the better plan

The stubborn voice in the pit of my soul never leaves me. 

Quiet for days, it suddenly springs, strangling me with sobs while I hang out the washing. 

I draw the stinging, slicing sword of your Spirit, 

desperately thrusting in defence, 

"You created my inmost being, You knit me together in my mother's womb". 

"Why?" asks the voice from the pit, louder than my own.

"Why did You bother?"

"If You knew my thoughts, if You saw all my days before they came to be, 

why did You make me at all?

You saw this day didn't You?

What a waste of time that turned out to be. 

The omnipotent, magnificent creator of the universe

was apparently concerned enough to make me for this day?

And the next? And the next?

Would anyone have had a worse life if I wasn't here at all?

Was there any point to using up precious resources to give me a brain,

a heart, a body?

I've made a list actually, 

of things You could've spent Your time doing. 

Better things, that would've been worth it. 

Things that would reverse the desperation and decay on this planet. 

Things that would help people recognise and worship you. 

Just a few small things, 

that would've cost as much effort,

but saved a whole lot of pain."

"You go before me and you follow me. You place Your hand of blessing on my head."

I parry, to no avail. 

"I wish I could sink away into the miry depths,

and never be,

and never have been. 

That would've been the better plan. 

That would've been the fitting thing."

Friday's flower falls

Job chapter 28


There is a mine for silver
   and a place where gold is refined.
Iron is taken from the earth,
   and copper is smelted from ore.
Mortals put an end to the darkness;
   they search out the farthest recesses
   for ore in the blackest darkness.
Far from human dwellings they cut a shaft,
   in places untouched by human feet;
   far from other people they dangle and sway.
The earth, from which food comes,
   is transformed below as by fire;
lapis lazuli comes from its rocks,
   and its dust contains nuggets of gold.
No bird of prey knows that hidden path,
   no falcon’s eye has seen it.
Proud beasts do not set foot on it,
   and no lion prowls there. 
People assault the flinty rock with their hands
   and lay bare the roots of the mountains.
They tunnel through the rock;
   their eyes see all its treasures.
They search the sources of the rivers
   and bring hidden things to light.


Friday's flowers fall,
kissing red dust in helpless servitude. 


Miner's horn echoes out across the valley,
shift changes,
bowel of earth disgorges weary bodies. 
Fat, drunk and lazy
on the spoils of the rich seam you placed there long ago. 


Rich reward exploited
halts the march toward the wisdom of life. 
Mind questions not
when fed, bathed and rested,
soul shakes off the peril of dark night. 


Mining means Wisdom's fineries inverted
to present world weary face
to vanity's show. 

pharisees

You know that bit,
where you were walking on your way to Jerusalem,
and you'd been there heaps of times before,
but never to die.

And the Pharisees kept dogging your steps,
and snorting in disgust when you met with sinners,
ate with tax collectors,
chatted with prostitutes.

And you know how you told them those stories
about the lost sheep,
and the lost coin,
and the lost son.

Were there many Pharisees in the crowd that day,
Pharisees like me,
who have their lines drawn between their version of right,
and their version of wrong.
Who thought they heard your voice,
but weren't listening properly.
Who thought they could impress you,
desperately wanted to,
but couldn't.

Were there any
or many
of those guys
who,
when you told the story about the lost sheep,
and the one about the lost coin,
and especially the one about the lost son.
Were there any who knew that you were trying to get them to understand
that they were being like the grumpy older brother,
and that instead of recognising grace,
they were multiplying sin.
Did any of them get so distracted by the startlingly wonderful,
appallingly miraculous,
blessedly beautiful idea
that you might run after them
and welcome them back,
that they forgot to listen to that bit
about the brother,
and went away wondering,
"maybe I can come be welcomed home too?"

Were there?

unity not uniformity

What business have alike to love?

Same mind, same soul,

no wrinkle of dislike at all

to ruffle quiet waters of equality.

Alike in liking find smooth path of love,

same preference, same kind.

One flesh, one mind, one all.

No barriers to blind, to wrench, to maul.

Uniform. They lightly tread quotidian jaunt,

the worst dismay a pause –

before concord resumes, rewards

their complimentary wills with easy certainty.

Unlike unliking found, 'in love'.

Their disparate tongues at ready to disgorge

10 things on each, strong tributes to discord.

100 items of conflicting bias,

1, 000 moments “sent to try us”.

Unlike resemble not a restful lake,

more, troubled sea, conflicting tides,

vast breakers, magnetised

by different moons, near different suns,

alien planets inhabited by different souls,

with different minds, of different kinds.

Competing currents, dangerous reefs,

all threaten to unship this passionate crew,

navigating life's passage to the end

of the world where everything unlike,

alike, will be made new.

Not newly uniform, but united, all love requited.

The fight is tougher for unlike to face,

the trophies greater, a richer taste of grace.

From strife, risk, chance, pain,

comes not like, but love;

the just reward, the sweetest gain.  

more divine maths

sun + park + blue sky = kiss from God


When I most needed it.


Thank you. xo

spiritual surgery

Split atom,
sliced open.
Gaping wound,
crying for restoration.

Open flesh calls out for second flesh,
a meeting of minds,
to close out all air from the gap.

Oxygen screams past,
burning,
stinging,
calling forth wet tears
to cover nakedness
in sympathetic sorrow.

You attach no alien limb,
but re-attach own self,
suturing skin to skin,
that bodies may meet bodies,
whole and yet co-mingled,
separately complete,
federally joyous.