AT THE FOOT OF THE TREE
To sit here beneath this tree,
to reach out and touch its roughness,
is to think how wood has served
– and saved – down through the ages.
It is to remember the tree that stood in Eden,
the ‘obedience test’ that mankind failed
in a place of plenty and perfection,
spurning provision of the very best
to grasp for the single fruit forbidden,
to know good … but choose evil.
It is to remember the rescue plan
for a faith-filled man and all his kin
who, long before the rains began,
built a boat of gopher wood,
cut and planed for a perfect fit,
for Noah to save his family in.
It is to recall a tree tossed into an oasis
where the wood turned the bitter water
of Marah sweet enough to drink.
It is to think of another oasis – Elim
with twelve springs and seventy palm trees,
a place to rest, beside still waters.
It is to remember the acacia,
specified for ark and tabernacle;
the mighty cedar and cypress
needed to build the temple.
It is to recite the very first psalm
that calls us to be like trees,
well-planted by a stream,
with leaves for healing
for oaks of righteousness
are a planting of The Lord.
It is to shrink from the fate of fig tree
and vine that do not bear fruit,
but to stay well grafted-in,
to accept the need for pruning.
It is to remember a wooden trough
for animal feed, the humble manger –
the perfect place in which to lay
the new-born Saviour of the World.
It is to recall a carpenter’s workshop
in Nazareth where a master craftsman
and apprentice cut and shaped the wood
to make the things the people needed.
It is to think of the branches of palm trees
cut down to wave a welcome
for The Saviour of the World,
riding a humble donkey
on His triumphant entry
to a place of certain death.
To sit here at the foot of the tree
is to think of His sinless shoulder
bearing the weight of the heavy trunk
on which he would soon suffer and die –
the upright and cross beam
that formed the Romans’ chosen
instrument of execution –
the ‘wondrous cross
on which the prince of glory died’.
It is to think again of the blood
that flowed, down the grain,
to sink in the ground;
to try to imagine the grief
of Mary – and Mary –
at the foot of that tree;
to picture the soldiers
who gambled there for His garment;
to recite again His words
of anguish, abandonment,
yes and forgiveness … and fulfilment;
to remember the thief
on the neighbouring cross,
assured of paradise;
to receive that same promise
bought for us, by the shedding
of Christ’s pure blood, the sacrifice
of the Master Craftsman of the Universe,
who reaches down to us – still,
as we come to the cross, and thank Him
for His great rescue plan,
foretold through history
in the shape and substance of wood.
To sit at the foot of this tree
is to give all thanks and all praise
to Jesus, who defied a rough-hewn cross,
to rise again when the mighty stone
was rolled away from a short-lived grave.
And it is to worship
the Saviour of the the World
who will greet us
at our own triumphant entry
into the city with streets of gold,
where the Tree of Life awaits us
with leaves of healing and life everlasting.
Thank you, Jesus.
At the Foot of the Tree was written for Good Friday 2021, for Elim Church, Cheltenham
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Video credit: Bean Baker
WELL
+ Inspired by John’s Gospel, Chapter 4, Verses 4–26
I met Him at the well
where I listened to him tell
of all the times I slipped and fell.
He showed me what sort of race I’d run,
everything I’d said and done
that ran counter to His plan.
But at Sychar’s well, I felt my failures end,
the Son of God became this sinner’s friend
shining with a perfect light so I might
more clearly see what was wrong, what was right.
Come with me now listen to him tell
of everything we’ve done
the course our lives have run.
And once he’s met us, we will run
leave our burdens at the well,
lighter, full of His light,
keen to tell of everything He’s said and done.
As we go about our life
we’ll get grief, encounter strife
but as we keep a short account
come before him and repent
of every wrong word we have said
and every deed we’ve tried to hide
each lie we’ve listened to – or told,
all the wrong thoughts we have held,
he shines his light on each untruth
offers life where there was death,
revives with fresh and living water
each beloved son, well-loved daughter.
