The Oboe and The Clarinet

Oh no,

She played the Oboe,

Secured her place in the music group, 

Yet I played piano to such poor standard,

I'd never get let,

Into the loop,

(Never could jump through that hoop)

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

Heels on the path that led to our home,

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

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

(and follow the tones of the drone)

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

The oboe was the one that sounds like a duck,

And I was a wolf that hunted those sounds,

And lay in my lair, just cursing my luck,

(and the taunts of the blow and the suck)

Sometimes while the worship group practiced away,

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

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

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

(Her glorious hair was the sun and the star)

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

Puffing her cheeks, fingering notes,

Furrowing her brow in pure concentration,

Pinning it down while my fantasy floats,

(Thoughts floating away like cut-adrift boats)

"As the deer pants for the water" played,

But my soul longed after you,

I pictured our duet, me stood by your side,

Our notes making one out of two,

(Our harmony creating melody new)

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

To facilitate this fantasy?

It would take a miracle of biblical proportions,

To make my fingers smooth 'cross the keys,

(Like the calming of Galilee's seas)

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

With my playing so bad it made everyone groan,

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

I needed a niche of my own,

(where my hidden talents could be shown)

She had the oboe all covered, 

And Jenny the bird on the flute,

And Robin rocked violently the violin,

So what could I play that would suit?

(Something that would quickly bear fruit)

What would sound good and what would be easy?

And at what could I quickly get good?

Woodwind would be the most complimentary,

I probably should get wood if I could,

(an instrument, just to be understood)

If I chose the oboe it would be too obvious,

And that, I'd obviously regret,

But the need for the reed seemed to impede,

Most other instruments, but not clarinet,

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

So I abandoned my seven year piano itch,

And borrowed my Dad's Acker Bilk

Taking up the Clarinet, Starting out rough as rope,

I determined to become smooth as silk,

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

With practices racked and hallway passes,

With lessons booked and time off classes

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

And dry chapped lips, enough time at last passes,

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

And he concedes reluctantly to let me into the loop,

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

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

And so at last my first Tuesdays night comes,

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

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

 But I'm not sure how good it smelled,

(and I was just praying that the gel held)

The Clearasil is clearly not working,

and you can clearly still see the spots sprouting too,

The fashion is more than questionable,

But maybe the music will shine through,

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

So shyly I sit in a corner,

And decide to play only the notes I can play,

But to do that I have to read the music,

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

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

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

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

And Oh no, not the girl with the Oboe,

With slender fingers and hair of flame

(And six months practice now thrown down the drain)

And my first was the last Tuesday night practice,

And I went back to worship from afar,

And a few weeks later dumped the Clarinet,

And the next year picked up the guitar,

But oh how the wolf was outshone

By that little red-head riding hood,

And the mournful seductive sound of the duck,

That had caused him to want to be good

From Stable to Table

The famine of the word of God

Finished: The word in full: Supplied,

The Word fulfilled, The Word made flesh 

Jehovah Jireh would provide:

Into the House of Bread

Long before the bread was torn

In Bethlehem where he laid his head

He came: The Bread of Life was Born,

Being in very nature God

He took on flesh, to be one with us, 

He took on himself our sin and sorrow

The bread was broken on the cross,

His Body broken now for us

Born into the House of Bread,

Provision of the bread was made,

That would feed us evermore,

And in the manger, the babe was laid.

And on the cross his body splayed

For the bread of God comes down From heaven,

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

And they will never need go hungry,

And he shall raise them on the final day,

And brethren, we are his body now,

And broken often, yet we are one,

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

And so, now in unison we come,

Because we partake of his bread,

We are one,

So to his table, 

We now come

Woken Stirred

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

I'm woken and stirred,

For the spoken word,

Not choking or slurred,

Let the broken be heard,

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

Lazarus come forth;

Let the graves be opened,

Let living lies die

And the dead come alive

Let the voiceless be heard,

Let their voices arise,

Their joys realized,

Let their noise fill the skies 

Pray silence, then, 

For the king to arrive,

He's the living, walking sacrifice,

The Loving risen Jesus Christ

Word become flesh

So we heard it afresh

Born in a stable

In Swaddling dressed

Born on the run and laid in a manger

Born in a barn and into danger

Born to a mum who was just a teenager

Faced disgrace so you wont be a stranger

He was displaced, misplaced for his people's sin

So if his people will turn and believe in him, 

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

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

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

He can transform this world like he can transform you,

Your story may be filled with anxiety and dread

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

*The loser wins,

The winner loses,

The free man cannot,

Do as he choses,

The first is last,

The last is first,

The worst is best,

The best is worst,

The poor are rich,

The rich are poor,

What's yours is mine,

What's mine is yours,

The bereft shall sing,

The happy weep,

The grabber forfeits,

The giver keeps,

If you lose it now,

You gain it later,

The greater the lesser,

The lesser the greater,

If you want to be master,

Then learn how to serve,

Pray then for mercy,

Not what you deserve,

And follow the King,

(Through whom all is made)

