Flesh and Blood

We wrestle not, dear sister, against our flesh and blood,

But I find myself these days, swept up in that flood,

For the violence of that separation, making you my enemy,

Could force me to bear arms, or to get down on my knees,

I'm trying hard, dear sister, to embrace the fight,

That rages against my darkest urge, and steps out in the light,

So I lay down my high and mighty ways, lay down my badge and gun,

I'll no longer be your sheriff, I'll be your mother's son,

And I will love you sister, as though you were my enemy,

Though the waves of lies come over me like the overwhelming sea,

I will remember that my battle, is not against flesh and blood,

But it is to offer up my flesh, and to embrace the Son of God,

Love is sacrificial, and I love you, my little lamb,

But I'm caught up in the thickets, a twisted-tangled ram,

Get down from that altar, away from the glinting of the knife,

That knife is meant for me, and I offer you my life,

And yes this martyr talk, paints me as a saviour,

But the truth of who I am, is written in my behaviour,

And I try to choose the path that leads me to the top

Of the mountain where my ego dies, and at last, I stop.

We wrestle not, dear sister, against our flesh and blood,

But my flesh has choked me out, face down in the mud,

And I embrace true love for you, though it makes me your enemy,

And enemies are for dying for, and so I die, to me.

Unreliable Narrator

This master-work of yours,

This magnum opus,

This poiema,

Is sat in his underpants

In a neglected and untidy flat,

Typing on a laptop he bought with some of his redundancy money.

His youth: behind him

And an early grave ahead

And all his aspirations

Have become expirations.

And the divine light came to him one day

not so long ago,

As he questioned your artistry,

As he judged the fruit of your work,

'What the hell kind of poem is this?'

A masterpiece? Seriously?

And the light whispered to him,

Breathing illumination

Into his stopped up ear,

"It's more than a poem"

It's a story, and it is not over yet.

Moreover, it is a story, You are a story,

That I want to read.

As an author, you can appreciate that.

And I promise you,

Though you may never see it,

There's one Almighty twist,

That spins all on it's head.

I'll let you tell it from here

Anvil

 Anvil 

An unconventional use

And gravity

And force travelling

And least resistance

And other natural flaws

And super-natural laws

And an anvil is formed

From my tragedy

And my grief is your hammer

As you break me open

This hard, calloused shell

Your attack from the air,

And the soft meat of me now exposed,

Hidden no more

Crush me not,

Consume me Lord,

In brokenness

That at last we be

One

(matthew2144)

Sahara Stones

Sahara Stones 

You bought me beauty 

From the wasteland 

From the ashes of stars

Star-born

Carbon dates,

And destinations,

Deserted locations,

Millennia of waiting

In enduring night

Until seen:

The joy of the mourning.

Mirage-like they shone in your eyes

Glinting with light

Brimming with colours

A Jewel in denial

A pebble to please a king.

This thing, that you saw

and collected to bring,

And somehow thought of me.

Handing me the treasure, sometime later,

Somewhat apologetically,
You describe these plain grey pebbles

In the parameters of your original vision,

And although I didn't see them then,
And although I was grateful for the attempt,

It is the beauty of the attempt,

The gem of the gift,

That I was considered,

That you saw this

And wanted me to see,

And these plain pebbles

Shine to me still
Whenever I look at them. 

In fact, in their transfigured state,
They could not have been more beautiful to me

Than they are now.

These plain stones

From The wasteland

Tears are for Turning

As children we learn

Though the principle pain is palpable,

Though the salt trails that mark our cheeks,

long after the streams have dried, come from genuine mines of emotions,

That the water works well,

That the comfort it brings from others, 

can cascade into a river all its own,

That the display of the pain of regret,

Will bring the better part yet.

That the repentance is sweeter than never having sinned.

And so we let flow 

Occasionally more than we need.

And as an adult

I learn 

That my tears over sin,

Even If I am genuine

Are a sweet place to stay,

And to return, like a dog, to the vomit of sorrow.

And I learn

That tears are for learning 

That tears are no good 

To me or God 

If tears 

Do not lead

Into turning.

And though he indulges me

He would rather see me free.