Seashore

Sand stretches as far as the squint eye can see;
And here is the sea in its striking and beating,
Tiding its way until breathless it climbs
No further.

The eternal motion; yet totally motionless,
Onwards it rolls and it stretches, the ocean
Of hope, death and all life's creation:
Our mother.

The wetness, the winging, the spraying, the crying,
The soaring and winging, the living and dying,
The wind surge, the roaring, the screaming, the sighing:
Forever.

The birds on the waves, on the wing, on the sand,
The crashing of waves as they reach for the land,
The beauty of fury, the death of the bland.
All over.

Love is here present - but violent as death;
Her breeze's soft kiss becomes gale's foulest breath;
The blue azured sky is the storm's closest kith,
Whenever.

The God of creation is present right here
Where the birth of the process announces each year.
Hear the whirling and screaming of gulls in their fear,
Forever.

Shine, Light

Shine light and shine forever in the dark;
Cast light where'er you can, cast light
Into the farthest corners of the night's
Dark depths where there's no light to shine.

Death will come to end the dreadful pain
To take the light of life from now
Rekindling it in vast eternity.
Pain has no dread when it is gone in death.

Light, lead on and leading, lead us where
Your glory shines into eternity
And in that Light lives all infinity
Where Love will lead us into Light.

Bubbles

Bubbles grow on spume topped waves,

Crashing down towards the beach below,

Or, blown by bubble-gum chewing kids

Splattering their cheeks within the burst,

Or sudsing the machine wash as it spins

Splashing soapy cleansing to the clothes.

These are the bubbles of our lives, here now

Then gone within a moment, burst forever.

Whether we believe or doubt it matters not,

But life is one great bubble of its own.

It starts to burst from that first day it's blown

First day at school

My first day at school

I remember as a wondering child -

Wild things on the wall,

An apple, a cat, a ball,

With letters written below

The better to read and recognise.

We slept, that first day in school,

In the afternoon, on camp beds,

With grey coarse blankets.   We slept.

I could not sleep; but at three

They deemed, it seemed, it necessary!

Silence

There is no silence!

Silence speaks with the sounds of creation;
The silent shore is wiled by pounding waves.
In every cemetery wild animals watch the graves
Singing their silent "De profundis" to the resters.

There is no silence!

On distant hills where no man seems to walk,
The peewits and the curlew call; the snipe and lark
Herald the coming evening, or, in fading dark,
The dawn of day when heaven's songsters sing.

There is no silence?

When I but sit in silence, separate from the day
And search the empty places of my heart,
Shutting out the mundane sounds and murmurings
And all my conscience thoughts; within that silence

Comes the voice of God.

Where are the dreamers?

A world of hurt is crying out
For urgent intervention,
A hand divine to reach and touch
And point a new direction.

Where is the vision, where to go
To bring about God's plan?
There is no sense of moving on
But rather, please the man!

The one who weeps, weeps on alone,
The hurt are left to die;
The lonely keep their solitude -
Yet few are asking why?

The problem is not mine, you say,
I didn't make it so.
I didn't ask their help, so why
Would they expect me to.

And so we battle on in life,
In selfish isolation:
The poor remain in dire straits,
The rich hold to their station.

Old men no longer dream their dreams
Nor young men see their visions;
They only stare out into space,
Or at their televisions.

Hannah and I and Green Eggs and Ham

Hannah and I read together a book
(At least Hannah read and I had a look).
The book was about some green eggs and ham;
I've never seen green ones as old as I am!
Green eggs and ham!   Now whoever heard
Of such a strange dish; it seems quite absurd.
I'm sure that like me you'd consider it strange
To find green eggs frying on your kitchen range.
I think if we found them we'd soon throw them out -
But that's not at all what this book was about!
And as for the ham - well - I really must say
That when I see some it will be a strange day.
Green eggs and ham!   Yet we found in this book
That at last he's persuaded to take one more look.
A look, then a taste, then a voice filled with glee,
"I do like to eat these strange things for my tea."
Green eggs and ham!   I'd soon throw them out,
And Nana would too, I don't have a doubt.
Your Mummy and Daddy would also agree
We shouldn't have green eggs and ham for our tea.
So maybe that story was not quite so true
As Sam-I-am tried to tell me and tell you.
We'll stick with our spinach and brocolli too,
Now they're green enough for both me and you.
Our eggs will be yellow, our ham remain pink;
That's alright for me.   Now.   What do you think?


