the fire

Acrid scent,
not the promise of well cooked food,
but of animals screaming,
running,
Firies fighting, straining,
helicopters hovering, covering
hot fields with precious water.

It wafts on the breeze,
this reminder of death and destruction,
simply an annoying tickle to the nose,
when spending your day on other things,
like a fly that won't stay swatted,
or a neighbour that can't be avoided.

The smell is not the worst of it.

Perhaps that's why,
even though it lingers,
permeates hair, clothes and rooms,
acts in every way possible to scream it's deadly news,

we can still ignore,
despise,
revile it.

Hah!

I'm only covered in smoke,
the fire holds no real fear for me!

Judas stumbles

Night falls.
The sick, sad slip down into darkness.

He walked with you once,
in the day.
Ate with you,
lived with you,
heard you speak and cry.

Day after day,
in the company,
standing by
as crowds came clamouring,
pharisees came wrangling,
mothers came wondering
he knew why.

But in the end,
promised prize faded
next to newly minted glint.
Instant gratification won over delayed bliss.

Suddenly, stark sunshine
lit corpses hung high in the air,
and shone unwelcome in dark, dank caverns
of motive and crime.

Then,
night falls.
No light to see money by.

Judas stumbles.

Bethesda

I was stranded by the pool.
As usual.
Too nervous to de-towel and hop in,
afraid of my bare legs and arms.

Other bodies,
already splashing, racing, enjoying themselves
were suntanned,
svelte,
care free.

I wanted to find a corner where nobody was watching
and slip quickly and quietly into the water
where distorted wavelets could cover my horrid flesh.

There!
Right there,
in that shady corner.
No one would see me there.

I slid in and bobbed around
mildly enjoying my anaemic delight.

But the water held no healing powers.
And when I hauled myself up the ladder,
I was just the same as before.

I didn't want anyone to watch me.
I didn't want anybody to see me at all.

My mind was on one object,
and one object only.

Hope.

The hope that one day this would all change,
that I would move freely and easily through the world,
make friends,
have a name.

And when you came by,
I didn't realise at first what you were really offering,
I didn't know the solution you provided was what I needed most of all.
We were disconnected,
remote from one another.
I hiding in transparent water,
you standing strong,
speaking soft,
thinking bold.

I missed it.

I missed all those chances.

But you kept coming,
kept being,
kept knowing
that eventually I would understand.

"There is something worse than being sick.
There is something better than being well."*


*this is a quote from a sermon on John 5 by Simon Manchester. 

mother's day

Every mothers mothers mother's made mistakes.
Frowns, beatings, disappointments, frozen heartaches.
Emotional shutdowns, fire words,
warring jealousies, cold grudges.

Wounds nursed not just for lifetimes,
but generations,
blood passed, mother to daughter,
bruises repeated, one to another.

77 times, and 77 times more.
Forgive, forgive, forgive,
clasp hand to breast.
Swallow the poison again and again,
vomit it up,
get rid of the gall.
Spew out the bile on Jesus'
bare, anointed feet.
Wash off with tears,
and then,
repeat. 

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.