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

and then.....

Dawn,
Sunday.
The tomb disclosed,
in brightest day,
void,
the boundary
of yesterday
breached.
Morning,
Sunday.
The greetings of angels,
the fear of mystery,
the meeting of a man
who is not a man.
Evening,
Sunday.
More fear
and another greeting
and the breath
of eternity
enters frightened souls.

Grace calls

Grace calls my name
a name scratched in nail upon His hand;
my life - a page in a holy book.
A path in a mist
to a light shrouded in mystery
which faith reveals
but sight cannot fathom.
Grace calls my name
in a voice I hear but cannot see
yet its touch
is holy reality.

Name

Early breaths,
suddenly alone
they buried my shadow
in a churchyard womb.
Borrowed time.
Named after some boyhood friend
of an older brother
from another clan.
Borrowed name.
Call me what you will
but my shadow clings
tighter than the name.
We share a life,
each stolen breath
a sentence,
a judgement,
a tear - silent spoken.
Call me what you will;
we have another name
my sister and I
shared
in the womb of eternity.
Rotting flesh and the press of earth
neither separate nor heal
but call our name.

Therefore

Therefore

There,
in the congregation of all pain,
lofted in early eternity,
the darkness gathered -
a hill, a cross, a grave.

There for
a dark eternity of pain,
in the assembly of souls,
alpha and omega meet
to witness for once, for all.

Therefore
‘God has lifted Him
to the highest place.’
Salvation loosed -
a lifeboat
on a tempest sea.

There
for
me.

Hand

HAND

I hold fate -
the embrace or slap
the tender touch and painful poke.
I guide the pen that writes
the peace treaty
the cheque that buys guns
the poem of love
the poison of libel.

I grip the hand of a troubled friend
or push the back of foe.
I have what I hold
or give what I have,
retain or release.

I am the forked tongue
of a snake
in the grass
of everyday.
I leave guilty prints
in each life I touch.