one day I almost died

It was a strange reminder,
a sudden recollection of the past.

For so long, I had lived under the shadow of death,
at that crucial time,
the confrontation of mortality was
face to face
scan to scan
day to day
breath to breath.

It shaped my whole being for a while.

I tossed it off glibly,
gladly,
in a way,
as soon as that hypothetical threat passed.

But it haunted me,
colouring my view a little darker,
a little greyer,
like the twilight when a storm's approaching.

Somehow,
somewhere,
sometime,
that tension wore off.

I haven't thought for some time now
how close I was to death,
how far I was from death,
how ever second,
every minute,
we all draw closer and closer
and yet remain exactly as far away as before.

Other cares have crowded in,
smaller in a way,
why should any of them matter
in comparison to the final embrace
of black isolation,
howling rooms,
never-ending silence.

But it's not simply the fact
that my firm conviction
(at least on Tuesdays, some Friday afternoons, and maybe one or two other times every week)
in the resurrection of the dead,
and the life everlasting,
amen,
has grown in stature and solidity
since those days.

But that my natural, human forgetfulness,
ability to be distracted,
failure to remember every day,
drags me further and further away
from old scabs I've stopped picking at,
until one day,
I brush against the old place
and realise

the scar is gone. 

ode to winter

Shadows lengthen - winter is here!

Frost breathes sparkling spirals,
transforming banality with fine, filmy fairy floss.

Winter is here!

Time is suddenly found for the long, lingering dinners
frantic summer's pace excludes.
Conversation winds and wends
conquering boundaries, dividing lines;
slow-cooked meals allowing slow, thoughtful answers.

Winter is here.

Summer sun mellows to winter, water-bottle friend,
warm rays become a couch to lean on,
arm to embrace.

Summer heat freezes, stifling no more.
Scarves, rather than suffocate,
caress, encircle, celebrate;
cacophony of colours,
trumpeting life in defiance of somnolent snow.

Winter is here.

I know world over,
winter means death:
frozen ground,
frozen bodies,
for evermore shrouded by the heartless snow,
concealed from summer's verdant glow.

Cold comfort's found
by empty fireplace,
winter slowly asphyxiating,
blue-tinged lips, fingers, face.

In extremity, winter frightens,
clarion call of death,
warning of unflinching finitude.

And yet,

winter calls forth resolute resistance,
brave battle against all-conquering elements!

What can be more triumphant
than the explosion of daffodils
after unrelenting frost?
The burst of bluebells from frost-bitten bulbs,
tingling their colourful victory
over death's pale shadow?

Winter is here.

But it shall not stay.

sunset

Soon your hands will wither.

Those veins you can barely see now

will strike new wrinkles in your skin,

rise up over softened crevices.

Your neck will slouch,

descend to meet the breasts that

also have descended

down down down

to meet the bottomless belly

draped over wasting thighs.

Soon, soon, as time reveals, exposes,

your body will fold in, replace,

become unrecognisable.

This skin contorts, transforms,

is plastic

in the image of its maker.

A constant reminder

of your fragility, changeability, liminality,

the fine, filmy substance of your physical existence

in this epoch.

You should EMBRACE

this final, flaming, sunset spark,

the glory unparalleled of being allowed

to dance and shine before your maker.

And then, look forward

to dawning again,

upon a world remade,

fresh light,

new skin,

new blood.

my sword

It was while we were in Capernaum.
I thought I'd better get a sword.

You kept saying we were going back to Jerusalem,
but I know the leaders there hated you,
even though the people praised you,
I thought, 'we've got to have a sword'.

You never seemed to understand things,
the right way,
the way I saw them.

What kind of King comes without a standing army?
What kind of King wanders through the wilderness,
filled with thugs and thieves,
without a guard to protect him?

Are you crazy?!

I know you did that walking on water thing.
And that you'd raised the dead.
And healed the sick.
But surely we'd need a sword!
My sword.

They came in the night,
as we knew they would.
Cowards and manipulators,
always seeking cover of darkness.

And I was glad I had a sword.

But you.
You told me to put it away!
The first blow struck
was the last blood for my blade.

And then...

Then I really wished you'd let me use my sword.

But all too soon you were dead and buried.
We sat at the table,
wounded and bewildered.
And my sword quivered at my side,
in anger and fear.

Then Mary came running,
she'd left the others,
came tearing off to tell us your body was not there.

I picked up my sword and ran.
Fast feet did fly,
adrenaline did take them.

Whether guards or priests,
people or peasants,
my sword,
my sword,
would fight for your body.

They'd desecrated your honour,
shamed your glory,
ruined your body,
quashed your story.

But I, with my sword in hand
would never let them take you again,
I would take a stand
and fight ten thousand thousand.

But you...

No thief had raided,
no thugs invaded.

Life
had adulterated
your resting place.

And you didn't even need my sword.

for Paris

Not cold in her grave she lies,
but hot.
Baked back to clay by unforgiving sun.

Three days have passed,
but life's light does not sink down,
piercing thick layers of soil to touch her.

Life's light has not reached
her stiffening, suffocated body at all.

Her silent lips are mimicked now
by silent stares above.
She speaks not death's dark secrets,
while blind teachers disclose empty truths.
Platitudes.
Milk stuff,
to minds starved of the meat
so necessary for their journey ahead.

Paris died.
Small child.
And every womb cried out,
empty arms groped for their beloved.

No no no no no no no.

Don't worry yourselves about it,
it didn't happen,
but it did,
so we should shut up now
and eat some chocolate.

Hallmark words will not revive her,
no kiss of life can now resuscitate.

But yet,

your voice may find her,
through soil and darkness penetrate.

Unafraid of death's black shadow,
powerful truth, now spoken as command.

Resurrect!

And light will blind her,
breath shall find her lungs again. 

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.