The Prison Prayer Group

Not monks, but monk-like in austerity
And fast enclosed within these fearful walls,
They pray with fervoured sprirituality,
Seeking God‘s forgiveness of their falls.

Heads bowed and silent I can hear their prayers
And know their wretchedness and deep despairs.

The circle meets and greets and prays as one,
The Christian and the Jew, respectful all
Of one another’s different beliefs
Reading and discussing scripture's call.

Heads bowed, yet joyful for they know each cares
For other, here united in their prayers.

In song they also raise their praise to God,
And heed th' instruction that the leader gives.
In this way they can reach for good
And find the God who every sin forgives.

For such as these the Saviour gave His all;
To rescue us from an eternal fall.

There is no prison for the faith-freed soul,
No bars to hold the spirit’s heavenward leap;
What once was broken has now been made whole
And soars to heaven from the darkest deep.

Yan, Tan, Tethera

Yan, Tan, Tethera… the shepherd counts his sheep;
I wonder, as he counts them, does he ever fall asleep?
The woolly flock, in rank and file a military disgrace,
Flee from the friendly shepherd in a crazy, ram-led, race.

I wonder does the shepherd ever wonder of his flock
If they really understand that they’re an edible kind of stock.
Or do they graze unwitting of their butcher’s destination,
That their legs will soon be dinner for a hungry human nation.

They’re the dumbest kind of creature and yet they have their charm
As they move in wavelike motion across the hilly farm.
The wonder is the pasture on the slopes will turn to meat
(Or some creamy dairy product: milk or cheese) for us to eat.

Life for the sheep is simple though it has its share of threats:
The winter’s bite at lambing; the fox or wolf that sets
Its hungry sights on lambs and sheep that, heedless, carry on,
Leaving safety to the shepherd or to the farmer’s gun.

I sit and think on these things as the dish comes to the table,
The mint sauce on the sideboard – that’s not too execrable.
For th’ambition of the farmer with the lonely shepherd’s aid
Is to fatten them for slaughter – then the table's truly laid!

The head in the window

I sat in the car whilst it sat in the window
And stared down at us in the street
Its glassy eyed look reflected the sun's glow
Through the glass of its window ledge seat.

The head was of paper, in fact, papier-mache,
Pink painted to look just like skin.
I wonder, in this street, if there is some cachet
In windows with heads sitting in.

It's a quite eery feeling to see that head peering
And gauging street life as it looks.
Is each person and vehicle as they're appearing
Recorded in his secret books?

Or does he just sit and secretly ponder
Philosophical thoughts on this place?
Of matters like this I can only wonder
As I stare at his motionless face.

Why was he made and who was it made him?
I don't suppose I'll ever know.
Such things can be planned or result from some whim:
I suppose it will always be so.

It's amazing that such a pink model head
Arouses in me so much thought;
My queries unanswered even by the well-read
On this vision that I never sought.

So farewell paper head, now in verse made immortal -
You'd think I might choose different theme.
But in truth I came out by some very strange portal
Where nothing was quite what it seemed.



We had driven to visit someone in Park Avenue, Hull and I parked just outside the building where she resided. As I switched off, my wife drew my attention to a papier mache model head in an upstairs window peering out into the street. She said it had given her a start as she noticed it and for a moment thought it might be a real person. The eyes were open and large, white against the pink of the face. I decided to write a line or two about it as we wondered what its history was. The question will never, I guess, be answered.

Sunday rain

Sunday morning. Come awake and welcome this new day
The bedclothes thrown, the curtain tweaked but all we see is rain.
The gutters run, the pools are formed, the mud grows from the clay
Yesterday we had such sun - now we have rain again.

Why is it always Sunday that the sky seems made of lead?
Why do we watch the window where the the raindrops form a trail?
And if you think about it, why are we out of bed?
We could watch from on our pillows and see every detail.

Sunday is the day when we just want to take a walk,
Bathed by the sun, enjoying all of nature's song.
On Sunday we could sit outside and drink our wine and talk,
Enjoying garden flowers, knowing it's where we belong.

But the problem we encounter is the rain that falls and falls
Preventing us from going to the countryside to stroll.
So the sun and birds and flowers that to our spirit calls
Are lost and hidden from us leaving just a barren soul.

