September

It’s autumn. I can feel the slowness

Arriving like a mist, silently, incrementally

A finger will fail to point to the moment

And yet, summer’s thirst is not so intense

Already there’s a less relentless, more peaceful

Drawing on the soil’s riches, its salts and

Nutrients sipped rather than swallowed whole

There’s work to be done, but it’s not obvious;

The closing down. The end of things

The complete rest is not for now

It will come. Dormancy.

Even in winter’s grave

All is preparation

The work of

Winter

Silence

There,

the absence

of road signs,

lumbering houseflies,

or sniffing,

is like slow honey

There, is a stillness

into which your thoughts

forget for a while

to crave attention

and you, held, are welcomed.

Not weighed

That silence

sits in a father

waiting for the prodigal.

A mother gathering her chicks.

Or a surfer taken beyond flight

by an endless wave

Here,

all is well.

Silence that seeps through the air

unnoticed until it is too late

and you drink deep draughts

of what you have

always longed for

A Haiku Triple Serving

I

A park bench slopes East

Sun-soaked, it’s dark young shadows

Stretch then fold away

II

We sat side by side

On this branch; two rough sparrows

Felled, caught by a gust

III

Jesus Saves daubed

On a rock with gloss-white paint

Far too clean for me

A Beer Beach Poem

Here, the Regatta flags obey
Ancient bylaws
Making no sound fluttering
In the gentle seaward breeze

The sun has barely yawned
Or stretched out its long shadows
From empty deck chairs
Resting on uncountable pebbles

Sounds are limited to
The crunch of early feet
And a lone shout for a flat white
Echoing from the beach café

If heaven is a home improvement
On Beer beach, I can wait awhile
Baptised as I am in sunbeams
Dancing beneath the blue water

Or, floating, arms outstretched,
Flat-backed on the waves
Giving the cloud-dabbled sky
My whole attention; I’m no longer here

I Dug a Well the Other Day

In my head, I did.
Just like any other decision:
Rubbing my hands on a raw cold morning
Or straining on tiptoe
To peer over a wall as a child
Or raising my hands in worship
To the lover of my soul

I had the plans
The thrill of design:
Large blocks of Dartmoor granite
Lining the shaft
Wet with the oozing of the earth
And deluges of rain pouring
Down and down

Like no other well that I know
It had, has, three pools
You can trace ripples on the first
And hear the plop of a pebble
In the second. After that, darkness,
And a depth beyond what we call here

On Monday I lowered my cup
For the first time
Weary with the heat of the day
The sun having done its desiccating work.
Closing my eyes,
I tilted my lips to drink –
Such thirst-quenching sweet water

Tuesday arrived. I ended the day
Caked in sweat and grime
My shirt the colour of flesh
My flesh, a layer of dust.
Buckets later, I filled a trough, and
Buried in baptism, my tears swam
Mingling with the well-water

Wednesday.
It’s always Wednesday from this point on
I lowered myself down
Past Monday, past Tuesday
Into a depth where few have been
There are no cups here or buckets
Only a sign that reads:

Diving is permitted

Here, all clocks stand still
Waiting until you surface
And look up, and up…
And remember:
I dug a well, the other day.
In my head, I did.
No, not just my head.

Two Nine to Ninety Poems: What it is to be nine & Will we make it to ninety?

What it is to be nine

‘Turn out your pockets’
That gentle shrivelling voice I grew to fear
Dismantling, brick by brick
The wall surrounding me
Keeping me safe;
Me as me

Trespassing on my…stuff
But he cannot see
The brass bullet case
The plastic poppy
A Red Admiral folded in old newspaper
Four long nails
A broken rubber tyre, small,
And a rusty harmonica

Curiously blind
Adult but vacant
Looking past my wealth
For what wasn’t there
‘Was it a rabbit?’
A voice inside whispered
I tried not to smirk

Poor man
Little idea of the array
Of things we’d collected
That make for peace:

The blood red poppy
Standing tall in the empty brass bullet
The four nails of the crucifixion
The toy-car tyre, broken,
To be mended with music -
Like most things -
And the butterfly
Possessing a fragile beauty
That can do no harm

I wanted to peer
Deep in his pockets
But he’d long forgotten
How to use them

When I am old, Lord
Please keep my pockets
Open and full
Amen

Will we make it to ninety?

