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.