the air,

The summoning of some hunters horn,

To the things of adulthood,

And burgeoning sexuality,

Crushing responsibility,

And the sea of night rushes in

To fill the grateful gap,

Like it was no more than a rock-pool,

No more rosehip itches,

No more grass guns

The deadly nightshade fights fade,

The goose grass came unstuck,

The acid edge of the honeysuck,

Still tingles on the teeth,

But the chlorophyll rug pulled out from beneath,

The barefoot of my youth,

Dried white dog shit,

And brutal truth

Look up,

The gap is gone,

The screech of time is called

And without resistance,

Or warning,

The summer's done.

No Loneliness For The Long Distance Runner

I'll train you up,

I'll be your coach,

You were there for me,

When I needed it most,

When you reach the end,
I'll raise a toast,
But for now I'll pray for you,
In the Holy Ghost,

I pray for joy,
I pray for strength,

I know not how,

Long the length,
Of the race of faith,

We've started on,
But I promise you this,
You were born (again) to run,

To run as one,

Who's met the son,

To run towards the setting sun,

Time is short,

We're getting on,
But Christ's the one,
We're betting on,
Dig deep into him,
Keep pressing on,

The race isn't short,
It's a marathon,

We need each other,

To carry on,

This race is cross country,
And all terrain,

And at times you will feel the pain,

I'm here for you,

I'll take the strain,

With God's love and grace,

We will sustain,

We will finish,

What we began,

And look back on,

This race we ran,
And know we've given all we can,
In our race into,

The promised land,

This race has hurdles,

This race has sprints,

We can swap techniques,

Give tips and hints,
This race takes place,

Whatever the weather,

But chin up my friend,

We're stronger together,

We are in this for the prize,

Some might think it's ever lasting lives,

No, It's for the look in Jesus' eyes,
When he says 'faithful servant, well done,

Now come in and take your rest, my son',

Though by his grace I'll get there too,

I'll take as much joy from hearing it said to you!

This race isn't run

In isolation,

We run together,

For inspiration,

Side by side,
At times, for consolation,

The encouragement in,

Each situation,

Running together,

In one accord,

On spirit, One Body,

One church family,

One the Lord

We run together,

Let us see,

How inventive we can be,

In encouraging love,

And helping out,

In affirming faith,

In facing doubt,

Let us consider,

One another,

How we can,

Spur on a brother,

A dig in the ribs,

Or a giddy up!,

When on the brink,

Of giving up,

How is it that,

We can stir up a sister,

When she's running,

Like she's got a blister,
A supporting arm,

When she starts to hobble,

A timely word,

When she starts to wobble,

We all need help,

When we hit the wall,
Need reminding of,

The Lord of All,

We run like we're a unit; One,

And we'll have to pass on the baton,

The race is run,

Like it's a relay,

So pass it on,

Don't delay,

I suspect it was,

Passed on to you,

So, know who it is

You will pass it to,

Those before,

Are the cheering crowd,

The witnesses, around,

Ahead, about, amassed, an awesome cloud,

They're cheering us,

Let's do them proud,

Can you hear them?

Starting quiet,

But growing loud,

So dig deep, grit teeth,

Run harder now,

And leave no one behind,

One of heart, spirit and mind,

Running in one accord,

Run together,

running on,

Cheering on,

Building up,

Don't stop,

Running together,
For the Lord