I roll the word Umpteen
Around my tongue, gently,
Like a thinning Polo
Ready to be broken and lost

Like mints, are we caught
In the soft destruction
Of the Almighty?
Digested by parables,
Incarnating their truth?

I was first once. First on the dance floor.
The cha-cha, the waltz
My two left feet and sweaty brow
Eroding my early bullishness
First to fail, first to leave

Was that a dress-rehearsal?
So far, I am spared the grief
Of striking unsteady pencil lines
Through address book names
But it will come. The grief.

Are there umpteen funerals ahead
Or will I again be the first
To hold open the door
For others to follow,
To perfect their funeral attire?

If first to this endlessness
May my wrinkled earth-state
Inflated with impossible joy
Fail to curb my song-filled limbs

Waiting for the tail-end…
…I hope it will be you
Last, but first.
May I have this dance?

Kissing the Feet

Her lips on his feet
His heel cupped in her hands
His flesh damp with her tears
All dust wiped away
With unbound hair

And from his lips
His rebukes fall
Like a river of rose petals
His truth ‘her sins, which are many’
A prelude only to ‘are forgiven’

See the woman who could not
Clear her own regrets
Now a sculpture of alabaster
Remade. Full of fragrant oil,
As she kissed the feet

Let her unbound hair
Her extravagance, her discovery
Speak his words
‘Your faith has saved you
Go in peace’

Luke 7

The Apple on the Other Tree

Grasping a tall
Flat-nibbed fountain pen
Full of Indian ink
And a reservoir of eyes

His hand, married to the barrel,
One nerve away
From a mind trained on
What can’t be seen,

Flexed the pen, tracing somersaults
And stiff arrows along
The smooth bark of a dangling branch
A lacework of longings

I watched as the nib
Approached the limit,
The gnarly edge of tree and wind,
But the words hadn’t read the rules

They sang themselves
Through the air and,
Like a spider’s silk thread
Gliding on a sunlit evening current,

Landed in a dyslexic funk
Unable to speak clearly
Wobbling in unison
With an apple above

What was he trying to say?
But the apple dressed in red
Took hold of the pen
And words fell away.

Bad Back Lament

I should be on the beach
I say the beach
I mean THE beach, at Beer

Should – such a simple word -
Flings us against a world
Infected with realists

Whose dreams seem
Surgically removed, or
Dissolved in the digestive
Juice of this world’s
System of shock and stare

The stare it gives you
When hope is reduced
To stumble at one mile an hour

Yes. I should be somersaulting
Through the breakers
Or floating on my back between
Blue sea and blue sky
Lost in the vastness
Of all that is beyond me

Instead, I join the ranks
Of those who long
For apples on higher branches

Who hear a voice
Calling us to leave
And plant our feet on new ground

My Father in Heaven

Tell me, did I learn to hallow
When I scrubbed your back
Or twisted the pipe-cleaners
To scour shank and bowl?

Thy kingdom come:
It’s true, you ruled
From the armchair
A kind of Arthurian peace

Thy will be done…
…if a capital W, I am pierced
A double-edged sword
I loved the lowercase you

On Earth as in Heaven
That’s the mystery to me
Hoisted on your shoulders in church
One of us was close to heaven

Give us this day…I have no complaints,
Cold lamb, still, on Thursday, besides.
But bread came from the kitchen you walked through to sit at the breakfast room table
Except on Sundays with posh cutlery, when the chilly dining room welcomed Granny

Forgive me? From your perspective
My attempts to sin always backfired
I hope your forgiveness
Is a thunder of laughter

Forgive others? Did I learn how?
We used to play Kan-u-Go?
And Canasta. No sneaking.
‘Hold the cards close to your chest’

Temptation? I know
Perfection, your shiny shoes
And trimmed moustache
Was as external as my skin

From evil – delivered?
I think you might say yes
All’s well that ended well
Under the Stars and Stripes

My father in heaven
Hallowed by thy name.

