sitting quietly
whilst the hussle and bustle go on around me
The drone of life never seems to
stop,
to ease just for a second,
like a record, stuck in a groove,
mind numbing, irritating, tiring.

but
the God of my understanding
talks to my soul
Just sit, watch
just sit, listen
just sit, feel
just sit, sense
just sit, be
Be here, sit here, watch and pray.
watch in the noise of life,
for the grasshopper,
tune into this new rhyme of life
Watch, watch for the signs, the sign of the coming revolution 

​mr blackbird sits precariously on his high tower, looking, sensing even knowing something is wrong
Then as if a switch is triggered he is brought to life, there is an urgency to his message, all is not well, you need to listen to me,
take action,
take cover
mr blackbird uses all his energy to proclaim this message, this message that must be heard, despite the bedraggled worn out appearance mr blackbird uses his small frame to jump up and down, flap his wings for all their might, forcing out his message, the echo of his voice reverberating across shed and greenhouse, lawn and flowerbed
This pulsating red hot message is passed on to other lookouts, there is a cacophony of noise as the message is received and re-communicated.
Then, as if the switch is turned off, peace descends to the garden, the threat has ceased, moved on yet mr blackbird know’s never to rest, next time things could be different……

I watched you for ages,
you were in a meditative haze,
orange beak open
body in a contorted shape,
like concord  about to take off
you were resting in mid summers spotlight
shimmering in the haze like a sauna’s intense heat.

you were living firmly in he moment,
steadfast in another place,
another world
What do you dream of mr blackbird?

you are a master listener
you hop along, you stop,
moving your head from side to side
listening, listening carefully
listening without interruption
listening beyond time

you hop again
and again

then
suddenly
you dive down
deep under the earth,
a wriggling worm is torn from it’s dark, moist world

I wonder what you heard mr blackbird?
do worms make a sound
or was it a vibration
maybe just a hunch

mr blackbird, how do you hear?
what do you hear?

mr blackbird you inspire me to
listen better,
listen with sight,
ears and other senses.

I saw,
I noticed,
one of your young, died
he was on the cold earth, motionless
his soul free now from the limitation of its earthly body soaring high
he looked perfect
no sign of attack

mr blackbird
I could tell
I could tell you were looking for him
almost cancelling out the body on the earth near you
you didn’t want to admit it
who would?
I removed his body to a safe place, at rest
you calmed down,
almost acknowledging, accepting your lose,
knowing nothing more could be done for your son

then you, yes you mr blackbird let out a heart-wrenching lamination
you say,
you noticed

​The cloud of unknowing
unlearning
A place of liminal transition
of redirection
a place where certainty
of black and whiteness
turns into uncertainty
greyness, messiness
safe ground blown wideopen
a pandora’s box full of possibilities or none
A broken image
eyes squint
refocus
rebalance
mystical emergent something
still partial clouded
uncertain, clutching for safe ground
form returns
flesh builds
a purpose
A rhyme
away of
not THE way – existing only in blinkered mindsets
but this way
this way, the way
the way right for you, for now, for tomorrow.   

​Playground tantrum
Silence was shattered
a squadron of starlings
six at least come tearing in
they a band of brothers strong
aiming for a fight royal.

tearing up the lawn, searching
chose fodder,
gulping it down,
food flying all over the place.

then onto the table,
rocking it to and throw
starling thugs pilling onto the table,
each wanting their share of the spoils.

teenage rough and tumble,
leaping high, tumbling onto brothers back,
loud raucous chatter, fight!
then, like shooting stars they fly the scene.
High energy
high speed flying,
breaking through the air,
slicing through the clouds,
like a knife through butter,
once, twice around brick houses, gardens green, then with a two fingered salute   

It’s time to do what’s right for me,
it’s ok to be selfish,
it’s ok to shape my life the way that feels right for me,
acknowledging that the shape of life changes.
People will disapprove, telling you you’re wrong,
insisting you change for their sake, not yours.

Why pretend,
why wear masks,
why portray a shape of life that is ill-fitting
just to please others
it’s just not worth it, really it isn’t.

It’s time, time to be happy,
to unlearn unhealthy rhythms and patterns of life
if not I will stay in this rut,
the quagmire of my
unlived undeveloped life
I am worth investing in myself,
my ideas and plans
for all that makes me flourish, feeds my soul.

It’s a learning experience, life,
not everything will go smoothly
there will be hitches along the way
it’s part of the learning experience

I want to work on being the best version of myself
to figure out who I am,
to uncover the authentic me,
without judgment or
shaming parts of myself that I’ve
wrestled with or denied
I need to love my holistic whole self
my body,
my mind
and my soul
to do what makes me happy,
to take ownership of myself,
to make decisions and choices
to make values and root them
to cultivate and nurture them
then to watch and see me flourish in fruitfulness.

​searching for water – manna
parched earth,
soil to dust,
passing through my hand,
like water.

searching

searching for manna,
manna for this moment,
manna for this season,
nothing more,
nothing less,
manna.

these plants,
these plants, cry, cry for water,
manna.

roots searching,
searching for manna.

searching for water – manna,
manna to soak the roots,
to survive,
to just be.


a sense,
a vibe,
a connection,
a thank you from the natural world.

that smell, unmistakable,
as water caresses, flows over,
the parched earth,
ready to receive its manna.

breathe in,
revigorated,
grow,
grow in the power,
the power of manna.

​The dark satanic mills, the daily grind
the age-old, yet remastered whitewashed stumbling blocks made out of hurdles of systems of grey people fractured, bent over resigned, contorted, twisted.
a farrowed groove, splinted, inky residue slivering down. 
These systems Institutions once seen as places of hope, now, silos, closed, unresponsive echo chambers, draining life out – dying, demeaning, void of emotions, faceless, clueless.
 
God, come save your people, we are screwed
send us prophets of our time