Lord, I know the rain is needed to help the plants and flowers
But does it really need to fall on Sundays and for hours.
I'll keep on looking out until the sun is breaking through
And then I'll take a country walk and maybe I'll take you!

Wasps that sting

"Do they have a purpose that helps the world go round?"
I wonder, as I dodge the buzzing yellow menace.
His football coloured thorax and menacing buzz sound
Warn us of the danger that is difficult to efface!

These hornet coloured insects always spoil our summer walks
Through the fields and woodland up-slopes where we lay our picnic sheet.
Then out come cakes and goodies, and drinks and popping corks
But the dreaded wasp appears then, for he knows what's good to eat!

We swat and wave and duck and dive, and run and leave our food.
Then the striped beasts settle on it, for they love the thing that's sweet.
Meanwhile we ponder how we can recover what is good,
But this horde of buzzing insects has caused us to retreat.

And if we stay in that place to get back what is ours,
Be sure the little devils will attack us with their sting.
Then swellings, pain and misery will blind us from the flowers
Of a day turned really hateful, though its beauty tries to sing.

The song has turned to discord and the buzz is all that's left
On this brilliant summer's day. We admit dreadful defeat!
The food has been abandoned - of our picnic we're bereft.
And there's nothing of our picnic that's available to eat!

Oh, dreadful, poisonous, monsters; you awful insect horde.
You're the bane of summer's beauty, the destruction of delight.
You buzzing yellow perils; I really can't afford
To hang around when you're about, you're really such a fright!

Friday greeting

May Friday be the best of days;
May rain be damned! And may sun's rays
Shine on you. May the words one says
Greet you with summer's roundelays!

Governments are good!!!

"Governments are good," I hear them all say,
But I am not sure that that's the real truth,
For governments seem to have their own way
Regardless of needs of old or of youth.
They make great decisions on "people's behalf;"
"It's the right thing to do," they contend.
"Right thing," I think, "Now there's a real laugh
They just do it because it's the trend."

"Politics are good," they then will insist
Trying to tell us that they're different.
Socialist or Tory, they each will resist
The others way of thinking. I do so resent
The strongest polemics that they both employ,
Pretending that they hold the only good way;
But all this will pass at last - Oh, what joy!
When governments collapse on the great judgment day.

On Saturday, 12th June 2010, we joined eight other Christians for a prayer walk at Spurn Point.   The day was fine although at the beginning of the afternoon a large and heavy black cloud threatened to reverse our fortunes!

For a variety of reasons but mainly because of pressures of time and other engagements in the morning we were unable to join the party at the beginning of the walk from Kilnsea.   Instead we drove down the peninsula and joined them at the car park.   They were already there, enjoying a break and a drink, when we arrived.   We set off towards the point pausing at the lifeboat station for our first prayer and reading.   We prayed for all those who worked to save the lives of others, sometimes in difficult and dangerous situations.

From there we proceeded up over the dunes to the old wartime bunkers where we pause for more prayer recognising how nature in her own time reclaims territory previously occupied by man.   The continuation of the divine creative process was everywhere to be seen.

Then we moved onwards to a high point where we had views over the sea and beach.   A hawk flew into the wind soaring with  its straight tale and wide pinions.   We later confirmed our identification of it as a marsh harrier.

Another stopping place was in a quiet glade amongst the shrubs and undergrowth.   For a few moments we enjoyed the complete silence which only allowed gentle bird song, the soothing movement of the sea on the beach and the calm sound of the breeze in the branches.   Somehow the divine presence seemed very obvious at this moment confirming the mystical experience of inner silence experienced by contemplatives.

As we moved northwards up the sea side beach we spotted a seal in the water and were able to enjoy its inquisitive looking from side to side as if to determine what these invaders of its territory were up to.   By the lighthouse we paused for further prayer.   Before we came together, however, we were much taken by moth caterpillars which invade the point at this time each year, infesting the buck thorn and other plants and some of which were sunning themselves on the lighthouse walls.   These caterpillars can be dangerous to humans causing rashes, allergies and breathing problems.   They are best completely avoided!