(With apologies to Dr. Seuss)

Morning moment (in the grounds of Newman College, Birmingham)

At last, touched by the sun, departs the night,
Easing her soft shade into glowing light;
Waking and stretching comes the promised day,
Heralded by the chorus roundelay.

The trees reflect the scurrying clouds, with leaves
Which rustle gently in the cooling wind
And break to myriad dancing thieves,
To steal my concentration and my mind.

I'm lost, gone to far lands of faery fame,
Where dreamy creatures carry forth the day.
Now nothing that I dreamt can be the same,
And all reality has changed to fay.

MORNING PRAYER

Dear Lord, forgive a wandering errant mind,
Which dwells on nature's wealth, not its creator.
Help me in all the wonders I now find,
To see Your hand, Your love for every creature.

Be with me through the day I have to face.
Whatever comes I know you're always there,
To strengthen, guide, inspire and heal, in case
I feel myself descending to despair.

Painting the weather

I have never seen my image

Except as a friendly reflection

In rivers and pools.

I paint when the sun allows.

There is a moment when there is no sun.

Just a moment.   Wait a while.   No one

Can deny that now and again the sun's

Not there.   It's true you know, it's gone!

But this is also true: it will return.

I am a man of clouds!

Crowds do not please my eye;

I cannot stand to be

Seen, as I paint them fly

By.   With them I set my scene.

And what if the wind whips waves

Into white-topped cascades

Pounding the shore, the cliffs,

Breaking into a rainbow sparkle

As they destroy the work of ages?

I cannot capture these on paper.

The water and the paint have minds

Persistent in their own beliefs.

They lead me across new paths

And into ways I have not known

When I have watched the weather.

Marsh Harrier

The hawk was seen on a summer's day,

Lazily circling over the marsh.

The harsh sun glares on us as we stare

And dare to wait and watch awhile.

Here is a bird intent on its prey

On the marsh, on a summer's day.

It circles awhile then is joined by a mate.

We wait.   Together they fly for prey.

Their eyes, attentive to the needs of their kind,

Soar on the wind and wait for their prey

On the marsh, on a summer's day.

O, God made the wind and the sun and the day.

He provides the air and provisions the prey

For the bird He made to fly in the sun,

Awaiting the moment when it will be done,

When the prey is sighted, the dive is made,

The talons are locked and the kill complete.

Then he soars aloft with the dead in his feet

To feed himself, his mate, his young

To last the day, for the night is long -

His victory cry is his terrible song

On the marsh on a summer's day.

Richter (1915 - 1997) at the Barbican

O give us everything you have

And make the hall with music ring,

Make piers and roof and rafters sing,

Sviatoslav, Sviatoslav!

There is no sweat upon your brow

As you, composed, stand at the end;

There is no error to defend,

As turning round you take your bow.

Will you return to play again,

Or will you never grace this shore,

But be a stranger evermore

To play for gods, not mortal men.

For Jupiter in lofty heights

And Odin in Valhalla's halls

Will want your music in their walls,

They're such Olympian delights.

Or angels from the realms above

Will lay their harps aside for now,

Inviting you to take a bow

Where reigns the eternal God of Love.

But surely not just yet awhile;

On earth we need your glorious muse

To create sounds that still beguile

The fallen spirit.   Don't refuse!

Sviatoslav, Sviatoslav,

Hark now!   The sound that greets your ears

Is music of the heavenly spheres,

Sviatoslav, Sviatoslav!

Evening greeting

Gone, butterfly;

Gone grasshopper.

Come, fluttermoth;

Come, evening cricket,

Chirp in your place

To owls hooting,

Stars shooting;

Moon rise

In star skies.

Come, end-day!

Nowt a pound

Eh, Lad, ah says tha's nowt a pound,
Tha's nowt a pound, ah say.
Tha's nowt a pound, that's what ah've found,
Thy feet is med o' clay.
Tha wudn' even stand tha ground;
Th'art nowt a pound, ah say!

Tha back's a streak o' brightest yeller
An' watter's i' thi veins;
Tha's a bloodless, weedy type o' feller
Endahed wi' coward's brains!
Tha's nowt a pound, nor nowt a pound,
Th'art nowt a pound, ah say!