As we meet daily, at the well
he will tell us what to do,
so we can help fulfil His plan.
He’ll lift us up if we slip or fall.
He will be The One to perfect our race …
so we will win, we will win.
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BEACH BREAKFAST
+ Inspired by Chapter 21, St John’s Gospel
It’s been a long night, a difficult week.
We meet on the sand where you’ve set up
an impromptu barbecue and, of course,
it’s fish you’re grilling,
freshly caught and gutted
by the guys hovering around the boat,
looking over at us, no doubt wondering
about the conversation that is just beginning.
I blurt out how sorry I am. I was unfaithful.
I still love you. But you don’t seem to accept
my apology, my profession of love.
I have to repeat it, over and over.
You are more concerned about food,
intent on the prospect of sharing it around,
even though in my eyes, right here, right now,
there are just the two of us.
Then I realize that is my perspective.
I’ve squeezed you into my narrow field of view,
where you rightly have the proportions of a giant,
but you’re not mine alone,
you’re theirs over by the boat,
you’re everybody’s.
(From the book: ‘Interned at the Food Factory’)
______________________________________________
MOUNTAIN CLIMBING FOR THE MORE ADVANCED
+ Responding to the call: “Follow Me”
Masterful. That is the only word
to describe your leadership
and yes, I had heard and feared
your reputation … but it’s all right.
You couldn’t aspire to such ascents
or inspire me to reach such levels
without acquiring wide experience.
So as you take me on your travels
to unfamiliar places, on expeditions,
I go as a pupil, you as the master,
and as I come, I trust my intuition
to submit to you as a kind of sherpa.
See, whichever peak we aim for now
another’s always coming into view.
(from the book ‘Dualities’)
___________________________
FIREWORDS
+ Inspired by Psalm 127
We struck vestas to light the fire.
It went out repeatedly
until ignition seemed to come
from somewhere other
than our own hands
and then the firewords caught.
Now we must watch over them,
attend to the flame
or the firewords will falter,
our house will stay cold
and red-letter days cool to black.
So we rise early each morning
to lay the hearth,
make a bed for the firewords,
their crimson font.
And we stay up late at night
to settle the embers before sleep,
bedded down between soft covers.
We question the need to take so much care,
suspect it could all be less of a chore,
but the effort is necessary,
for firewords are also bright children,
hot with promise and rare reward.
Birthed in years of vigour
into our fumbling hands,
the firewords grow, become armour,
protective in old age.
Forged in the labour of fire,
the fire of labour, they flare up
in the ardour of attentive parents,
come to rest in a child’s innocence.
(From the book ‘Dualities’)
___________________________
AFTER THE CEREMONY – A SONNET
+ ‘The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!”‘
Still in white, stilettos jettisoned in the sand,
she skips along the beach with her bouquet
in hand, and her man still in his wedding suit.
Newly matched, they strike out along the edge
of the ocean. It glints, ignites the whole coast
on this incandescent June day. Out of shot,
higher up the strand, family and friends stand
around, glasses charged and fizzing, sparking
off conversation as the bride blazes as bright
as a comet might across a velvet midnight sky.
Waves kiss the shore, swish mimicking silk
as her skirts sweep across shell and silicate.
A seabird calls from afar; the pair hurry on,
oblivious to all around them, future bound.
(From the book ‘Dualities’)
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BOND
You’re going to have to explain.
I cannot understand why you press
this money into my hand
then close my fingers over it.
I do not know if it is mine to keep,
to take out later, look at,
turn over, remember.
I know I cannot simply toss it
into purse or pocket
with common coin.
I cannot tell if it is payment, reward,
deposit, float, capital, gift, or all of these;
whether to donate it to a good cause
lock it in a vault, buy seed, grow crops,
harvest, sell and buy more.
It is gold, I see that – a rare thing,
from a treasury. It’s slump-proof.
Night and morning,
when my eyes are closed,
you place it into my palm again,
apply gentle pressure,
curl my fingers to cover it.
I fear I must use it soon
or you’ll take it back,
give it to someone who understands.