Next we found a quiet and relatively sheltered spot on the river side for a break and food, recalling how, after his resurrection the Lord shared bread and fish with His disciples on the shores of Lake Galilee.   Unfortunately as we ate and later prayed the tide was coming in.   By the time we finished we found we were cut off by the waters.   Undaunted we scrambled on to the sea wall, helping each other according to our relative mobility or otherwise.   A walk along the wall soon brought us back to the car park.   By this time we were well into the evening but the sun still had plenty of heat in it.

As we drove back up the road to Kilnsea we spotted a fox crossing the road.   It paused briefly to look at the car displaying the bird it was holding in its jaws - we were not able to identify what kind of a bird it was.   Then the animal slipped away into the bushes and we could see it no more.

Back to Kilnsea then where we used the toilets in the Crown and Anchor hostelry before having a welcome cold drink sitting outside, watching the activity  in the estuary.   Finally we arrived home at about eight o'clock tired but exhilarated by a time with fellow Christians, friends old and new, and with God.   We felt He had rewarded us with some wonderful sightings of wildlife and a real sense of His presence in creation.

Gaudete Deum, apud omnibus creatoribus!

Spring song

The golden trumpet blows its song of spring
In silence, crying for the voice to bring
The early warmth of blossom, winter's end;
For snow and fog and hail from now offend.
Now only softest greens will be allowed
And hosts of daffodils - a Wordsworth crowd!

Soft pinks and whites of budding cherry flowers
And apples too in leafy orchard bowers
Provide the focus for an insect crowd
To pollinate: thus might they be endowed
With many a fruit for autumn's rich delight.
Yet wait! for there might still be frost at night!

And now the birds begin to sing their songs
To wake the morning and declare the throng
Of leaf and flower and insects now returned.
The new year courtship, many a lover spurned -
But others in their feathered finery have won:
Mating, nest building and joy as life's begun.

The warmth of early sunshine and the sound
Of myriad life awakening; now is found
The early budding cowslip and primrose
Which from the meadow grass quickly rose.
I love the sense of new awakening life
And end of winter's cold and stormy strife.

Beach farewell

We walked a while in silence on a beach set hard,

The ocean sleeping gently ‘neath the sky’s cloud smile,

Darkening the horizon, in an evening quite unstarred
And moonless.   We walked unspeaking many a mile.

Though there was much to talk about we left it all unsaid;

The wheeling of the knots at dusk,  the curlew’s cry -

We let the evening talk for us, attending it instead.

And as the evening talked on it spoke our last goodbye.

And now the years have mostly passed but I remember still
The years we walked together on the sandy beach of life.
The sea was often gentle, though it sometimes crashed until
We'd had enough of trouble, and we'd had enough of strife.


I wonder if remembrance is a gift of God,
Or maybe it's old Satan's way of building up our guilt,
Searching out our conscience and giving it a prod:
Stilettoing bad memories, to reach right to the hilt.


But I would rather dwell on all the happy times and good,
The smiling and the holding, the gently pleasing word.
For life's too short to dig up dirt to drown us in its mud.
The beach of life speaks out to us and everything is heard!

My city

I used to recognize this place.
I knew its size, its colour, face;
I knew the way the traffic blew:
The buses, cars and cycles too.

It was a place that lay, quite flat,
So cyclists in abundance went
Their to's and fro's, forwards and back,
In factories and docks descent

In teaming hundreds; sometimes more
Would cycle to their factory floor.
Blue collars in abundance then;
Now there are fewer working men.

On Hessle Road wives once would wait
Their men's return, their trawlers' fate;
But those for whom fish filled their dreams,
Are cast adrift in planners' schemes.

They ripped the heart from docks, and more,
They tore up many a factory floor.
Now concrete towers and malls abound,
Groceries traded out of town -
In supermarkets!

The working docks are now filled in
Providing parks and pretty places.
One's a marina full of boats,
The leisure of the one who gloats

At what his soft-earned riches bought;
While for the many work is sought
In vain and mean, demeaning dole.
This was my town; they took its soul!

What is love

"Love is the greatest thing," the poet said;
But I looked back at him and shook my head.
"Love?" I questioned.   "What is love?" I asked.
He looked at me.   His look seemed quite perplexed.

"Why, love," he answered, "Is the heart of man,
Seeking what he most desires where'er he can;
And caring for this thing beyond himself,
Regardless of its state, its poverty or health."