How to Keep Cool

Run a bath; blue tap full on
When at high tide,
Immerse big toe
Three times and inspect
If blue, jump in

Slide under, slowly
Eyes open
Watch the bubbles
Oh! I forgot…of course, blow bubbles,
Become a child again

Slide around
Cause a tidal wave
Replace the displaced ocean
Turn the blue tap
With either big toe

If a snorkel is within reach
Do not emerge
Until your skin, wrinkled,
And, like blotting paper,
Has absorbed the bath

A Visit to the Dentist

It’s a rare find, perfection,
But by dint of taut wires,
Springs and endurance
The one surveying my
Higgledy piggledies
Possessed a Steinway
Of Hampstead Heath

My enamelled eruptions,
Ranked in a zig and a zag,
Like a weathered pub piano,
Its ivories locked in conflict,
Frozen into a lifelong truce,
More accustomed to the blues
Than her Beethoven.

The pain she endured
She can pay back
With a smile
Licensed as she is
To inflict agonies
On those that pay

Am I grateful for the relaxing music?
Or the comfortable tilted seat
Or, maybe, the permission to spit?

It’s a grisly job
Trying not to inhale
Issuing commands
To the disobedient
To floss and brush
Brush and floss

So my hat is doffed

I leave with my imperfections retained
My gaps unfilled,
A dinosaur with wonky teeth
‘Yes, Miss, I will buy a toothbrush that whirrs’
A ‘No’ might make her smile crumble
And I couldn’t bear that

The truth is,
I am grateful.
Even old Joannas
Should be tuned
And polished.
In hope of playing
A perfect tune.

In The Mourning

Harold knocked muck
Off his shoes on the wall.
Dust flew amongst the sunbeams
The rhythm of the beats timed
To the woodpigeon’s coos

A library of thoughts
And dreams from the future
Mixed themselves into
Harold’s gravel and slurry
That early Spring morning

The new Methodist Chapel
Its foundation stone, laid,
Named, and dated,
Stared out from its low corner
Down the decades, down the lane

That celebration day, a hundred souls
Arrived with bunting, trestle tables
Coloured ribbons and children running
A brass band and the noise
Of neighbours filled the night air

There it is, still, unburied,
Held fast between the chapel bricks,
Unable to rid itself
Of the unreturned, or turn
To face the empty pews

Its congregation
Left here to sing and weep
Whilst the others, a decade
Or so later, always young,
Found a door open in heaven

Harold, the man of shovels
Knew it would take more than
Kicking against a wall
To shake a nation
Free from its absent dust

A century, and then some, later,
I walked past the stone
Down the lane, but it stopped me
And looked me in the eye
Before it let me pass.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart…

With all my invisibles?
Even to love Marmite
Or Christmas
Or the curve of a breast
Or the thud of a rugby ball
Or, well…an endless list

It is what we do:
All things subside into
Quicksand
When love bangs on the door
Money drains away
Mental fortitude is breached

Nations abandoned
The fridge is cleaned
We are flung so far
From normal
To find ourselves
Floundering in a river of love

Without questioning
Its mystery source.
I once left all, and
Followed a stream to its
Unstoppable spring
Its subterranean invisibles

The carved-out cause
Of a riverbed
Of its carps and lillies,
Bends and gushings,
Quietness and dragonflies
All this life, not of itself

Just Beyond

Just beyond my flesh
And its fine hairs
Lies an atmosphere,
The scents of me,
And then?

And then there’s you
Empty of God, maybe
Or removing your shoes
Or metronome praying
Or altar kneeling

Can I touch you
My neighbour?
Is your door open?
Your food, my food?
Your air, my air?

If your nerves edge
So do mine
If you’re too bold
Or too loud
I shall wait

Until you turn for home
And smell the oregano
And taste the peppers
Filled with a light
Born from above

And just beyond my flesh
Lies an invisible person
The one you can’t see
The one I know partially
The me in me

And this me in me
Who knows God, rather is
Known by God, cannot hide
Behind flesh, but smells
All those breathing me

Be Worshipped in Heaven and on Earth

This week’s poem is a song. Not mine. But from Christian believers, survivors of persecution, living in Mozambique. But, of course, it IS a poem borne out of suffering. Cannot fail to touch our hearts.

Click the link below to listen.