But the greater fear is that I use it,
you give me more,
expect more in return.
(Bond was published in ‘The Poet’s Quest For God: 21st Century Poems of Faith, Doubt and Wonder; 2016)
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I love you unconditionally
when you look in the mirror
and like what you see
or don’t like what you see
when your latest experiment
has gone a little too far
when your eyebrows are too bushy
or too thin or too straggly
or off the scale in their pinkness
or yellowness and other people
stare at you and you don’t want that
or you do want it but can’t handle
the attention because your BPD
is yanking your moods
from extreme high to extreme low
with ever-increasing rapidity
or your NPD is damaging everyone
around you and you’re starting to suspect
there might be a trail of victims in your wake
because your eyes have been closed
to everything but your own inner turmoil
or you’re just being your INFJ self
or have been over-busy being creative
or worse a poet dragged through
the rejection mill once too often
so you are blind to your successes
or dismissive of everything
you have achieved and mostly
because you haven’t seen how
incredibly beautiful you are
and how equally beautiful I am
always here holding you
and able to hear your unvoiced traumas
and unfulfilled dreams if you would only
whisper them to me in a prayer
and allow me to soothe you
with calming counsel
or to lullaby you like your mother
never could or if you would
let go and go limp in my arms
so that I might hold you up
and even lift you up in triumph
and convince you to believe
that you are lovable
and unconditionally loved.
(First published on Visual Verse, June 2021)
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
PRECOCIOUS BLOOMS, 2020
December’s not yet over in this discordant year.
New strains are breaking out,
even as we cower in our hovels.
But today, on Christmas Eve,
we brave outdoors and spot a brighter wave–
yellow petals shivering by a wall
and soon I’m full of cheer
on this post-solstice day.
An inner voice has arrested me to say
‘You’ve huddled away too long.
The season’s changing.
You don’t belong to a spirit of fear
but a whole new way of seeing,
with better lens and retrained eye,
to notice hope on a narrow path,
invite the life you’re seeing here
to light your steps from this hour on,
or else, too late, find out that you’re
infected too with the hate
that is today stirring the world,
luring away those blind to evil
or those who stay estranged from truth,
ignoring the call to lift eyes to the hills
or bend the knee at the sound of bells
and marvel at the arrival of early daffodils.
______________________________
IN THE UPPER ROOM
+ A poem for Pentecost
There is this fluttering,
like palpitations, or quickening,
or perhaps butterflies
except not in the stomach,
not low down. This is up, aloft …
a-hover now, like a dove above a river
except that we are not outside.
This which we have waded into
has a strong current which is also electric.
There is a fragrance on the air,
and a wave-of-roaring sometimes,
a light tongue-lap other times,
or a flame a-flicker, a-dance overhead.
This is a presence that encompasses,
circumscribes like arcs around a radial dot,
except not one of us is just a dot.
Here, we are radiant motes in the light
from a scintillating source,
a focus for espousing photons –
a touch sometimes airy, featherlike, particulate
sometimes bright, irradiating, burning,
other times pulsing and as comforting
as a mother-hen, warm wings brooding.
This presence protects but is not safe.
This is like a breeze in the face sometimes,
other times, forceful – a gushing wind
to knock you backwards into a catcher’s arms
or to knee-buckle as if by your own free will,
whatever your will is anymore.
And sometimes there will be laughter
and sometimes groaning and sobbing,
or those silent tears that heal.
For This is That which was without,
and is now He who is within–
who is and was and will be …
up there, in here, now this side, now that
and, yes, even down where we’d rather cover over.
He who blots out all trouble calms all fear
and flesh-nonsense, retunes arrhythmia at the core,
clutches at lungs and announces This is Pneuma
before breathing fresh life inside,
blowing the top of your head right off
for an instant neuroplasty to rewire pathways,
remap networks, reignite dulled synapses,
wipe corrupt memories, install new software,
rewrite histories, recast futures.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
TUNING IN
Driving in tongues changes etiquette.
