Spirit of the living God.
my mind, in full rupture, unstable,
imprisoned by itself, darkness surrounds me
My God, my God, why, why, why!
Yet my soul shouts out, life support
God is within, not with holding,
but holding as mighty oak.
Holding in steadfast, gather me in
re-member me back from fragmented
body, mind, and soul.
call me beloved, if that’s what I am
whisper peace into my anxiety,
shalom me into that state of wholeness,
my scars, to tell a redemptive story,
of those once opened bloody wounds.
Spirit of the living God, full afresh on me.
The Little Apple Tree
rooted thickly entwined,
telling and told
pulses in secret code
humanity enigma code unbroken
those gnarly unwholly
weathered, warped and wassailed
weathered, beaten up, scared
nodules, nodes and knots
notations of place and time,
this watchman, this truth, echoes nature
a twist in turning, ebbs and flows.
Memories of a bygone time,
eclipsing into sepia memorandums
The leafiest wall remembering
barren and bereft,
lamenting what was
mourning each leaf lost at cost
why and how
I wonder, who will re-member me and by?
a cascade of
rusty and copper
a symphony of colour
splashing down into
fodder for re-imagining
Look with creator eyes at the cornucopia of colour emerging from within the leaves, leaves with vibrate earthy, natural colours,
a last shot of energy,
then the leaves flurry to the ground, leaves turn to mush,
energy returned to the ground,
ready to energise,
to give life again,
but now rest
Smell with creator senses,
tender and true.
Leaves, petals, once shouting out with colour abound,
that deathly returning to the earth,
body broken down,
The crunch of autumns deathly comes
Smell overwhelming of energy pouring back into the earth
the body, now a lifeless corpse, buried
nurturance for life’s best
rest now until spring’s forth.
bulrushes blown by the wind,
white feathers exploding from within,
held and nurtured by the wind,
the breath of God.
the bulrushes being blown
like candles at the end of a service
smoke permeating the air around,
getting caught up in the air
pungency getting diluted as it travels where it wills.
following in the stream made by the Wild spirit of God.
Songs and stories, memories and moments
plants and planting, hard-working,
forced rhymes and rhythms
how can we sing the Lord’s song in this strange land!
flown from another place, mission,
garden on hiatus,
gardener on garden leave.
Wildness and wilderness
creeping, seeping in
thistles and thorns
buttercups and poppies
Unsolicited brambles rooming and weaving
humanity shutting down
foxes and foe
taking back what humanity plundered.
world on a ventilator, humbling
no going back
no normal to return to
twisted, bent and buggered
worn out, keep out!
New stories to write
new songs to sing
what new song can we sing in this new world?
Government and others
lack of integrity,
deeper and respond slower
Amiss broken world,
fake institutions failing us,
infighting and back-stabbing
choosing words with thought and
readiness to admit they don’t
up and mean it.
child cries out,
your people cry
to say sorry when they mess, demand
those tribes of people who
their voices still count,
they’re in the desert cries out,
to mortal death
timely but too soon
or lingering waiting
life seeping through,
draining to nothing beep!
soul remaining, reforming
moving rebirthing into next reality unseen by mortal eyes
Grasping something unimagined
I stand here watching,
as a mighty oak,
rooted in this now
coppiced but defiant to be.
Kingfisher shooting past
red, blue, raiment of fragmented colours
Bulrushes sway lightly in rainy mist,
imagined as candle snuffed out,
ephemeral transcendency forming portal to a reality unmet.
Crunching and snapping of leaflitter and spent twigs underfoot,
bring memories of bygone summers, misty hazes and fruitfulness,
now deathly grey, gloom,
food for the journey, new life.
grey, bland, and boring plumage,
loud honking, move, now, urgent as alarm clock
Soundings of a world grounded in, yet grasping the edge of something unimagined.
Hanging in Compton Hanger
silence opens eyes to the vista.
walking lightly as the feather on the breath
lightly on earth’s broken crust
trees remind of fallen hero’s grounded
seed heads abundance ripened.
movement compels, forward moral
breath cutting through the cold ramet of winter.
the green land becoming greener, sap rising
climbing up spent wood. Stump, bygone of mortal’s plans
Grass moist to touch,
stile hewed by past pilgrim’s touch
a stopping place,
past the knowing into the unknowing
into the peaceful knowing
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.