As he washes our feet,

On his victory parade,

He became sin for us,

He who was pure,

He was locked out for us,

He who opened the door,

He became last for us,

He who is first,

To gain best for us,

He endured the worst,

He endured shame for us,

He endured the worst,

Now glory is his,

Forever the first,

The dead come alive,

While the living are dead,

All hail the King,

Who turns things on their head*

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

Lazarus come forth;

Let the graves be opened,

Come forth from that tomb

That you've made your room,

You have to leave now,

You have to leave soon,

Leave the grave clothes behind

And take Jesus' hand

Come into the light

And take the stand,

I'm woken and stirred,

For the spoken word,

Become flesh and moved

Into the neighbourhood

I'm stirred and awoken,

For the word that is spoken,

The word become flesh

Let fresh hearts be opened,

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

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

Horizon

The invisible line to which I run,

The sweet soul-fabled horizon

The horizon into which I disappear

Fantastical and mystical,

Is there

But never here.

If I should disappear from view

As my chords of sweet melancholic freedom tell me to,

Remember I am not gone, though I am no longer there,

I'm just exiting to the music that promised me somewhere,

The freedom promised is sweet escape,

Note perfect lies on audiotape,

For the landscape of promised freedom

Only exists beyond the horizon

But oh how I long for the lie

For it tells me what I want to hear

That escape is still possible

It is in itself, music to my ear.

But I must stay and fight

And only occasionally contemplate flight

And walk flint-faced into the Sun

And the disappearing, 

Reconfiguring,

Ever moving

Horizon.

The Austen Laments & Limericks

Closet Period Drama Fan

I find it hard to admit to, quite often,

To the lads, that I do love Jane Austen,

Oh, how I wish,

They weren’t so prejudiced,

And perchance, my pride may at last soften.

 

Jealousy

Oh, how I loathe George Wickham,

He show’s how the ladies can pick ‘em,

They love a bad boy

Whate’er his employ,

But mention marriage and his pace will then quicken,

 

Jealousy (pt 2)

Like Captain Wentworth, I’m all out at sea,

For the shades of great Pemberley

Could they be so polluted,

For a verse convoluted?

I’d consider a platonic civil partnership with Mr Darcy,

 

Lack of Sense (But presence of Hope)

Marianne will optimistically face it,

Though it bucketeth down She’ll not waste it

It may be miles away,

On the rainiest day,

She says there is some blue sky, let us chase it!

 

A Clergyman's Duty To Set an Example

Oh Mr Collins, You coy courting Cousin,

You could have your pick of a dozen,

Fordyce put aside

For You must have a bride

Lady Catherine will have no further discussion.

Something I Cannot Summon

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

The time has come

And has been coming

The time for passion

The season's change,

And Oh, My God,

I have been running

But you've seemed always

Out of range,

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

I find myself

In need of you,

In want of you

And your burning love,

My efforts cannot

Hold a candle,

However hard I huff and puff,

However much I push and shove,

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

I'm looking for

The overflow of heaven,

The Spirit's fire,

The pent-up flood,

The living-water-table rising

Filled up from the heart of God,

I don't want hype

Or human effort,

I want God,

Or shut up shop

I don't want something 

That I cannot summon,

I want something

That I cannot stop

I crave the fire

The flames again

I crave desire

I call The Name

When You're Young

When you're young,

You can squander good will,

Thinking that good will fill,

Your days,

But count the ways'

It's only 'if's and 'may's

And, if it may be, the will, will evaporate

With youth's haze,

The hand retracted

The unreturned gaze,

When you're old,

It's all silver and gold,

A gaze is as good as a hand to hold,

And good will grow still,

Like fast moving mould,

Whatever the source, you can't turn it down,

That you take what you find is wisdom's crown,

For fewer and further between,

Will you find the will

That's good

And clean,

And you cherish it

It is your King and Queen,

When you're young you scoff at it,

Like it's something obscene.

Not Alone

Are you tired, all you introverts?

Are you worn out and spent?

Are you constantly hounded?

Wondering where your alone-time went?

Are you sat there at the party,

Asking when's okay to leave?