Less cutting in, more giving way
less testing how long angels remain on the bonnet,
more observing speed limit,
less turning on radio or MP3 player
more tuning in to the interpretation
of messages received and spoken out,
more invitations – to admire a magnolia
or seagulls imposing natural on industrial
or a splendid specimen of border collie
walking his beloved human,
or a mackerel sky, or a power station
and its pylons, as manmade as they are,
for enabling so much endeavour,
and all those cellphone masts
for allowing me to share with you
at the end of my journey
the pleasure of driving in tongues.
_________________
ON THE UP
(Inspired by Psalm 126, a Song of Ascent)
When our flowers changed colour,
turning from heliotrope to yellow overnight,
we laughed, even sang, when we saw them.
Everyone came to look, to compliment us.
‘Life must be going well for you,” they said.
And it’s true; everything’s turning peachy,
well on its way to becoming marigoldy.
Quatrefoils spring up around our feet
and we’re looking out for something
like the cloth of gold that never fades.
Once we were like love lies bleeding,
then philadelphus, now we’re destined
to resemble helianthus, and we’re ecstatic.
We started to flag but kept growing,
never stopped dehiscing our tiny seeds
and will win in the end, dancing, singing,
gathering harvests of giant sunflowers,
holding them high, carrying them home.
___________________________
MIGHTIER
No line of mine has ever stopped a tank,
as per the wisdom of Seamus.
No stanza of mine will cause a drone pilot
to pause on his button.
No public poetry reading
I have participated in
has fomented a groundswell,
thrown up barricades, spurred marches,
the hasty production of samizdat tracts,
or even the scrawl of a home-made poster.
As the shrewd Mr Auden observed,
I doubt whether a poem will ever
make anything happen.
And yet there remains hope
in the quiet line in the sand.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
LINING UP
I made this frame to hold your word,
took pains to choose the right wood,
sawed, planed, sanded, cut joints square and true,
treated the surfaces, preserved
and burnished them till they shone, glowed,
cut glass to fit, made a backing board,
slotted it in, chose gold hooks and a chain
and took your word and centred it in the frame,
hung your word on my wall and spoke your word,
lined my own words up with yours
till they resonated, vibrated, started making waves,
and many words tumbled forth in tune and temper
with your word in the frame, multitudes of words,
as many as the stars in the sky,
innumerable as the sand on the seashore.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
THE PRODIGAL AND THE ALLURE OF FAME – A SESTINA
Seeking signs with a sceptic’s ear, defective sight,
the boy was bound to start to doubt the sound
of his father’s voice – each still small whisper,
each feathery sigh. Soon fantasy began to hem
him in – fable, superstition, myth, all catching
his fancy, undermining his steadiness of foot,
so he began to miss, first by an inch, then foot,
then mile, the ancient waystones, the very sight
of which he mocked. Out in the world, catching
all its rickety ills ‘till nothing around was sound,
he failed to feel himself unravel, first at hem
then cuff, then neck, ‘till he became a whisper
of his destined self. Now he cannot whisper.
He bellows out each poorly measured foot,
and line and stanza of his art, so quick to hem
his audience in with his own squinting sight
and hooked cacophonies – the unholy sound
of the cynic. His burrs cleave, snag, catching
his audience who, in turn, can’t help catching
his malaise. And now with bullhorn, not whisper,
he rants at festivals and slams his latest sound
out at the gullible, hoodwinking his flock to foot
the bill as he headlines, hooks his fans. The sight
of groupies pleases his ego. They simper, hem
him in at gigs, in bars, and grab the very hem
of his denim, gush praise at his work, catching
his ear with their insights or eye with the sight
of a heaving cleavage, each breathy whisper
a hint, an offering of something in return; a foot
in a revolving door, screeching with the sound
of manipulation and control, the very sound
of Jezebel herself. And now it is at her hem
that he falls, and soon it will be at her foot
that he prostrates himself, lapping, catching
bitter breadcrumbs, her erstwhile whisper
a cackle he can’t now hear. He’s a sad sight,
only ever grasping for the vaguest sight,
of a sandalled foot, not heeding the sound
of the wearer’s whisper, unhealed by the hem.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
LETTING IT LIE
+ Inspired by John’s Gospel 7:53–8:11
We are here to stone the woman caught in the act,
and I have my pile of rocks ready, the first stone
grasped in my fist to hurl at the unveiled harlot
but there’s something about the man over there,
bent over, scratching with his stick in the dirt,
that reminds me of the time I …
and the next thing I know, I am walking away.