Thy gal's a bonny, pritty lass
Who'd blooms upon 'er cheek,
But thy be'aviour were so crass
She now looks pritty bleak!
Tha's nowt as pound, nor nowt a pound,
Th'art nowt a pound, ah say!

Tha wudden stand up to a man
An' yet yer did 'er wrong.
Tha cut 'er dead, an slapped 'er round
An' sang a coward's song. 
Tha's nowt a pound, now nowt a pound,
Th'art nowt a pound, ah say!

I 'ate a man like thee, I does,
Though 'man' for thee's too grand.
Just thee avoid the rest of us
Or else we'll mek thee stand
An' face the consequences of
Thy deeds, that fact's in 'and.
Tha's nowt a pound, nor nowt a pound,
Th'art nowt a pound, ah say!

The Pig

They say that the pig got so very big

Because he was bred to be so;

And he wallows in mud and burrows in dirt

Because it was meant to be so.

But whether the things that they say of the pig

Are true, I do not really know,

For a pig is a pig, very pink, round and big

And I know that is all that I know!

Painting "Sunk Island"

I looked up to the skies and there I saw

More colours than I ever thought I knew,

More colours than I recognised before;

I grasped them, held them, made an image true.

Bright blues and reds are laid on yellows, wet,

To run as wet on wet, to blend, until

I see the image that I want; and yet

They run their own way and forever will.

The fields reflect the skies; the waters, still,

Are pierced by weeds and reeds and grasses.

No house, no bird, no sign of life to fill

The scene: and yet life never passes.

A rat and a cat and Eve

Into the room came a big fat cat
And it looked around and it saw a rat!
The rat the cat saw sat on a mat
Wrinkling its nose like any old rat.
The cat growled softly on seeing the rat:
"I'll shift you, rat, from off that mat!"
It scurried and pounced but the wary rat
Had fled, vacating the worn old mat.
It dashed and hid 'neath an old felt hat -
Just fancy that - a rat under my hat!
And the cat looked round and saw no rat,
So it sauntered out saying, "There, that's that!"
But as soon as she'd gone, the cunning old rat
Looked out from the hat and seeing no cat
Scurried right back to sit on that mat.

Eve told me this story - I remember the time -
And somehow it all began to rhyme.
So we wrote it down to see how it looks,
For this isn't a poem you'll find in books.
We both agree that it looks alright
So we'll stop right here and say, "Good night!"

Christmas is coming

Christmas is coming,
The goose is getting thinner;
There'll never be enough of it
To feed us all at dinner.
The trouble is the feed's all gone,
The whole darned stock is done.
So what to do?   What will we eat?
Just what will be our Christmas treat?
The fish and chip shop's closed as well
On Christmas day as I've heard tell.
The stores don't open either, so
Somewhere else we'll have to go.
The cupboard's filled with many a tin
So there's no fear we'll be without;
And yet it really is a sin
We can't have goose with spud and sprout;
Followed by Christmas pud and cake
And wine enough to make a lake.
Ne'er mind for here's a tin of beans
It should go well with cabbage greens;
And here I've found a tin of rice
For pudding - that should be quite nice!
I promise you we'll have good cheer -
So merry Christmas and a good New Year!

Dying

Quietly she comes, I know not when;
Creepingly she moves, I know not how;
Searchingly she sees, I know not what;
Silently she speaks, I hear no sound.
Doped into sleep I lie and wait her touch;
Painfully I wait and hope for rest;
She comes apace, and yet her pace is slow;
I wait, I wait in vain, the night has passed.
Tomorrow I will wait again her touch,
And if she comes my last good bye is said;
I wait in hope, I do not hope for much,
Only to be laid among the dead,
And wait the final last day resurrection
When we will rise in glorious perfection.

Where have all the verses gone?

I use to write poetry, struggled to write

Of the things that affected my soul;

Of the things that in life had the greatest impact -

Now my muse has been placed on parole!

I used to write verses of all different types,

Some in fun, some dramatic, some sad;

Now I've lost inspiration, I've nothing to say -

Have I gone from the verse to the bad?

(Bum, bum..!)

Smile

Smile at me once again.   Please smile

And let the assembled worries of the day

Remain behind.   So shall we for a while,

Just you and I, let happiness beguile

Us both.   And may that same joy stay

At last to vanquish all that's vile!