Very pleased to be selected for Paddlers Press Volume 15 with my poem Aspects of Faith 

- https://paddlerpress.ca/product/paddler-press-vol-15-faith/

 

Aspects of Faith

 

I

His faith in me is unwavering

Why, I shun the gift ?

 

II

The world shouts, pleads, whispers -

What I need

is to be taught, inspired and comforted

To navigate not succumb

Give me headphones, not blinkers

 

III

It’s there in the storm, my spine

holding everything together

But where does it go on days of success ?

Abandoned in noise and colour

as if the two were oil and water

Until the lonely grey descends

and I’m holding fast again

 

IV

Taking risks, not reckless

Aligned with purpose

step by step

 

V

A rise of fortune and I forget

a God who blesses at a stroke

If only I could remember, all things change

and yet eternity hasn’t moved an inch

 

VI

I’m anchored on a chain

which I lengthen, ‘til I reach dangerous waters

still connected as I turn away

 

VII

Sometimes you carried me, I saw the footprints

And sometimes you led me, through minefields,

always my shield and guide

I wandered

then felt the damage done

mercy teaches compassion

 

VIII

From this scaffold I see the contours of history,

And the tussle for my soul

The path to paradise and the wolves at the door

Where this me came from and where he could go

 

IX

The Spirit who gifts faith, acts by faith, and holds faith to account

says stop trying to be, and draw closer.

 

 

 

paddlerpress.ca

Paddler Press Volume 15 – Faith

A few of my favourite things

 This just a bit of fun nonsense that came out of a writing exercise:

 

A few of my favourite things

I like when a song spirals almost out of control

A wildness, a madness, yeah rock n roll

 

I like the heat of a scorching shower

And the geometric intricacies of some types of flowers

I like cold feet when my temperature’s raised

And do get a buzz if my poetry’s praised

 

I like heavy metal and I like reggae

Anything that might give you a headache

I like to live in a song for a week

I’d rather write than stand up and speak

 

I like to hear smart people say smart things

And for singers to sing, and funny people do their thing

That every voice is distinctive

And recognition seems instinctive

 

I liked the day when the nit-nurse came

And massaged my scalp

And then checked me once again

 

I like blue skies, and I like sky blue

And antimetaboles*, a term that’s new

Like ‘ask not what your country can do . . ‘

 

I like a whole raft of random things

Sea lions, and proper defending

Genuine smiles and walking for miles

Marmalade on toast and birthday post

 

I like the hot sweaty grip of a baby’s fingers

I couldn’t think of a rhyme so I’ll let that one linger

 

I like nectarines

And movies set on submarines

Femme fatales with dangerous curves

And the courage of men who kept their nerve

 

I like to know there’s people like you

Who make space for us, to do what we do

 

I like pretentiousness

slogans that sound clever,

And bad rhymes

meaning this is contrived

to finish with Trevor.

[* AN-ti-mə-TAB-ə-lee-s ]

 

House of Allusions

 

Woken in the night

by drip drip drip

snare drum beats

like regrets and broken promises

and ever since, silence

we’ll fix the hole

before the rains return

but the memories remain

 

Damp patch by the front door

creeping slowly

a lengthening shadow

beyond the chalk outlines

which never became high and dry

during the hot summer

next door has them too

but theirs is brown and patchy

a different metaphor

 

Black spots like minor sins

appear in corners and conscience

it takes something industrial to remove them

I’m not sure I’m up to it

 

The windows are misted up

inside the double glazing

where no one can wipe

obscuring the view

like fading eyesight

like fading recall

 

The sink cupboard has shifted

gaping from the wall

I think my floor is sinking

pulling everything apart

 

Outside this house

the sun shines still

after the rain

and the garden appears

full of life

drawn up from underground

where buried are plans and desires

becoming real and vibrant and possible

a surprise of colour and texture

and miniature worlds like poetry

 

 

Sometimes I don’t know where the house ends and the metaphors begin

I can’t tell anymore

We need a lot of work done

 

The Shed of Dreams

 

If I sit on the floor, and look up at the window,

A square of blue sky waiting for my release

Imagine a stone cold floor beneath me,

And the ratty debris is of my only companion

 

And the rain lashes the window like a ship tossed at sea

Expecting the crack and flashes of thunder and lightening

I could steer us from an upturned bicycle

From a skateboard sliding as the waves roll and wallow

 

In the dark looking out at the constellations burning

Waiting for my orbit to roll earth into view

Hot tea breath steaming up the window

 

The door is open, and the enchanted path leads to the giant tree

Through forget-me-nots and unkempt grass

Beyond the Himalayan honeysuckle,

And the flowering currant bush where the wasps make paper lampshades

The door framing wild flowers and foliage

Cropping out fences and markers of suburbia, extending the view forever

 

Yes a shed of dreams,

not just a place for lawnmowers and rusting garden furniture.

Hibernation

 

Every night we hibernate, cosy in our den, the covers lies in folds and ridges, a snow drift stretched between us, domestic topography,

 

Frost scratching its way across the windows, winter sun barely disturbing our slumber,

 

And every morning we half-wake, uneven and confused, losing fragments of dreams fading, wondering why it isn’t spring, and shuffle through the day, evading the wide-eyed embrace offered, shy of text and tones and intrusive lights,

 

While some are energised, to make change and plans, we let each day remain unchanged, untouched, unruffled, with no more energy than subsistence, not breaking the rhythm of slow slow sleepy slothful observance of the conditions that keep us still, 

 

Awaiting the turning point, the slow tilt towards, the sun in our face, until then peace, content to let the days pass, forgetting each one as if we had slept through them all, something we read immersed in a novel,

 

The outside world an unforgiving place, reminders everywhere, wind whistling regrets and broken promises, threats and insults,

 

And later much later after the distant winter sun fades out and the moon appears against the black, and the lights are inside the walls,

 

We prepare ourselves again, to bed down again to sleep through, cosy enough hopeful, and cancelling the lights, to sleep through, to another season. 

 

Smothered the snow drift rearranged, long slow breaths disappearing into the night, the steady train to neverland.

 

Dreaming to die under cover, and wake renewed with the equinox.