Polite smiles on the outside,

While inside you want to plead,

'Please, please, please, please

Please can I go home?'

Introverts I want you to know,

That you are not alone,

And that's the problem.

Introverts, we feel you,

Introverts, don't moan,

We'll all gather 'round  you,

And hug away the alone,

I want you to know, 

That you're never on your own,

Introverts, we love you,

There's no need to groan,

Introverts we're here for you,

 Introverts, you're not alone,

And that might just be the problem.

BFF

Thank you, thank you,

Thanks Bunkfest,

For knowing that this

Was the right time to invest,

In words and people,

And all the poets were blessed

You know, Bunkfest fringe,

You're my new BFF,

At the start I wanna say thanks

Get it off of my chest

Bunkfest Fringe

You're my new BFF!

On Prayer

Kyung-Ho was a prayer warrior,

His lips made more sound than the words that came out of them,

I strained to hear, the broken English,

I could hear his tongue moving more than the breath that came over it,

A whispered supplication to the Father Almighty,

I strained to hear but the words were not for me.

This prayer was not performance, nor posturing, 

The audible weight of the words so light,

They barely grazed the air they passed through,

So gentle, if it were a wind, it would not move the pappus from a dandelion,

A blade of grass would remain unstirred.

I thought of him, as one of those hibernating creatures,

Who could slow their heartrate to untraceable pulses,

On the edge of life, itself,

Teetering almost into death.

Don't die, I thought,

Don't die.

I did not recognise the strength,

I did not perceive the passion,

For that I needed volume,

Or tears.

Some indication of power and force.

But Kyung-Ho was a warrior,

One evening, when our community gathered,

For a teaching session on prayer,

And the family of nations presented themselves there,

The teacher asked for intercession,

Prayers for the lost.

A man of experience, 

He asked the Koreans to pray in their own language, for once.


I stood under the waterfall of noise that night,

The words that poured out of  those two men,

Washed over us,

Washed over our senses in wonderous, thunderous waves,

They woke us up,

We were swept along, senseless and uncomprehending, with the force of them,

My heart stirred from it's depths,

Tears cascaded down my cheeks.

The passion was undeniable,



And Kyung-Ho was seen at last,

Revealed like the son he was,

That he'd always been,

But by me, unseen,

And reflecting on it, years later,

I concluded that this perception of mine was the real change,

Not his volume, not his passion,


Spiritually speaking,

In whispered English,

Or cacophonous Korean,

They had never changed,

Kyung-Ho was a prayer warrior,

And his soul was a mountain.

Elopement

Can an ant elope

With an antelope? 

Because it can't elope 

With a cantaloupe.

18 Years

18 Years

Today my grief becomes an adult

It takes responsibility for itself

It is self aware

It understands to a greater degree its' impact on others

It is less pained than in it's infancy or adolescence

These days there is less screaming

But the loss has formed me,

Like a missing limb affects your gait 

I am who I am because of you

And because you are not

For the longest time 

Memory was pain

And grief halted everything

But these days

Grief is fruitful

And my memory is sweet

With a sharpness

That brings focus.

I will not waste 

This taste

This aftertaste

Of You

Cup of Contradiction

They might mistake me,

For a football thug,

But I'm drinking herbal tea,

From this Hotspur mug,

They might mistake me,

for a girly boy,

But I'm using vipers blood,

To stir fry Pak Choi,

They might mistake me,

For a hardened biker,

But my beard is trimmed  and groomed,

Like Captain Riker,

I'm looking angry,

But I need a hug,

I'm drinking herbal tea,

From my Hotspur mug,

I'm wearing pink bow ribbons,

In my fat dreadlocks,

I'm wearing steel toe caps,

With my bobby socks,

I'm wearing a muscle vest 

Declaring anarchy,

But my favourite thing,

Is a herbal tea,

I'm dangerous, I tell you,

I'm a bit crazy, me.

I sometimes cheat,

At monopoly,

I'm cutting lose, 

And I don't know what for,

But I would never, EVER,

Break the law.

I'm looking angry,

But I want a hug,

I'm drinking herbal tea,

From my Tottenham mug,

You better watch out,

Cos I'm on drugs,

I'm drinking cold Lemsip,

From my Hotspur mug

I'm unpredictable,

I'm anomaly,

First name: Tyson

Middle name: Emily

I'm an enigma, a delight,

Yeah and an anathema,

I start every day,

With an Elderflower enema,

I'm looking vulnerable

But I don't need a hug,

I'm drinking Jack Daniels

From a Tommy Tippee cup,

Just kidding,

I don't care, I'll stand and shrug.

