The book

The book

Kings book-end my span.
A King I did not know bowed out
when I was a child. 

A King we will come to know
slow-marches into my latter days. 

Kings book-end my days
but the volume of my story
concerns the Queen.

Thursday, the road continues

The road continues.

The path beyond the palm strewn entrance,

the angry violence of the temple courts,

to the stone steps of an upper room:

the welcome of an open door,

anxious friends,

and a celebration of the past

which becomes the future.

The bright sun of Sunday

burnt up in an instant

prepared, ordained,

schemed and planned

in eternity.

Yet the storm cloud of rejection

hides behind the horizon,

darkening with the coming of night,

gathering momentum,

undertone to the celebration.

The gentle washing

of the dusty day from feet

as we enter a womb of refuge

and the door closes.

A cup of wine refreshes

and begins its anaesthesia.

The camaraderie

of friends and brothers

journeys conversations;

banter begins its camouflage

and smiles seep into the fear.

Another cup of wine

and the breaking of bread

becomes

the safe familiarity

of Passover;

the security of history,

the illusion of a future.

And the storm cloud of rejection

darkens the coming of night,

gathering momentum,

on another page.

Holocaust day 2016

History began before I was born;

before air struck the gong of life

into my insignificant life.

Millennia, centuries, decades, years

wrote pages of experience

in chapters we choose to ignore

or pass as fantasy

belonging in parallel universes

and otherworlds.

We mark the anniversaries

with blindness

as the remembrances of others

fade with their dying.

But our world, formed in love,

is tainted and defiled

by pen and sword

and the executions

of bigots.

And on this day.

THIS day,

we celebrate life,

reprieve,

and the opportunity

fail again.

To those who make decisions;

to those who pedal death,

street-sellers of hate and mistrust,

I bequeath history your nightmare

from which you cannot awaken.

In absentia

I wrap my eyes with your image.

I close them and my eyelids filter you,

for you are not here.

My eyes fill

with emptiness

until the water flows.

I wrap my hands with your blouse;

its textures lie

for you are not within.

My hands fill

with emptiness,

a snake skin discard.

So I wrap myself around your neck

close as my favourite necklace

and kiss you goodnight

with absent lips.

Missing you.

Advent (deep calls to deep)

Advent  (deep calls to deep)

Deep calls to deep

the imprint of God upon the ghost of spirit,

a watermark in virgin paper,

a tincture of a whisper

from creation’s nativity.

We too bring gifts to the child –

the twisted gold tinsel

crown for a king,

fragrant candle

for a deity,

the romantic fairytale

an antiseptic for reality.

This is a death and entrance,

a lower case alpha and omega,

the bracketed phrase

in the sentence of eternity.

This is no stable

mucked out and sterile

but God among

the droppings

of mankind.

from 'Advent Oddessy' my book of Christmas related poetry 

Advent Oddessy 

A broken vessel

A broken vessel.

Made whole

these are not the scars of damage

but the rejoice of healing,

golden veins of repair -

the signature of God exposed.

Changed yet unchanged

the past is celebrated,

history revealed,

identity retained.

The beauty of the broken -

more valuable in restoration,

more beautiful

for being broken.

Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery by filling the cracks with amalgam mixed with powdered gold.    Kintsugi  is translated as “golden joinery.”

Christmas Card