sometimes I jumble words together in a Poem
Poems
jazzing down
HAPPY DAY
a dying husband to his wife
He lies scooped out
His once burly frame emptied;
His breath catches,
Like a falling autumn leaf on a branch …
Soon enough he will tumble down to the dirt
From which he came.
He looks at his beloved,
The best he’s known,
And a smile spreads across his bladed cheeks,
And taking his wife’s hand he squeezes,
The mere pressure of a sparrow’s wing against her:
“Oh darling, He with the pierced hands…”
He stops to cough …
“He with the pierced hands brought us together,
And it’s he who parts us…”
Wheezing and blowing now…
“But with one hand on me and the other on you,
it’s only the distance of his shoulders
That separates us …” and trying to sit up a bit,
“And he will bring us together again, my love”.
And he falls back, like an exhausted wave on the beach.
A stillness descends as if angels have sidled close
And breathing stops and tears fall
Down the wife’s cheeks and love fires up,
Even here, even now. For ever.
It’s a joyful scramble down dune and over
Tiny stones and whirled shells that dig in your feet,
And the massive green calling you,
Its waves beseeching and imploring you
To enter its rolling tussled waves.
​
It’s not too cold - at least after
The ticklish breakwater of your groin,
And shoulders under and head wet at last
You emerge dripping brightly in the sun.
​
And so to swim amidst the knurly billows and surges,
In your element, a free and vital thing,
The vast sea a home, and your shoulders heaving aside
The wet, and your mouth tanging with the salt,
And your feet paddling as your hands cut through the waves.
​
Occasionally you wonder if there might be a creature
Beneath you to grab you and bring you down, down
But that’s a silliness, and you press on enlarged
And disencumbered through the blue deep.
​
You pause to tread water and bob with the breakers,
The beach a distant yellow smear.
​
Deciding that board free surfing would nicely finish the fun,
You dive forward into the curling combers
And you are as happy as Arion with his dolphin rescuers,
And merry contentment settles on you in the breaking sand;
And blood races round your exhilarated flesh,
And you stand up, a bit wobbly in the froth,
But what a time!
How it begins...
Perhaps when the Jews carried God in a box
(Or rather as they knew the grip of everlasting arms)
Or before then even
When Jacob the multicoloured fell into a pit
Or before then even
When old man Abraham left civilised Ur
Or before then even
When in the Garden two found joy in the company of One
Whatever
It’s bigger than all that,
Wider and longer than any horizon,
It was there when the sons of morning sang
It was there when wisdom fashioned and carpentered,
And before ever any continent clashed together in fiery union
Before ever sea bubbled and frothed, rolling in...
Where it started and where it’s going
Ever ancient ever new
Under hill boiling away in subterranean caverns
Or glistening wide sweeping down curving dale
Or dripping slow so slow slow
Or bouncing down boulders in a rocky crevasse
It’s here and it’s gone
Yet faithfully the same - gloriously true in its course.
It leaps and jumps and straddles and sings
It flows and swirls, spills and splashes
You think you have it
but it’s away
Blind Bartimaeus
This patch of grit, of stamped in dirt
Has been mine - and only mine - for years.
No one dare sit where I beg,
And if they try I snarl and spit at them ..
You see there’s good pickings
On the road to Jericho, and here I sit
My blanket draped over my knees to capture the coins.
My eyes are given out, flittering to and fro milkily
As if searching for sight. I hate being blind. Damn the day
Of my blindness. And damn the sighted ones that pass by.
Surprising what you hear sitting there - my ears are just fine-
And I’d heard tales of a prophet from Nazareth,
One who cared for the weak - and I knew I must get to him,
Perhaps he could unstick my gummy eyes.
Long times of people’s sandals trudging by,
And not much to live on..
When I heard drifting through the crowds his name,
The whisper of too much hope: I yelled
“Son of David have mercy on me”.
Oh I knew my Scripture... when Messiah came
Joy would fall from the trees, the lame would dance,
The deaf’s ears are unplugged and for the blind - dear God -
Sight! I cried out all the more, my voice insistent above the clamour,
And devoid of embarrassment.
He stopped.
Actually stopped for me.
Stood still
For me.
I scrambled to my feet at his kind invitation,
My warm rug discarded and its hidden coins clattering and rolling
Around the dirt.
His voice is the best I have ever heard:
Resonant, tender, calm, perhaps with a smile in it,
But one to strip the bark off trees and send lightning
Flashing and shimmering around your feet,
A voice that could quiet a grizzling infant instantly,
But wake the dead. He, he the Son of David
Asked me what I wanted.
And all my yearning for sight welled up in me,
Unowned pain and bitter regret propelling my words
Like a ball of phlegm- “I want to see, I want to see!”
Tears long denied pushed their watery way through my blank eyes.
“ Go your faith has healed you.”
And like long shut doors to secret dwellings suddenly popping open,
And peeling back, my eyes cleared, light burning in,
shapes and colours detected, And oh the perfect joy!
