The sacrifice

Did my Lord die for me and in His death
Prepare a way for me that I might live?
Did He, in breathing His last gasping breath,
Give me that thing which only God can give?
Did He hang there and in His bloody grief,
All the hateful things I do did He forgive
In the same way as He forgave that thief,
Who turning, asked Him, when in Paradise,
To remember him who here had died?
Did my Lord make this final sacrifice
For me? Therefore I cannot but decide
To follow Him and stay with Him until
I'll know His final peace. Such is His will.

Good Friday Dance

Deasil and widdershins,
The long dance continues
Into the night and beyond;
The moon has gone down now,
The sun has appeared not
All through the night and beyond.
The cross stands alone there
Weeping and bleeding,
Saddening the night and the day;
The hill stands there, windswept,
Darkening and keening,
As another life passes away.
Widdershins and deasil
Deasil and widdershins
The devil is dancing ‘til dawn.
The tomb is awaiting,
Salvation frustrating,
Into the night and beyond.
Dying is daytime,
The night rules on lonely,
Hiding its face from the light;
Here is a moment
In mankind’s long history,
A moment of permanent night.
Widdershins and deasil
Deasil and widdershins,
Where will the long dance progress?
Gone with the darkness,
The gloom and the shadows,
This moment will never grow less.

Shopping expedition

There’s nothing in the cupboard, all is gone,
So to the store my wife and I must go.
It’s not exactly my idea of fun,
Or jollity, or pleasure you should know.
Still it’s essential to acquire such things
As margarine and butter, coffee, tea,
And eggs and sugar, and she homewards brings
A bottle or two of wine – but not for me.
We each have our idea of what’s essential,
The things we need to make life jog along.
Some of her needs I find inconsequential,
But I suspect she thinks I’ve got it wrong!
My name’s Jack Sprat you see, and as Jack’s wife,
She much prefers the fattening things in life

Sweeney's friend

‘Twas in the bar that I met Sweeney’s friend,
We’d had a few, of that I am quite sure.
We had discussed the merits of a blend
That none of us had tasted there before.
It was a whiskey of a powerful mien,
Quite mellow in the look, but not the taste.
We downed a glass or two and in between
Made sure the beer did never go to waste.
By ten upon the clock we all were drunk,
But quietly, as gentlemen should be;
Old Sweeney to the floor had slowly sunk –
When suddenly by his side it seemed to me
I saw a little man dressed all in green,
Who said straight out, “Y’re stewed, me auld spalpeen!”

Trip the light fantastic!

Dear P.,

You held me in your arms, we danced all night
To music with an ever rising beat,
But though you told me that my steps were light,
Your heavy tread has damaged my poor feet!
You told me that you’d now learnt how to dance;
At last, you said, you really did know how
To waltz’ you proudly emphasised that now
You quick-stepped, rhumba’d – just give you the chance.
I took you at your words – but they were lies –
My feet have told me so, not only once
But several times. You really cannot dance
With me again. I hope you realise
That both my feet are now in plaster cast.
The doctor took one look and was aghast!


Yours, M.

Winter

Now wintertime has cast its cruel grip
On house and barn, on field and meadow too,
On every dirty town’s street, now made new,
On car and lorry, aeroplane and ship.
The stream is frozen, so too is the drain
Through which the kitchen waste was once expelled;
Hot flames must ape the distant springtime’s meld,
That all the world might come to life again.
We’ll don our furs and heavy duty wear
To keep our toes and ears and fingers warm;
We’ll search the shed until we find a pair
Of skates, then linking friendly arm in arm,
We’ll head towards the iced up river, where
The ice lies crisply cold and smooth and calm.

Midnight

A day becomes a day, a night a night,
Dying from the evening’s long held twilight
Into a darker death before the resurrecting light.

A night becomes a night, a day a day,
As the presences that were have passed away,
The future that will be is here and for a while will stay.

The bell has ring its sound of dark finality
Pointing the past to rest, and what will be
Has come to take another step towards infinity.

Rise the stars and set the moon’s pale light,
The day has gone to beckon to its night
That it is time to stay the backwards vision’s sight.