Inamona

Inamona (Testimony ) - Music from the village of Mieze

Be worshipped in Heaven and on Earth
Be worshipped, Jesus
Be worshipped in the rolling hills
And the plains
Be worshipped in the bush and the bustling town

Worshipped, yes, worshipped, Jesus

He has saved me
My heart rests in you secure
He has saved me
I give thanks for the love of Jesus

I call upon you Yahweh
Come and soothe my longing heart
Holy Spirit come
Come flood my heart with light

I call upon you, Yahweh…

Anaconda Root

The thick black root shed light
on a ruler, curled up,
slumbering in my mind,
and its curious inability
not to measure the fear
of a twitching spider
sizing up a continent of flesh

It’s not inches or stones, more
hunch of impending effort.
Beyond the hand-tearing of soil lies
the serrated edge of a father’s saw.
Its final rasps shower me with
his absent aftershave. I watch
as old fingers fix a new blade.

This anaconda of a root,
proud of girth and curves,
has lain in wait for today’s battle.
Its victories over soil and stone,
an endless stream, until the son of,
defeated by sweat and weakness,
severed its strength.

The excised trunk,
hurled on a discard pile,
destined for the evening’s fire,
with ancient wood-eyes
spoke of such discomfort.
The same look that shrivelled
a dismantled apostle.

This unexpected burden,
an onus of desecration,
filtered away with each
lunge of fork and spade
until the disturbed soil,
raked to a tilth,
exhaled its scent and lay still.

Anaconda Root

A thick black root shed light on the ruler
Curled up, snoozing in my mind
That crimson inability
Not to weigh her eyes
Or quantify the fear
Of a twitching spider
Sizing up a continent of flesh

Nothing to do with inches
More a relativism of effort:
Beyond the tearing of soil
Lies the serrated edge of a father’s saw
The sound of which, the last rasps,
Propels his absent aftershave over me
And the careful placing of a new blade

But this anaconda of a root
Proud of girth and curves
Has lain in wait for such a battle
Its victories over the soil and stone
An endless stream, until the son of
Defeated by sweat and weakness
Ran a different cabled river…

…its excised trunk
Hurled on the discard pile
Destined for an evening’s warmth
Spoke such discomfort to me
With ancient wood-eyes
The same look that shrivelled
A dismantled apostle

An unexpected tonnage
The onus of desecration
Filtered away with each
Plunge of spade and fork
Until the disturbed soil
Raked to a tilth
Exhaled its scent and lay still

The Dog I Never Knew

We’re all palm readers
If we switch off our eyes
And sit at the smelly feet of
Our six-year-old selves
Sneaking an early feel
Of Xmas treasures, lumpy
Beyond the wrapping

Or, hands held out,
Eyes still shut,
We catch the heat
Of a suffering Guy
And learn about
Defeating despots,
Gloves on cold nights

And that living creatures are
Slow-motion fires
With sparkler eyes
And tail-wagging joy
I gaze at my palm and
Grasp the ruff of the
Dog I never knew

The dog I never knew, he’s
The evidence of things not seen:
If I’m Radio 4, his ears prick up
If I’m a helium balloon
He, too, leaps up to heaven
And, if I’m immobilised
His chin and paw find me

He takes me for walks
And reminds me
Of the wide planet to enjoy
Until the days of weakness
And, like seeds, we’re sown,
Our horizons made secure
Incarnate love, off the lead

Ain’t

Forbidden fruits aren’t
Limited to one far-off tree
Eden is such a risk-laden garden
Nervous parents slap a ban
On children venturing there

It’s the Comp, bog-standard,
That hollows out the
Bowels of gymkhana parents
Silver cutlery polishers
The risk of infection, too great

It’s mustard on lamb
Or wearing a tie on a Saturday
Or dragging a tongue, cat-like
Over a saucer of milk
Or speaking backwards

Those things that appeal
For no rhyme or reason
All coming to a focus of joy
In using the word Ain’t
Expressly Verboten

And juicier for it
The sharp A filling the void
The living cave of a sound-filled mouth
And the nasal red-raw Ain finish
Like a rich, long-lasting Burgundy

The T is optional
Depending only on mood
On temper, on the need
For percussion, for impact
A vocal jab in the ribs

Say it with me…
Let it build, louder and louder
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ah! The joy of Ain’t