The first man I ever saw was Jesus...and he was smiling, delighted for me,
And I follow him to this day
Homeless man
Lying folded up on the step of Lloyd’s bank,
Thrown away, discarded waste,
His face etched with weary suspicion
Though his dark bruised eyes were distant pools of longing -
He couldn’t remember being warm. The soles
Of his shoes flapped over like unsightly tongues,
And by his side his roll up, which once may have been
Orange. Cold rain chilled his dirty body.
He fell asleep, his head angled down on his chest,
As blunt as any “Do not disturb” sign on some swanky hotel
Door. The rain stopped.
Yet this son of Adam became aware of drops
Falling on his matted beard, warm tears
Diving down a curate’s face, who’d stopped to help and pray and -
The homeless man was washed by Mercy.
St austell
Lest we forget
For Holocaust Memorial
The sky is drained of all colour,
And all lies withered, a greyness hanging over us,
And we walk over the ashes of Abraham’s children,
The very grit of their bodies lodged in the soles of our shoes.
Birds don’t sing here in this horrible silence,
Nature itself revolted by industrial genocide,
Deadly detritus of skin, hair and teeth mock our mortality,
And vulnerable children’s shoes piled high condemn
Our easy empty lives stripped of such suffering.
Ghastly creatures starved and naked crowd our minds,
The life let out of them bled dry of hope,
As pushed and shoved to take their murdering shower
They shuffle, so much cattle for the slaughter.
HaShem yerachem.
When the wind blows
when the wind blows, really blows,
and the sea catches at the feathery hedge of our back garden,
our brave little house
on the edge of the cliff
is like a brigantine,
set to sail the oceans.
walls mutter and moan in the gusty blows,
floorboards creek and shriek,
shutters chirp and chirr,
we are about to venture across the globe,
and plough the deep,
and see the Lord’s wonders writ large.
the wind howls and the house yelps,
seeking to be free of its constraints -
a storm is coming and will our haven hold?
from each window the sea’s swelling,
rolling under and flashing white spume sprayed back,
rolling in, swirling, whirling, wheeling waves,
cracking the cliff face, rushing wet,
and round our house the wind curls and sprawls,
stirring up and jumbling the resistant wood -
it’s going to be a long night.
for my grandchildren
when at three months you open your eyes wide in wonder,
and see what a jolly big universe this is, with so much to catch up on,
i’d like to linger there with you and laugh…
but in the meantime, while you are on my lap,
i shall lower you down to my shinbone
so that you are upside down and you can see this merry world
the right way up -
then you will see clusters of stars like wildflowers growing
in the dark soil of the sky,
you will see puffed up clouds surrounding you like pillowed mountains,
and above all, you will see men and women and children
held fiercely and kept kindly,
gripped by the marvellous mercy of God.
enjoy!
Christmas
Advent always starts in the dark
but
Remember the pained cries of a labouring mother
A baby born, who once lobbed whirling
Galaxies into space, but now sucks his fill at Mary’s breast;
This one baby the Word made flesh
And the very air thrumming with angels
And joy bouncing off the Bethlehem hills.
No matter how drear the dark gets
Life begins all over again here behind this pub
In some provincial backwater; and God
Is someone you can walk to across fields.
The Light has dawned.
Watendlath
up i’ve come to the ridge and i’m puffing now,
and i look down at the cupped rock-strewn slopes,
and the dark smudge of a tarn,
a blue black bruise amidst the grass from here.
scuttling and scramble down, restless for home,
tarn shivering, rippling, deep, so deep,
who knows what lurks there
with the white capped coots and the secret trout?
sturdy herdwicks chomp
scattered white lumps
and away, away over there - see!
like a sinewy black cat’s tail
the river folds and wraps itself around the curving valley,
a swirl of liveliness.
Having a bath with an unexpected person
the banks are muddied by penitents
waiting for the washing
and the wild hairy prophet calling for the next
to be dunked and one comes glad
to be numbered with the transgressors
and seeking a bath. how can this be?
to fulfil all that is right in the heart of God.
and so among the dejects rejects abused misused
the forsaken mistaken wretched losers
the lusty angry liars and haughty
comes one prepared
to stand up for them, one of them
to fulfil all that is right in the heart of God.
and paradise cannot help itself and Father and Spirit
tumble out of heaven keen to join the bathers,
as if this is exactly where you’d expect God to be,
as if this is always what God has been about
and we never knew till one unexpected came for
Baptism.
Jazzing Down
it’s late and i’m on the A30, Cornwall calling
Kernow creating hope under
wider warmer skies.
the A30 bends and slopes
westering down
it’s quiet and i’m coming home.
no radio on but i have jazz in my head, lining out, smooth
Stan Getz mellow and slow and
i’m following each flight of rasped reed,
listening for the silences, sultry,
i’m in the mood for sax.
along the A30 slipping down, Cornwall calling,
wherever i go wherever i am
i hear its seductive realignment
refocusing redirecting renewing
and along the A30 life grows
fresher and better at each new corner and each new Getz solo
i’m riding with the warm tone
all the notes home
Amazing
Love
Deeper than my doom he dived
Flung far into the outer reaches of my rebellion
Undressing, down and down he came,
Looking for the bleating sheep that first belonged
And there enfleshed and bloodied
He felt my raw thirst, he lived my damage.