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SOMETHING FOR CHRISTMAS
“Write something for Christmas,”
was what he said. And, ever since,
I’ve scratched my head
to find some words, a phrase or two,
to strike a note that’s fresh and new.
You see, it’s all been said before–
the innkeeper, the stable door,
the ox and ass, the manger bed,
kings and shepherds and haloed head,
Joseph with the Virgin Mary
angels praising, Herod wary.
Lots of carols tell the tale
better than I, and so I fail
to find some new and well-turned phrase
that paints that scene from Bible days.
But let’s zoom in much closer now
to this delivery. Let us bow
to see those tiny fingers, toes.
Millennia hence they will pose
a question we’ll all ask sometime
“OK, so just who was that man
whose limbs were drenched
with his own gore, as nails
his flesh so cruelly tore?
Those tiny toes and fingers
were made to win the hearts of men!”
Now see the head of this newborn.
In thirty years it will be torn
by briars, sharp, and soldiers, feared,
will spit on it, tear out his beard.
And his mum, now just a child,
will weep to watch her son defiled.
She’ll see the fruit of her virgin womb
tortured to death and laid in a tomb.
And myrrh, the gift of this eastern king,
will serve for this babe’s burying.
But see the shepherds, simple men,
they’ll see his body rise again!
They didn’t know then, but there’ll come a day
when the huge tomb door is rolled away
and angel praises again will ring
as the baby, now a conquering king
takes up his seat beside his Dad
and prepares your place, that’s if you’ve had
a mind to contemplate his star
and wonder (as you drive your car
to buy your tree and Christmas pud)
how this babe’s birth might do you good.
Now, paint your scene and write your rhyme
and he’ll live in you this Christmastime.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––
WATERWALKING – VILLANELLE
She’ll have to be brave to get out of the boat
and not look around at the waves that rage.
She must keep her eyes on what seems to float.
Thudding in the chest, tightness in the throat
are to be expected at this desperate stage
but she’ll have to calm down, get out of the boat.
Financial incentives, big cheques and large notes
will not work, nor the bribe of a generous wage.
She’ll just have to bank on what stays afloat.
No atlas or manual, no maxims or quotes,
it’s far too late to read one more page.
She must go untutored and get out of the boat.
No time for words that someone else wrote,
a mentor’s advice, the wisdom of a sage.
She must stay focused on what keeps afloat,
yell out all the things she’s learned by rote,
rattle the bars of Leviathan’s cage.
Come on, woman of valour, get out of the boat.
Set your face, fix your eyes on what’s still afloat.
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PLOUGH SUNDAY – SESTINA
Back then, we had time to consider soil and seed.
Christmas still glowed in our hearths, its embers
red as we left for church, walking at a gentle speed
in snow and ice. It was our refuge in winters past.
We entered in, hushed and reverent: young, older
each of us welcome and with wonder in our eyes.
Even the wildest of children sat silent, wide-eyed,
between their parents – on their knees to intercede
on well-worn hassocks. The choir sang, shoulder
to shoulder, well-loved hymns we used to remember.
The plough rested for a while until frosts were past,
propped upright near the font to hear “God Speed”
in the vicar’s clipped vowels, at measured speed,
the saints’ slow replies, the amens and the ayes.
Choirmaster, verger, warden and wife – all past
their prime, were safely gathered in – good seed
eked out for another year, with last September’s
bounty in the bones, still warm but turning colder
and every parishioner another year older.