I'm drinking herbal tea,

From my hotspur mug.

Brief

You mope around, you mope around,

You wallow in your sin and sorrow,

But wallowing in remorse, of course,

Will only ever rob you of tomorrow,

I'll keep it brief, I'll keep it brief,

I'll type it in a single sentence,

It's my belief, that Godly grief,

Leads productively to repentance.

What Victory Looks Like

'Have you got a poem, something Triumphant?'

I was asked,

'For Easter Sunday'

And what right now,

I asked myself, 

Does triumph look like

On any given Monday?

A victory can be

That this morning I got out of bed,

Keith Green, take note,

This is why Jesus rose from the dead,

Ok, Ok , there's the triumphal procession,

Making, by the cross a spectacle of sin,

But by God's grace this morning, I rose from the bed,

And by his power, later I'll bring the washing in.

The Fist

 The Fist 07.08.08

The day I first doubted,

My open hand,

Closed tight around,

In white knuckled panic,

The idea of you,

And all you meant to me,

My newly clenched fist,

And my closed heart,

Were not open to receive the gift of you,

And only an open palm,

Can hold another's hand,

Firm and gentle,

In tenderness,

Anne-Marie,

And I lost myself in the grasping,

 

And you too, Jesus,

Once I grasped the idea of you,

I would not let go for the fear of the loss of meaning,

And of purpose,

And I resisted the nail,

And in so doing I resisted the love,

And I can never picture you with anything but,

Open hands,

 

Open in surrender, father forgive,

Open in invitation, place your fingers in the holes,

And so far,

I have resisted what I sought to hold onto,

And who among us knows,

That you cannot consume,

A sweet that is shielded from the other children,

In a closed hand,

 

So, you two,

I confess to this;

I made a fist and,

Missed the gift,

 

Speak to me and say,

You don't have to stay this way,

That I can finally start hoping,

And finally get starting to get open

Let Me In

 Let Me In

I don't stand at the door and knock,
It's not that my calls on the phone go unanswered,
It's not that you forget to reply to my e-mails sent from a far off land,
But,
It is that I am standing beside you,
And my breath is in your lungs,

It is my gentle hand,
Placed warmly on your shoulder,
And my whisper in your ear,
That goes unnoticed,
Unheeded,

While the light from the monitor,
Flickers about the features I formed,
In the womb,
The apple of my eye,
Let me in

Let me in,
Let scales fall from your tired eyes,
Take off the blinkers,
Lift your chin,
Your noble (yes, noble) head,

Let your vision expand,
you see,
you see,
I am there,
All about you

You do not need to lift them to the hills
For my help does not come from there,
I am beside you,
In your home,
In my home,
Your heart,

Expand your vision,
And let me in

Sun 6th June (Prophetic poem written in Ridgeways evening outpouring meeting)

Something

I want to do something about everything

Instead I do nothing about anything

Perhaps I could do something about anything

Or anything about something?

That at least, would be something.

Not Nothing.

Yes, 

Not no thing.

Like Ezekiel Said

 

A new kind of heart,
One that loves without question,
That relishes compassion,
That sings in the storm,
That soars in the silence,

A new kind of heart,
One that knows no fear,
That has a place for all who come near,
A shelter in the desert sun,
That rejoices before the race is run,

Nothing is incomplete,
Each moment is outside of time,
A portal of destiny,
A kairos contortion,
In an instant,

A new kind of heart,
That produces a new kind of mind,
That has a mind to be kind,
That can make righteous judgments,
Without ever having to tiptoe,
Next to the chalk line ,
Of being judgmental,

A heart of flesh,
And not stone,



Eze 36:26

11.05.2010

When Love is King

Sorry Charlie,  

To make you frown 

But when love is king 

We all wear the crown, 
 
 
For each is honoured 

And all will sing, 

When love at last 

Is crowned as King 

 
 

I broke love’s heart 

I let him down 

As I stood by 

And watched him drown 

 

But he switched my rags  

For royal gown 

There is a new 

King in town 
 

Cos love is patient  

Love is kind 

And love you'll find 

Is a friend of mine 

 
 

And love it keeps 

No recorded wrong 

Celebrates truth 

It suffers long, 

 
 

And greater love  

Has no one known 

Than to lay down your life 

Not seek a throne, 

 

So let love reign 

And let love rule 

I can’t be proud 

I’d be a fool 

To keep love out 

And pride within 

Because we all win 

When love is King 

 

Sorry Charlie,  

To make you frown 

But when love is king 

You won't look down.