Thursday, April 19, 2018

Eclipsed

You had feared it coming
for a long time;
that orbit, that inevitable intersection
where the cold dead moon
eclipsed the sun
and stole its warmth away.

And now,

by some unholy jinxing
of celestial mechanics,
the moon has parked
its darkness in your light,
forever freezing you
in black perpetual night.

Or so it seems.

And yet the sun,
resiliently fierce,
is burning still
with strength to melt
the darkness
(if you cease to trail the shadows
of the moon).

It is not your choices that assail you
but your fears.
To face the light again will hurt your eyes,
will smart your skin,
will dent your armoured pride.

But pain is all around us
all the time, on every side,
and what you currently embrace
is scarcely joy.

The trick is in the choosing;
in surrendering yourself
to hurt that makes you whole
instead of hurt
that harms.

The cold, dead, moon is on the move
and if you cease to chase its shadow stain,
the light might, 

surely, 
shine again.





Monday, April 16, 2018

Bat

Night. 

A cone of light 
around a solitary lamp 
in a solitary lane. 

Arcing in and out  
of brightness,
leather wings 
in lazy orbits fly;
flitting, twisting, tumbling 
like a moth maypoling 
round the lamp post light.   

Unseen gravities perturb 
the orbit of its flight 
but circling still it comes 
and I stand sprayed with ultrasound. 

A flood of frequencies 
too high for me to hear
wash over me. 

I wonder what I look like;
I wonder at the pictures 
that they see.

God drawn near

Whenever darkness dims
the hope of health
and happiness becomes
mere memory
of distant days;
be still and in 
the stillness
stop to hear 
the deep affection 
of the whispered 
grace of God 
draw near.

Whatever 
twists and turns 
your journey takes
however hard
or high the stakes
there is a place 
of poise and peace
where fear can fade
and noise can cease.
and you can be a nesting place
for God drawn near.

This is a reason
not to fear.

  

Friday, April 06, 2018

Rudderless

It is an odd feeling
but unexpectedly exhilirating;
an end of emotion, a distant detachment.

I have tried until I'm tired of trying.
I have given till the well ran dry
but nothing is enough
and still the failings cast their shadows
and eclipse the many things
that might be rightly praised.

So, far from the land 
and far from landmarks I once knew,
I wait some changing in the wind
to catch the fabric of these worn and tattered sails
and start to fill them once again.

Who can tell where winds will blow?
Who can tell where I will end, 
so rudderless before the storm?

For a change

Maybe I talked too much.
Maybe I was too greedy, gathering up
the little silences and filling them
with anecdotes and observtions.
Maybe I should have listened more.

But I did enjoy coming alive,
feeling the somersault of metaphor
and simile tumbling and twisting as I 
snatched at ways to describe the
wonder of this life.

And I enjoyed the juxtaposition;
speaking of our every atom being the 
'dust of exploded stars'
as cold wet rain drifted down
from dark, damp skies.

I'm sorry if you found yourself wondering
where in the acres of monologue
you might plant your own 
well grounded wisdom.

Next time, if there is 
a next time after this time,
you can sow the seeds of conversation.

I will attempt to water them
with silent and attentive listening.
For a change.

Thursday, April 05, 2018

Night sailing

I have been sailing 
through a night of dreams
with a high wind
at the mast of my soul.

The ship of my emotions
tossed and heaved
through a maelstrom of memories; 
the deep swell of insecurity 
whipped to a white spume of spray.

Then I woke 
and the only waves 
were the ruffle of bedsheets;  
the only swell the rhythms of breath but
the rumble of the storm still
echoed in my head.

The morning sun glistened 
off the beads on the window,
a galaxy of water droplets, pure as light,
that might have been the morning dew
or might have been 
the stinging salt spray 
from the land
of distant dreams.

False pretences

Sometimes I surprise myself.
Unfamiliar love and grace outpour;
a kindly tide will rise and,
for a moment,
overtop my self-protective walls
to lap a life nearby.

"Where did that come from?" I ask, 
knowing how dry and parched my inner world can be.

Awkwardly, I stumble 
at the false pretence, preferring
not to knowingly deceive.
Please don't believe me to be 
better than I am...

And yet, some far off glimmer of a hope ignites.
Perhaps a metamorphosis of mind 
and heart and soul is not as
silly as it seems.

Perhaps my false pretences 
could be latent truths to nurture;
truths to grasp, 
truths to grow
beyond my wildest dreams.

Barton Clay

I misjudged.
The tide was higher than I hoped
and the sharp black teeth 
of the long-dead sharks
were underneath the waters
of an ocean somewhat colder
than the one in which 
they used to swim.

But this was a beach
and on a beach there's
never nothing you can do.

So we found the thick 
black clay amenable
to our imagination
and in the synergy 
of hand and inner eye
an Easter Island bestiary began.

Father and son became 
playmates and architects, 
advisors, competitors.

Four hours later 
we left the beach.
Sand and clay still clung;
cloying to our clothes and hands,

and we, in turn, left something
of our playful spirits clinging there,
captured in clay effigies
of comic elegance
and style.

A fair exchange that,
even now, 
can make me smile.