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.