"Such love is what can make a life complete,
Fulfilment of the very heart of man.
Without it there is nothing.   I repeat, 
Love is enough.  It ends as it began."

I doubted and remained still unconvinced;
His argument had no effect on me.
"It seems," I answered, "That you are entranced
And blinded to the things you will not see."

"For love," I said, "is selfish in its aims,
Seeking only what it can possess;
And making too its own egotist claims
On what it says it loves.   This is distress!"

"Not so," the artist then claimed in reply.
The sage added his own answer as well.
"Love only tries to tell us of the why,
The how and what; love really can be hell."

And he expanded on this thought awhile:
"There's hurt in love, rejection, bitter pain,
That can be borne with gentleness and smile,
Knowing at the last it will bring gain."


"The love that dies upon the cross is such;
It carries in itself another's wound.
I warrant that this love will gain so much
As in the world has never yet been found."

I left and spent my time in deepest thought,
Pondering their replies, amazed at what they said;
For I had learned of love which souls had bought
Restoring man to God where Love had bled.


And gazing at an image of the crucified,
I wept for love of the Divine here nailed.
I knew it was for me that He had died,
To pay my debts and gain what God entailed.


This is the only Love.   All others fade and die.
I wish to love like this, to give my life as well.
To share this Love with all I meet, is my reply,
Sharing with them the road away from hell.

Bethlehem

Hills and sheep lie quiet in the depths of dark,
Shepherd watched the woolly wealth of nations.
Their guardians sit and wonder at the night
So filled with stars and silence.   In the distance light
Flickers, in this town of bread and census taking.

A song of songs now fills their hearts, their minds, their ears
And lights flash vivid through their darkness and their fears.

Glorias are sung; angelic peace is prophesied -
O wondrous heavenly night!   God's surely not denied!

Town-wards the shepherds travel, leaving flocks alone
(Though vulnerable lambs are cared for and still travel
In their securing arms), towards salvation's birth.
A maiden and a carpenter are here where cattle sleep.
A tiny babe seeks suckle from a virgin breast
And, wondering at this marvel, shepherds kneel and gaze
On Him whom Heaven proclaimed their Saviour and their peace.

A stable?   Surely God would choose a palace for His Son?
And yet this stable's Heaven itself when all is done.

The long lost garden

Remembering the beauty of a long lost garden,
Set between rivers and surrounded by waters;
Breezes to soften and sun's heat to harden
The land which He recovered and bought us.

Paradise lost and now rediscovered,
A garden where fruit trees were once forbidden;
An edict broken, a covenant severed,
But now a Lord to walk with, no longer hidden.

Clouds black the sky, the temple veil's broken;
Skull hill bears crosses where the dead will die.
Here is beginning's end which so long was spoken -
Now all creation waits patient for reply.

A stone is moved; the garden blooms once more.
The sun is risen, the glorious day has dawned.
Lost paradise regained now, Heaven is ours again.
Man's salvation paid for and we are re-born.

There is a sound...

There is a sound, a sound of gentleness,
From breathy flute and gently plucked harp strings;
There is a voice, a voice of peacefulness
Which, in the silence of my heart, now sings.

There is a touch, a healing touch I sense
Upon my heart, within my soul as well;
A hand divine, forgiving all my sins
And reaching out to guide me from my hell.

There is a cross, of punishment and shame,
The shame is mine, not His; He dies for me.
He hangs in anguish as He bears my blame
And with His blood spilt here, He's paid my fee.

There is a prayer within my silent heart,
A prayer of Hope, a song of praise and love;
In that same silence I have found my part,
As now He leads me to my home above.

Golden years

Can it be fifty that we celebrate:
Where have the years gone?   What's been achieved?
Life speeds into the future with such haste
And only memories now can be believed.

Memories of good, some maybe less;
Memories we will treasure nonetheless.

The people we have known, the summer breaks,
The Christmases and birthdays, more to come.
Life is a tasty richness like the cakes
We shared, the butter, flour, fruit and rum.

The children whom we knew and now are grown
The older friends of yesteryear. now gone,
The good deeds done, and maybe wild oats sown,
All are the stuff of life, the things we've done.

