The Spinning of Planets

These worlds are ours.
We build them up word by word and face by face:

Casting off from this time and place
We look to the stars and say,
‘Take us to where you are –
That we might look down and regard
This aspect of reality, or that part;

That we might witness enough
To build anew (from this rough template)
That which awaits word-given life.’

And when the heavens permit,
We each take our separate angle
And, carefully, begin to untangle
The story waiting to be told.

Then, as we spin our unlikely tales,
As reality’s daylight around us fails,
We call back to the heavens and set
Our precious new Earths in silhouette

Against the light of victory won
By the blazing face
Of a glorious Sun.

These worlds are ours.
We build them up word by word and place by place
And – joyfully, painfully – we create.

Almost

I knew you long ago –
before this merciless stage,
this ceaseless come-and-go.
I knew you in the faithful age
when you were open to listening,
and we were almost alone.

It was in that time
that I held you in my arms
in the light of an almost-forever: eternity nothing more
than the everlasting backdrop to our indefatigable endeavour.

And you peered out from my embrace and saw the world
and all its many things untested:
nevertheless, you turned back to me,
and, contentedly, you rested.

Then the world turned and woke up on its side
to a new day, and a new mind
of thoughtlessness and solitude.
You became an island,
and though I was a sea imbued
with all that we’d had,
I could not touch you:
you wanted to be sad.
You wanted to be alone and in the dark,
to become the one who would eagerly embark
on a thousand here-and-nows
but found that – in your starting – you stopped.

You think you stand upright and alone
not realising that you have fallen, prone,
from trying to move without taking a step
and trying to weep without showing you’ve wept.
If this, without me, is all life consists
I’d like just to remind you:

I still exist.

Holy Trinity

Ev’ry Sunday,
be it sweet-shining sun or angry sky,
they gather: and I with them.
In ones and twos we slip inside
(leave behind the cars, the trees, the world)
and carefully close dark slabs of oak;
the building, the people, the candles await;
the air, so full of tradition.
I breathe it in.

Smell the wisdom of the ages:
see how beauty manifests in the old.
In come the choir – robes in procession! – and
hear the voices of countless angels with them.
Heaven can hear the organ just as well
as any three-piece band.

On goes the service:
sit for some prayers,
stand
for others. But can you feel it?
Beauty manifests in the old.
Look beyond those ‘thees’ and ‘thous’:
there is a message in these words.

Imagine this is ritual not at all:
find your pleasure
in the joy of the ancient hymns
and in the deep solemnity with which
we share a taste, a sip.
Never mind the coldness of the stone floor
or the discomfort of carpeted benches:
don’t you see

the colour in the glass?
Do you not find the light beautiful,
a gift from outside,
an invasion of Creation?
The sun was made long before these candles.
Beauty manifests in the old.
Never mind outward appearances
– don’t let them distract you.
Breathe the air,
so full of tradition and hope and desperation.
Breathe it in.
Can you feel it?
People are meeting with God even here,
inside cold stone walls,
in ritual and ceremony,
and beauty manifests in the old.

Again, the New

In fine-line, world out of time,
sinking ink
down through summer-glare bright white.
Paper canvas, ready to receive the emergence of
deep-buried thoughts and newly-conceived words;
waiting, so ready.

Where is my destination?
In what form shall my aim be found?
I am searching, but not hard;
I am looking, but my eyes see only
the beauty of blossoming spring,
the bloom of Apriltide.

Earlier,
before the spontaneous speech
of bird-melody
- and rustle of wind in blue sky, green fields -
rain.
No lightness of April showers,
no sprightly descent of
pearl-drop shine, no:
heavy clouds, dark clouds,
rolling in over our heads and making us forget
the sun.

But the pain of forgetting
has been banished once again,
and now we bask in the pleasure of
being reminded anew.

Essay Writing

Apple on the desk.
A swig of tea left in a mug beside the laptop
and strewn papers that fill the space.

It’s essay-writing time and
inspiration flicks off the walls
bounces round the books and forms,
through careful fingertips on the keyboard
an almost masterpiece of thought
and excitement
all captured on a page on a computer.
But it radiates much further
in changed thought and action
and the by-products of distraction
- the many things that get done when procrastination
threatens efficiency.