Few labourers left now, and each keen to speed
the loading of bales before the reds and ambers
of a dwindling sun elongate the stubble – eyes,
shielded and squinting, blind to what their seed
has become, missing the signs as they flash past.
Sowing, reaping – the hard-won skills of the past –
threshing and winnowing, the horse and halter,
yield to technologists who engineer our seed
for designer crops – hybridised, modified, speed
dried, vacuum-wrapped – each stage optimised
to run on fuel … that will run out one December
when coal, shale, gas and oil are spent, tempers
and temperatures soar unchecked and we’re past
the point when sun or wind can service our size,
when meltdowns and melting poles have altered
Earth’s tolerance of our love for stuff and speed,
when greed for cheap food has mutated our seed.
Then entropy’s embers will grow colder, colder.
Time will pass away, sand running out at speed.
Wide-eyed and wild, we’ll have eaten our seed.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
HOUSE GUEST
After supper, he took the cup
of tea she offered and put his feet up
on the sofa in front of the TV.
Unusual, for a visitor, she thought.
He just kicked off his shoes
and smiled at her until her eyes watered.
Later she fetched a washing-up bowl from the kitchen,
full of warm soapy water. ‘No, that’s my job’, he said,
handing her a bottle of J’adore. ‘This is yours’.
___________________________
TETELESTAI
It wasn’t like any Good Friday sermon I’d heard before,
no sombre procession round the Stations of the Cross,
no exhortation to one more day of Lenten deprivation
from a man in a frock and silky scarf.
Here was a bloke looking like he’d just stepped out
of Burtons telling us to ‘Have it all’.
‘Next time, you’re going out to eat,’ he said,
‘Choose the best restaurant, don’t scan the menu
for the cheapest dish – have what you really want.
Don’t forego the starter. Have steak if you like.
Don’t scrimp on dessert. Have a double portion,
a refill of coffee, as many chocolate mints as you can eat.
And don’t fret about the bill.
Someone’s taken care of it, paid in full. Enjoy!’
___________________________________
ROSE OF SHARON
Some say it is hibiscus, a tulip, or a succulent,
as befits the sandy plain that bears its name.
Flowering in the desert suits me well.
Overcoming trumps adversity. Blooming beats barenness.
Some say it is a signifier for the arch-overcomer.
But I resented its adoption by the Hypericum family–
the small islander’s brassy shrub,
one of the Birds of a Feather.
The name was rare hereabouts when my progenitors
turned to Song of Solomon as their source,
and George Beverley Shea sang me
my very own lullaby in the nursery.
Yes, it flowered, prolific in America–
keener, there, to acknowledge its origins.
And I have come to accept its service to both male
and female, its persistence on maps, in soil, in sand.
Closer to home, I weep to find it
under the eaves of crumbling chapels
where one of heaven’s languages lies dying:
Bethesda, Siloam, Hebron, Nebo, Horeb, Calfaria, Saron.
________________________________
LOOKING FOR CRUMBS – THE IMAGINED ACT
Come with me under the table
to look between shoes,
ankles – covered and naked,
toes that peep.
Try not to touch.
Hand over mouth,
stifle the urge to observe
that children won’t
have sneaked down here
to scoff their allotted cake.
Try not to giggle or snigger
at what might be found
beneath white linen.
Just fumble for crusts,
dropped gobbets
in dust and fluff.
I had no choice
but to slither down here.
Hope compels me
to pretend there is no stink of dog
dirt on this soul.
There might after all be a healing.
______________________________________
LOOKING FOR CRUMBS – THE ACTUAL ACT
+ Inspired by Matthew 15:21-28
Desperation leads the desperate sometimes … to desperate acts.
I didn’t have much hope, with a loved one so afflicted,
but this Man’s fame precedes His presence here. I hear that he heals.
So here I am … just as I am, like an outcast in my own land, s
eparated by circumstance but compelled … to reach out, to appeal,
no, to beg that He will deliver my loved one.