I have no idea how or why - why? Why?
But held to his account my profligate debts,
My secret lusts and treasured pride,
My boiling temper and my heart-squeezing worry,
My looking everywhere but him
(From whom all good comes)
He took them all, paid then all, freed me of all.
As he did so his face changed, and his heart broke,
His back gashed and opened like a ploughed field,
And nailed down, stuck to wood, a Roman trophy,
He bore my muck and lost his brightness.
He loved the hell out of me.
And then, shaking off the shackles of death
Robbed the grave of its terrors
Alive with all goodness
He came for me
“The Son of God who loved me
And gave himself for me.”
Caradoc
Part time saintly but mostly grumpy
Old Caradoc was a miserable git
He felt left behind about the same time
The dinosaurs stopped stomping around
All was so quick these days so newly invented
So brand up to date he felt giddy
He missed the slow growth of souls
The gradual unveiling of sanctity
The way humans used to become over months and years
Before they looked all raddled and buzzed up.
Bah! And reaching for his fiddle
And the consolation of catgut, he bowed a tune
That hung over the village he looked upon
Like magic perhaps like grace
Netting all into an embracing mystery
A silken thread of tunes that arched over homes
A flung down wish on all who lived there.
Part time saintly but mostly grumpy
Old Caradoc was a miserable git.
He felt out of place in this loin-fired age
Where lust was ridden as a man might his bike,
Uncommented on, and everything in the open:
God knows what happened behind closed doors!
And sighing the deepest of resigned groans
He prays for the blockheads and hardhearts below
Hoping his feeble prayers might somehow
Lasso the benighted folk to grace
That his devout (sort of) longings might lariat
Them home, and a rescued bunch could at least survive.
Part time saintly but mostly grumpy
Old Caradoc was a miserable git
Now he was partial to a pint or three
And no harm ever came to him from a dram
but dear heavens, the stuff put away today
Or snorted and sniffed up or needled in or gulped down
Made sailors appear as nuns on a temperance do
And no dignity left chucking up in the gutters
Wrecked and their livers black as the earl of hell’s waistcoat:
Oh that the soft rain would fall and wash the filth away
Oh that the tender drenching would never stop
Till all was clean and bright as a new sacrament
And Caradoc laid one more tune down (his best) for he could pray
No more, and pitched the music to drape over them
A covering, in and out of doors and windows,
Till underneath the fiddle’s soaring notes, a blanket was stitched,
Where all could be safe.
Substantial
The crumble of bread
And the bite of the wine
The heft of an open Bible
God’s truth unfurled
Fresh Baptism water newly uniting
Covenant-sealing
Beauty baffling creation
And the breath held in wonder
Church buildings made holy
By faith filled stuttering prayers
Folded meadows rounded
Rivers’ meandering light
A labrador’s undying affection
In brown eyes deeper than myth
And boys three rollicking gladly
Couldn’t be prouder
The sea, the sea,
( sounds more romantic in Greek)
Its rolling waves calling
All this I know
And oaks grown for Nelson’s navy
The love of a graced Woman
For forty kind years -
God is good.
​
There will be more...
Liberation
I was Legion Legion Legion
Living among the dead
Cutting and slashing at my flesh
Pulling apart chains
As if blades of grass
Wearing nothing
But my filth and stink and matted blood
I’d howl as if many wolves lived in me
And couldn’t get out
No matter how much they wanted to
Until one glorious day
A boat came
And from it one walked without fear
I ran at him to attack and hit and bite
To send him away from my raw naked shame
And I screamed at the intrusion of light
All within me hollered to scarper
Not to let him unpossess me
And I yelled and screamed and bawled and shrieked
I bared my sharpened teeth and made sure he smelt
My fetid breath, I wanted to gnaw him
Never mercy like his I tell you
Never power and love so forceful
Never truth so exposing
Or healing so complete
As 2000 pigs squealed and tumbled over rocks
In a flurry and a fall over fall over fall, turning,
And drowned.
And in that instant Immediately
The wolves were gone, Legion vanished,
And I sat bewildered in my nakedness
Feeling something I hadn’t known for years -
Freedom and contentment - settling on me
Like a merry intoxication.
The fearless one called for a robe to cover me
And I sat dressed before my Lord in my right mind.
Oh how I wanted to go with him
Like a faithful puppy
But he sent me home to my family
And that didn’t go well at first
Until I showed them my scars.
At times at night before I lock up
I stand on the drive and quieten myself
And then it comes, whispered into the wind,
The distant susurrations of the sea on the land,
Swishing intimations, far off tumblings,,
Catching me, holding me still.
​
In another place I could have gone out
And merely heard the mad thumping of the M25 -
The road to Hell Chris Rea called it -
Circulating frustration, close-by menaced rumblings.
I know which one I prefer...
​
Here a daily marvel holds me
The wonder of the ocean
Day in night out moon timed for centuries thus,
And I feel both small and grateful.