Extremities

Hands held by nails

Feet impaled
You always go to extremities

To show us your love

Hands healed
Feet heeled
You walked a thousand miles
To show us your love

Feet held,

While hands washed, 
You took the towel.
Before the power,

You always go to such extremities,

To show us your love,

Feet Scarred,
Hands holed,
Forever you will bear the mark,
Of the extremities you will go to,
To show us your love

We Sang

 

We sang 'Holy Spirit come',

And then we went home,

Did he turn up later on,

Alone in that room?

Did he brood over the face,

Of the kick drum and snares?

Did he pour out his love

Over our empty chairs?

Did his still presence

Descend on the keys?

Did the microphone stand,

In still silence and peace?

Did the power point suddenly

Splutter into life,

To point out that power

Can exist in the strife?

Did he linger then,

Eliciting praise,

But no voices nor heads,

Nor hands could be raised,

Because we'd departed,

And gone on our ways?

Come Jesus, we said,

Come Spirit we'd state,

And turn on our heels,

And make for the gate,

If the Spirit will,

Why then won't we wait?

Skullduggery

Golgotha,

The place of the skull,

where the lamb and the scapegoat

Were dragged for the cull,

Splayed and stretched out ,

Side by side,

 Innocence,

Guilt and pride,

Matryoshka,

In The Inside,

They crucified a lamb,

But a Lion would rise,

You thought this was a criminal,

Convicted and tried,

You thought this was a saviour,

But save your eyes,

The greatest heist,

Job done from the inside,

Stole back life,

To give to his bride,

The hero died,

But he also survived

And those driving the death,

Were merely along for the ride

In all of their pride and their thuggery,

This plain-hiding scheme could have seemed,

Like Skulduggery,

It was 'probably a robbery' 

Eloi, Eloi,

Lama sabachthani

You forsook, what it took,

But now you've come back to me,

Hosanna

Maranatha,

Hallelujah,

Golgotha,

August

 For the whole month of August I did not write a poem,

When September came I said, it is time to get goin',

For when the summer came, I gave up in disgust,

"It's too hot to write", said I,  "in the month of August"

To commemorate this dry and barren wasteland

I purposed to make good,  snatching keyboard to hand,

Though it's over and gone I feel that I must

Commemorate, that my memory ate, 

The Month of August

For heat haze and blur of the mind

And time too, the thief, had been too unkind

And though I swore I would never go bust,

I look back and lament

The month of August

Mothlike the month eats away at me like rust,

Leaving holes in my memory,

Of the month of August