And yet the years ahead hold more and more
Of God's good gifts to help us on our way;
Each year that passes brings another door
Which opened, leads us to a newer day.

So go, my child, into the years ahead,
May all our blessings help you on your way.
May God go with you and, when done and said,
Bless you especially on this golden day!

The bedbug's song

I am a bedbug; I come out at night
Wherever I find you I'll give you a bite
On your ankle or wrist, your elbow, your knee
And the blood that I suck will be so good for me!

You'll not know I'm there - you'll be fast asleep;
When you're silent I'll crawl out on you and I'll creep.
I'll drink and I'll suck until morning is nigh
When, sated with blood, I'll retire to my lie.

And there I will sleep throughout all of the day,
Swollen and round with your blood - that's my way!
Whilst you'll wake up and yawn and you'll noisily stretch
Till, feeling the itch of my bites, you will scratch.

"It's bedbugs," your mother will cry out distraught;
She'll shiver and scream and she'll cry at the thought.
Then she'll try to dislodge me and all of my kin,
But the next night I'm still there and after your skin.

Again I'll creep out and crawl right to your place;
Maybe this time I'll try for the blood in your face!
Ha! Ha! Ha!   Ho! Ho! Ho!   Ha! Ha! and He! He!
Everyone fears the bedbug and that bedbug's me!

Home

There are elephants parading on the plains of Serengeti
And in the Himalayas there are those who seek the Yeti;
But I sit by an ocean and watch the moon arise
Through the dark and curtained heavens of the cloudy English skies.

There are romance boats a-sailing across the China seas,
And picturesque tall clipper ships which carry Indies teas;
But I sit by a fireside and watch the glowing embers
As the winter grows much wilder through October to December.

There were days I went off chasing after wild and youthful dreams,
But I very soon discovered that nothing's what it seems;
Now I sit and search my memories and know I'll never find
The answers to those questions which used to vex my mind.

I'm settled now to quietness and harbour no regrets;
My life now lacks adventures but it's good as ever gets.
Nothing bothers me now and nothing drives me on
To wild adventured travelling - that part of life is done.

I've found my own Utopia, my long sought Shangri-la
In a little smoky cottage near the harbour by the bar.
Here I sit and read my memories and wait for her to come
To the place where we have settled, the place we call our home.

The protested hunt

The huntsman galloped over the hill,
Chasing his prey as huntsmen will;
Over the hill and into the wood
Where the fox had hidden as best he could.

The fox lay just as still as could be
And peeped to see what he might see;
He heard the horse as it snorted its breath
And he felt the cold, cold wind of death.

The hounds bayed out their dreadful cry
As storm clouds filled the morning sky;
The beasts had found the fox's scent -
They knew their task was imminent.

And they cried their frightful cry of doom
Till the fox, heart beating, flicked his broom
And breaking cover began to chase
Over the hill in a life and death race.

The huntsman blew a victory blast
As he saw the flash of the fox go past.
Then the hounds picked up their hunting pace
As they joined in the fox's fright-filled race.

But what is this?   From a nearby hedge
Appears a protester carrying his badge.
It says: "Long live the fox and damn the rest."
He waved his board at the humtsman's chest.

The horse reared up and the rider fell
And rolled into mud in the ditch as well.
The horse ran off in its fear and sweat.
It began to rain as the hunt was upset!

So what with the chaos of this event,
The hunt wasn't quite as the hunter's intent.
The fox escaped in the wind and the rain
To return to its den where he's safe again.

The huntsman, angry, returned back home
Where he found his horse returned from its roam.
He dressed his wounds, his bruises and aches
But he'll ride again, for he loves the stakes.

How he cursed the man who would save the fox,
And spoil his fun and that of his dogs.
He complained and grumbled to friends that night,
"The hunt," he declared, "is the countryman's right!"

But maybe the fox has a different view
That this is his country to live in, too,
Where he hunts the rabbit and chases the hare;
It's his right in the wind and the country air.

The countryside beckons to all and sustains
All types of life in the sun and the rain.
Should the hunt be allowed?   They will long debate
The merits of this from the morn till late.

Meanwhile the fox does what foxes do,
Hunting to feed his family brood;
While men rant on as to whether they should,
And continue to fight on the edge of the wood!