I call out to him for mercy, yet fear he does not hear for, at first,
there seems to be no response and those who are already …
and always … in His presence seem to see me only as a stranger
for in my desperation I am in another place. But, however much it might appear
that he’s only here for the chosen, however much I might fear that they alone
are fit to eat at His table, however much they might appear to fear my disturbance …
I must be bold … and bend the knee before Him, call out for His mercy,
His healing. Even if I am despised as some form of low life, I will remind Him …
remind them, that even dogs are allowed the crumbs that fall from the Master’s table.
And this I do. And He hears my prayer. And his heart is stirred by my faith.
And my loved one is healed. So come with me now towards that same table.
Silence inner voices that say you’re not worthy to be here.
Reach out, even in rags, towards fine, white linen.
The desperate have no choice but to search for a crust … any morsel
that might fall in the dust where we will, after all, find healing.
_________________________
LITTLE LANTERN
In the past
it was weak cast just enough light
to pick out the grit on the path ahead
of her footsteps in the night so she could see
no further than the next pebble and toed the ground
tentatively, fearing what might lie in the way
a log, boulder precipice, beast perhaps
but time led to trust
and one foot after another
on the narrow track assured
her she didn’t need distant scenes
so she plodded on
one step enough as the light shone
and now her eyes have adapted
to the dark and to the light
and she looks right into the future.
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AQUARIUM – A SONNET
A film of algae had greened walls, prevented
those outside observing those within, clouded liquid.
Faeces clung to the bottom, the grit invisible,
scant aeration, no leaves to alleviate
the environment’s toxicity. Sick specimens
lurked in the gloom, mouths reluctant to open
and when the did, odd bubbles formed, dawdled
to the surface – the whole mess, death-destined
until he poked a finger in, perturbed the poison,
released the stench. He could have chosen
to close the lid again, decided instead to grab
a bowl, decant the dabs, purge the tank,
scrub glass, bring in plants, supply fresh water,
give inmates a cleaner cell, before taking his leave.
First published in In the Cinnamon Corners, Cinnamon Press, 2017
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TEXT MESSAGE
If anyone is in Christ began the black script
etched in matt metal mounted on wood,
hanging or propped up on its little stand.
They are a new creation.
Here the teenager became cross.
She’d repeated the prayer, dozens of times,
but still felt far from new.
Dad’s little plaque accused them both.
He was no new creature either
for all his professions, confessions.
The old has gone.
No it hadn’t. It really hadn’t.
The new is come.
She was still waiting.
Decades later and the plaque
languished at the Safestore.
She heard it calling, demanding
to be redeemed from captivity,
perhaps to be banged up again.
Everything hangs on the first line.
____________________________________
THE GARDENER
Short and squat, a man in a cap,
rolled-up shirt sleeves, old trousers
encrusted with blood and bone,
boots dusted with powdered lime.
He bent double over the latest row
marked out with stake and string
to keep it straight, wielded his dibber–
really a sawn-off fork handle–
swivelled it into the tidy tilth
to make a little hole for a seed potato.
Later he’d earth up the row
to encourage growth.
She watched, asking questions
‘what, why, what for?’
in the manner of a five year old–
each answer given after measured thought:
“It’s a fertiliser. It keeps soil sweet.
Because straight is better than crooked.
Because each seed I plant
needs a little nest to encourage it
to grow up strong.
Because a good Dad loves his children”.
Previously published at https://gooddadhood.com
________________________________________
DADDY
He picked her up when she fell over,
soothed grazes and cuts with such care she forgot pain,
wiped tears and snot from her cheeks
when she was hurt or overwhelmed
and he often overwhelmed her.
His broad smile lit up his huge face,
charmed frowns from hers.
He reached out for her hand
when she felt lost or helpless,
showed her how to plant footsteps in his
when the path was rough.
He thrilled her with unlooked-for gifts,
surprised her with coincidences
that were no such thing.
They had quiet places where they shared treasures.
She marvelled at his words, plans, mysteries, music.
His paintings – above all – his sunsets,
had her standing before them unable to speak.