But essays get done
eventually,
with a smile and a change in style

and an apple on a desk
beside a cup of nearly-drunk tea.

Will you proof read my essay for me?

Silent rail

The bright yellow drawing
Of the outline of the sphere
Of the centre of London
Doesn’t represent the shade
Of the walls and of the rail
Of the circle line

The hand rails are painted to fit
The brightness of the map
And not the blackness of reality
Or the blankness of the faces
Under the metres of sound absorbing
Barrier from the wind and sun

Before the light has appeared
At the interval in the tunnel
The train creeks to a halt inside the darkness
With not a hint of anything ominous
But the weight of the silence of a full carriage
Not one talking to another; suiting the blackness

Like a brace of brittles bonds
No one wants to stop into the spotlight
And break the silence
Which suites the blackness,
But not all is in its place
For the voices should be rivalling the world above

The voices should be bringing
Invisible waves of light to bounce off
Every surface we can perceive
But this was silence on the circle line;
The earache of an illusion of deafness

Something that outlasts being exploited

Lamenting nature has
Coughed out black tar
Across the face of the occupant
Who so blindly consumed.
Now the burn marks are
More permanent than the best
Age repellent money can buy

It has breathed out heat
That bites the back of the arrogant
And burns the smile from the face
Of those that have prospered.
Their gain will be their loss.
As for all mortal flesh
All receptive surface
Is turning grey before you

All of this is not going to last forever
Let me show you something that is

The Handles Are Knives

And I'm standing as still as I can

But the stiller I stand the more it all moves.

Forgiveness is moving too,

It is something I can only glimpse.

I run

For the door

For the handle

To escape

To flee the enemy

But the door is made of glass 

And the handle is a knife

All I can do is stand and stare

At my salvation

On the other side

All that I could be

Is not what I am

I stand

My hand gripping the blade

Turmoil behind me

Calmness in front,

I can't do it.

I run

Into the door

But the glass doesn't break

And the knife draws blood.

But the hurt is not as painful as the turmoil behind.

I can't do it.

I fight to stop my authority flight

I want to give myself up,

I want to hear the sweetness,

Hear my salvation.

The beautiful sound that shatters glass,

Melts the blade, 

Commands my turmoil, "Cease!"

The room explodes

It is not longer my fight

I am calm, peaceful, redeemed.

I can't do it.

I don't understand it.

I fight to trust it.

A Process of Thought

I have a great idea

It will stay right here

In my mind so near

To my heart, my dear.

I have a need to fear

Throughout this night so clear

Talking with too much beer

So scared I'll lose, my dear.

No, I don't mean to leer

I can't believe my ear

Is this really what I hear?

You're not for me, my dear.

I love the fear, my dear

But love isn't quite that clear

To love you so, so near

There goes my great idea.

There goes my great idea.

Super-ego?

Sick to the stomach of
Painting this mirror;
A buttered up reflection
Of a holy potential
Layered with the corruption of an ego
A self-conscious embarrassment
When the worst case scenario
Is letting people see who I am

A pseudo reality of
Beauty, fully hidden beauty
For I was meant to
Reveal and change from within.
Before omnipotence
What can I hide?
Before benevolence
Why should I choose to?

Believing myself
That I am what you see
I know what really is important
And rejecting it for a confusing preference
Of world, flesh and ease
Dark thoughts of dissection
Linger in a mind of wasted processions
Now is always an opportunity

Ever convinced that
I have done enough
Just touching salvation standard
With a never contented appetite
This insufficient attitude of
Selfish aim for selfless mask is recognised and
Withdrawn, now accepting ever-present opportunity;
There is always more that I can give

Confessions of a Girl from the Pit

I'm so sorry, it's become all about me;
Some assumed retribution for my years in the pit.
But what was meant for evil You worked for good.
I'm starting to see it, even now.

It's not about me -
The pit from which I've emerged doesn't owe me a thing,
All that's owed is praise to You,
I've got a new song to sing.

Let praise ring from my every breath,
Breath you bring faithfully until you decided otherwise,
I can live with that but not with the lies
That try to tear, and cloud and divide.

So come and clear the sleep from my eyes,
I admit I've used excuses,
But now you've set my feet on solid ground.
There's only one confession left:

On Christ this solid rock we will stand,
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.