For as it lies in final rest, another
Day comes to life, the echo of the other,
Sitting within the week’s womb, a sister with her brother.

Sleep

Relaxing so to breathe and breathe each breath,

I now descend into the lesser death

From which tomorrow, waking, I shall rise

Feeling the sun bring life to sleep filled eyes.

Eleven haikus

Golden, buried trees
Prepare for winter’s torment
As, naked, we die.

New blossom brings bees
To the orchard’s luring colours -
Harvest yet to come.

Snow lies and freezes
In the breath of frosty days’
Solar impotence.

Morning welcomes light,
Beckoning to the coming day -
Before night returns.

I kneel and reach weeds
To dig them out, roots too.
Next week they return.

A rose smells sweetly
By the ripening onion bed.
They smell when gathered!

Garlic moments now
Excite the gardener’s harvest;
They remain in you!

Beans climb to the sun
And grow from scarlet blossoms.
The wind destroys them.

We walk, holding hands
Within the dappled forest light.
Scattering rotting leaves.

I watch the moon rise
Over distant snow clad hills;
The bright night stars fade.

Clattering over falls
The brook disturbs the quiet,
Yet is peace itself.

Christians united

Pentecostal presence lighting up the congregation
Sacramental Catholics raise their voice in jubilation
Methodists who preach the word with power, authority,
And Anglicans complete the group to bring sincerity.

Denominational differences will now be set aside
Here in a world in which the power of God must be applied.
We'll pray together, act together, witness to this land
And do everything we can to bring about God's Kingdom plan.

We'll praise Him in our worship and recognise the pain
Of a world which has forgotten His resurrection gain.
So join me fellow Christian along this pilgrim way
And be my Christ-companion today and every day.

Christmas

Christmas is a time for love and joy,
A time to give and also to receive.
This is a time that hurries quickly by
For time which dragged now speeds and so deceives.

Poppy fields

Red it splashes
Through the wheat and barley,
Violent clashes
Of fiery colours, only

Marking the earth.
Lying on a flat map of patience;
Seeds give birth
To the colour of conscience.

Scarlet sky markers
Show the flowery way
To the earth's breast
From the fresh tilled day.

Rape only screams
At a yellowed sky;
Scarlet, the colour of dreams
Questions why

The farmer's curse
Is creation's delicacy?
As summer nears
Its own bright ecstasy.

The Saviour's hands
Touch this field and bleed
From deep wounds
Upon the waiting seeds.

The flowered year

Crocuses bloom when spring has sprung
And there’s no room for feeling glum;
But when church bells their rings have rung
The year moves to Chrysanthemum.

And as the winter chill draws near,
When mists and rain beset the hills,
And ring the end of the flowered year,
It's only weeks to daffodils.

Least said...

"You fool," I think but that's not what I say;
For I'd much rather try to keep the peace.
There may be angst here but there's no release
In saying what I know I want to say.

I really don't want to exacerbate
The situation that has risen here.
Nor do I ever want it to appear
That I was one who only could berate.

Instead I keep my cool and hold my tongue.
Sometimes I'll nod and sometimes shake my head;
For soonest mended is when least is said
And easier for us all to get along.

The byte beyond

I find it hard to find my way around
Computers and their difficult software.
It is the most demanding sort of ground,
Yet youngsters find it easy - it's not fair!
My hair is silver and my beard quite long
Perhaps that's why I get it all so wrong!

I've read the books and followed all they say
To no avail, it's like a foreign land.
I've clicked on HELP not minding the delay
And still it's difficult to understand.
I'll struggle on, of course, wasting my time,
Hoping at last these barriers I'll climb.

Bankers

I cannot think of what to rhyme with bankers
That I can publish. They are all such rogues!
If they were squaddies they'd all be on jankers
With bulled up boots instead of city brogues.

They take our cash but pay the lowest interest,
Then take their bonuses. It's so obscene.
There cannot be a heart within their pale breast,
It raises to the heights my angry spleen.

In future I will take my cash and spend it,
That way I'll get its value while I can.
I'll never ever more decide to lend it
To a cheating, greedy, breed of banker man!

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.

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.

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!