Ministry

Your ministry is not chemistry,
Nor alchemy or sorcery,
It is not fakery nor forgery,
Not trickery nor mimicry,

It's not intelligence,
Nor is it your 50 cents,
Not your pound of flesh,
Not indulgence for your interests.

Not a means of gaining praise,
Not a passing phase, to fill some days,
It is not for you to fill your pockets as you tread the grain,
I'ts not for you, I will say it again,

It is not,
For you.

Your ministry,
Is service.
All the rest,
Is worthless.

My Catalan Angels

My Catalan Angels are broken,
As is my love with the only one,
Who would get this love token,
Referred to, as the golden paint's gone,
The words of the song are not sung,
Nor spoken.
Honeymoon Souvenirs
From when my love had just awoken,
Plaster of Paris from the plastered in Barca,

They hung on walls of our habitations,
In the first flat, as concession, the pride of place,
Over the years, they were relegated from walls to corners,
And then finally drowned in the other ornamentation on the book case,

When I left,
I half expected you to fight me for them,
But I had not read enough into their slow decline from favour,
Had not realised that I had projected our shared love,
Onto the Cherubs,
Their child like naivety and joyous expressions,
Like my own simple trusting nature,
Were just begging to be slapped.

When I asked If you minded if I took them,
I don't even think they merited a shrug,

And now their decapitated, crumbled remains,
Legs gone, Wings clipped,
Plaster exposed and gold paint chipped,
Hang like a grotesque trophy on my walls,
Of a love that's fallen asleep,
And will never cease from counting sheep,
And I am still attached,
To a choice of purchase,
I convinced myself we had both made.

simple faith

I want to be clever,
To work this out,
To arrive at the answer,
To irradicate doubt,

I want to get it right,
To tick all the boxes,
But my tick wont fit,
And that's what the shock is.

The 't' wont be crossed,
The 'i' wont stay dotted,
The ink like blood has spilt,
My mental page is blotted.

I cant unsee what,
I've seen from a boy,
I cant ignore the feelings,
I chose to employ,

The twin hounds of faith,
And doubt, have grabbed one leg each,
They're tearing my trousers,
With razor sharp teeth,

And as they pull,
And fight for my jeans,
It seems what's neglected,
Is the Man underneath.
And I come to realise,
That it's not faith but beliefs,
That I can shed these trousers,
And walk off in my briefs,

Hand in hand with my saviour.


This simple act of faith,
Is a complex act of trust,
A resigning of self,
But an all-essential must.

Judah

Look at me,

Walking along,

With a king size Poop a scoop,

And a Lion on a lead.

 

I think I have him under control,

I've been training him for many years,

Rewarding him with bits of meat,

And tickling his ears.

 

He even does the odd trick for me,

(though he wont perform for strangers),

They think us a little bit insane,

And, if I'm honest, rather dangerous,

 

So I put bunches in his mane,

And pink ribbons on his tail,

To make him more acceptable,

(And to keep me out of jail!)

 

I some times want to introduce him,

To the people that I meet,

But for some unfathomable reason,

They just run off down the street.

 

Sometimes when I have new company,

I keep him in the room next door,

And make up my excuses,

If they hear him roar,

 

I love my Lion very much,

But I have my pride,

What would the new neighbours think,

On seeing I've a lion inside.

 

On the odd occasion,

When we're out and about,

I wonder if the lead I've got him on,

Is really all that stout,

 

But I am pretty sure,

That it's me that's in control,

Of this Lion called Judah,

On our gentle stroll.

Justified

I concede,

We all need,

To feel we are Justified,
It's just, I lied

I'm just the same,
Just as bad,
Just as lame,

But just as glad I came,

Leaping out from,

Just beyond the frame
Just as if,
I made this game,
I just wanted you,
To know my name,

So I'm Justified,

And not to blame.

Tree-hugger

The solution sprang from the soil,
The soul of the soil,
The life of the earth,
At first trees muddy birth,
As sinews snaked from seed,
And belly crawled towards the light,
For more of the warmth that hugged the brown earth,
That stirred it so,
That raised its sap,
To start with.

The light welcomed its emergence with enthusiasm,
Caressed its budding leaves with its soft yellow rays,
The tree had knowledge,
The tree knew the garden,
For the first time,
Before the gardener began,
And it was good.
Before man,

It was abuse of the tree,
The wrongful use,
Of right, ripe fruit,
That gave way,
To the gateway,
For great decay,
The garden gives up its guardians,
As rotten to the core,
The trees sway a farewell,
As they gaze on the heel of Adam,
As it disappears on the horizon.

And the solution came from the soil
The healing was in the tree,
The tree cleansed the very air,
That gave wind to man's lies,
The tree lent its support,
To the wait of the saviour,
Bore him,
For just a little longer,
As Christ clung,
The Tree's embrace lifted him,
Crimson and Glorified,
Like a mid-wife's hand presents the baby,
To the waiting world.

The solution sprung from the soil,
As the sap, sent down, revived it,
The sap of the righteous tree,
Whose oaky sap was shed for me,

That all men shall be saved,
When they embrace the tree.

 

 

One last flourish

A final year like Keats',
Poem-strewn floor,
Like flowers at my feet,
As the wedding arrives,
After 52 weeks,
And lasts but a day in the sun,
And for a few more years the marriage continues to run,
Or limp on,
A blossoming climax in the  summer sun,

After a life time of being buried,
The seeds journey is done,
The cycle complete,
The circle's become,
Full,
And fat,
And rotund,
And now that it's gone
Now I've drained the fund,
The suffering is worth what has become,
A life spent in dirt,
For my moment of Sun,

To stretch out the petals and unfurl,
To silence the voices,
To show the girl,
What she's lost,

For a moment like that,
It's worth all the cost,

One aggressive, defiant last charge at life's gate,
One lightbrigade shout,
One Samson style take,
The pillars out that support their mistake,
To think that they've got you down,

Burn out and shine in the heat,
Or slowly drown.

For one last year like Keats,
Poem-strewn life,
Like flowers at my feet.