Saturday, March 31, 2007
We are not of the night or of the darkness.' l Thessalonians 5:5
(response to Sunday Scriblings prompt)
He cradles the dark secret
down long flights of steps
deep to his soul's cellar.
There it matures seeded
in a festy fungal bed.
The visits are frequent.
The pleasures piquant.
.....(Cancer cells reveal seductive
.....colours under the lens.)
The cauterizing sear of Light
would quick be death to these delights.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Condition: total loss of breath
Behest: 7th century prophet
Assassin’s absolution: ‘two goats will not butt their heads about her’
Smooth marble Venus
poetry of pleasure
stealer of hearts,
you lost your arms,
souvenirs to advancing hordes.
Wish, oh goddess
for these milder times.
A sharia thief would
only lose her hands.
A Jewish poet fared far worse.
She told the prophet’s tricks in verse:
....There was an old wit named Afak
....who suffered religious attack.
....He irked with his lines
....and might have been fined,
....but instead he was stabbed in the back.
The brave dark ink from off her pen
made red the prophet’s eye.
A man with a knife was promptly dispatched
to offer his curt reply.
Friday, March 23, 2007
tossing all the dirt about.
Down spade in and up spade worm,
among the tangled roots it squirms.
Down spade in and up spade shoe,
mouldy, mangled and unglued.
Down spade in and up spade bone,
one to which the dog was thrown.
Down spade in and up spade sand,
a shifty, squishy strand of land.
Down spade in and up spade clay
deep below the bright blue day.
Down spade in and up spade shock,
my shovel just hit solid rock!
Down spade in and up spade fossil,
imprint of a Rex colossal.
Down spade in and up comes water.
After this its getting hotter.
Down spade in and streaming lava,
for a volcano in Java.
Down spade in, I’m at the centre.
(Not too bad a place for winter.)
Then all the layers come round once more
as I shovel past the core:
.......lava, water, fossil, rock,
.......clay, sand, bone and shoe.
The worms of course are waiting too.
Down spade in and up I come
All grubby in the China sun.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
'...he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove...' Matthew 3:16
Sometimes the dove is lost among the pigeons,
though wingéd hints still glance the hourly grind.
For love of dove I want to ditch 'religion',
and search the pigeon landscape for his signs.
There see a symmetry in bond of friend,
the blessed exchange that's not unlike a dance.
In friendship we observe our destined end,
a parable of our significance
told there to halt the take-for-granted trend.
What better treasure than be friend of God?
If this is worship, teach my heart to bend,
to see his wounded wing and know his love.
When churchy 'worship' somehow Christ would bait,
I'll sing, not to evoke, but celebrate.
(...first go at a sonnet.)
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Some people fled the church from
the finger-waggers in the pews,
shaking their arbitrary 'thou shalt nots'.
Outside the iron bound doors these
refugees drew a deep breath of free air.
Before they exhaled
that same ubiquitous personality type
moved down the street to
social services, public TV and the university.
The new finger-waggers catechise
from admin cathedrals,
church of the politically correct
shaking their revised list
of wash-your-mouth-out offences.
As years stumble on
the old miscreants whisper
"It ain't in the Book!"
and light finds a chink in the iron.
The new moralists
write their own book.