She thanked him for the eyes to see them.
She was told she had his eyes.
The atmosphere sparked,
there was a charge in the air when he was around–
and he usually was, unless she wandered away
only to wonder why she would do such a foolish thing.
She climbed up on his lap,
snuggled in the crook of his arm,
felt like a chick under his wing.
He held her hand, palm-up in his.
It was a small replica, resting
in the mould of a master craftsman.
He showed her how to make new things, things new.
Previously published at https://gooddadhood.com
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FATHER FIGURES
Not as an Easter Island slabgod
with face turned seaward
or ancient greybeard,
barricaded by dense mist,
or inquisitor with a sentry,
immobile, forbidding entry.
It was as a fisherman, he came
and caught her,
smithereened stereotypes,
reset paradigms.
She turned to him.
He ran to her.
She saw him, and he was
not a monolith.
She looked like him.
He was Dad – agape with arms.
Now she climbs on him,
his small princess, and cuddles up.
His breath is warm.
She sits with him. It’s heavenly.
They share their heart. She takes a pen.
He guides her hands. They co-create.
_________________________________________
PLAN A
Take one sphere, a globe if you like,
and let it hang there, in space, spinning.
Then take another, far less physical.
Mix, effect a genesis.
Take a risk in six days of collision, invasion,
clash, cross-infection, fiery tongues, ash,
Then with consummate grace reach down,
rescue, recover, restore, redeem, renew, rest.
________________________________________
EXPOSURE AND PROXIMITY
Some things sully. I cannot mess with muck and keep hands clean.
Mud clings to feet.I can’t be sure my soles will stay pristine.
It’s all about exposure, mine to mire.
A quick swill may shift the stuff I’ve picked up in the sty
and a father’s cloak and arms will fly around me,
if I return and seek to go up higher
but slinking back to dirt time and again and grinding it well in
demand a deeper cleansing, a shriving for the sin,
a sacrifice, a pyre. Some things sear.
I flap around on stumps of wings from sorties near the flame.
Bedazzled moths are reckless things.
It’s all about proximity, mine to fire.
My hardened heart has scorched me. Like steak that’s overdone,
I’m tough throughout and charred right to the bone.
Who spares the flesh? It’s dire.
Yet there’s another kind of fire which gently warms the heart
where light and heat are both well done and rare,
where hot hands heal and lips desire to stifle unkind words,
submit to coals that cauterise not scar.
Exposure & proximity can be for good or ill.
Fire cruel or pure, can hurt or can inspire.
One from usurper’s lake scalds carelessly through time.
The other’s from love’s source, refining till sublime.
_______________________________________
LEFT TO WRITE
Take my hand and let me lead you past the pickle jars of time,
past the piles of dusty volumes, past the punishment, the crime,
to a ledge that is unworldly, a rock with stunning views
where we can hang out on the brink of sheerest risk, like pen with ink.
There, we’ll drop our baggage tagged predictable and weak
to hold on by our fingertips till nails shriek and break.
Despite the pain, we will be free to tête à tête. That’s synergy.
It’s daring to exist out there but no horizon will compare.
We got so set. Now let’s get set to chop our roots, escape the net.
Not cagebound now but cragbound eaglets, deserving of a better view.
Freed for sweeter slavery, loosed to be caught up anew,
no longer rats, we have no cage. We don’t do stupour, well take the stage.
Spurn fear of failure, compromise, let’s head right out and realise
the great rewards of living scared with gloves removed and knuckles bared.
Hand in hand with running mate (childhood friend, not muse nor fate,
but gift of grace brought down to earth. This is charisma, ours from rebirth.
Since tied up hands become deformed, let’s write with hearts, strangely warmed.
We once chased tails in circles – futile. Now let’s launch out, get centrifugal.
Start to soar, and soar to sing, turning skyward, on the wing.
Neither Gollum now, nor Smeagl, but riding thermals with the eagles.
Copyright: Words by Sharon Larkin
THEN SINGS MY SOUL 