Jack-in-the box

When the Pentecostal party is over,
the Jack-in-the-box God is pushed
back in the box, all the while wriggling
and springing to get free. A week later
we try to solve the cryptic Trinity,
then shove that back into its drawer,
and the long green Sundays of summer succeed.

O Jack-in-the-box, O dancing shamrock God,
how much we miss, how much we need you now.

Depleted stock: Drummond Quiz team

Lucy, Jack and Jay,
a winning combination:
calm, quirky and keen.

The Spirit moves over the waters: 5

                              i)

It starts with a mess, a mass of might-bes.
The craftsman contemplates, his Spirit scans.
To work: weave a world out of quantum chaos.

‘Light! Action! Let photons fly!
Let quarks collide and galaxies gather.
Switch on stars! Let carbon cook!

Serve the soup of lavish life!
Molecules meld and cells expand and split,
molluscs mate and cockroaches crawl, and…’

                              ii)
...so we tell our stories of the past,
looking back in order to move on,
our spirits seeking union with the One,

with Lady Wisdom, calling by the gates:
‘Hear me, my truth is yours to hold,
more precious than the brightest gold.

I, whom the master craftsman chose
to be beside him as he marked out the earth.
Whoever finds me finds life itself.’

                              iii)
Geist, ghost, soul, spirit,
the essence, the heart, the inner light;
God’s image in us, our life in God.

Healing breeze, purging flame,
bridge that splices heaven and earth,
fearsome foe and fearless guide.

Wild goose flying, dove of peace,
God with wings of wind and fire,
still, small voice, Love in motion.

The Spirit moves over the waters: 4

A shard of memory shears from off a wreck
and slowly rises from the abysmal deep.
A melancholy spirit broods and frets;

clings to a drifting raft made long ago,
bruised from a life of regrets, and ill-prepared
to face the rising terror from the deep.

And when the desperate memory breaks the waves
to vex and irk with childhood snubs and fears,
what healing breeze can guide the lost one home?

The Spirit moves over the waters: 3

'Ready about!' and the sleek boom swings round,
the crew dance their appointed tasks,
and she leans into the wind, and skates across the waves.

Her headsail strains tall and proud and full,
her crew's strong legs flex and straighten,
and fresh spray blesses each windburnt face.

On shore boyish eyes gaze with awe
at this brave mistress of the waves,
and a vow is made to one day share her joy.

The Spirit moves over the waters: 2

A dark night. The Loch broods on human intrusions.
Steep hills to the north, and gentler ones to east and south
frame but never overreach the rock green depths.

A gust, then a breeze, then a steady wind disturb the surface,
and broken clouds veil and unveil a distant moon.
A few cottage lights dot the shore. No-one watches

as a grey form rises slowly from the depths, insubstantial,
appears to hesitate, then glides westwards, towards
distant battlements it will never reach.

The Spirit moves over the waters: 1

This spirit is best without added water.
Its scent, lavender; its colour, orangey;
its taste, burnt caramel; its name, Glenmorangie.

It slows time, drawing full attention to itself,
its essence flows from friend to friend,
its communion knows no early end.

Uisge beatha, blessèd water of life,
is itself, works no miracles, is consummate,
is barley transubstantiate.

Those Sphexish Blues

From Michael Quinion's excellent newsletter, Worldwidewords, to which I subscribe, I learn that 'sphexish', from the Greek for a wasp, means behaving in a robotic, predetermined way, 'trapped within invisible, intangible, but inescapable boundaries of mental space'.

I hear that chocolate sponge cake call to me.
Oh yeah, I hear that chocolate sponge cake call to me.
Don't wanna grow that gut, don't wanna saggy butt, but
I hear that chocolate sponge cake call to me.

I need to do some work and earn my pay.
Oh boy, I need to do some work and earn my pay.
Don't wanna be a slouch, just lie here on this couch,
I need to do some work and earn my pay.

I oughta stretch and crunch and work those abs.
I s'pose I oughta stretch and crunch and work those abs.
Just old and weak and grey, I'm gonna die this way,
I oughta stretch and crunch and work those abs.

Could grab that pen and start to write that book.
I could just grab that pen and get on with that book.
My head's so stuffed with words, could feed 'em to the birds,
Should grab that pen and start to write that book.

Oh Lord in heaven, when will I be free?
Oh Lord in heaven, when will I be free?
Why don't I get to choose, to dump these sphexish blues —
Oh Lord in heaven, when will I be free?



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A Limerick haiku

Ok, so I am cheating here: I wrote this on October 17th last year, but I think it is good, so I wanted it on the blog.

Flecked gold reflected
on the Shannon. Mellow guests
drift on tides of wine.

Spring Evening in Springhaven

Girls on bikes chat, Biggles
prowls, I write, and sparrows
twitter, the old way

The cloud bird

A streetlamp blinks on.
Behind it an unthinkably huge bird of prey,
with mile long salmon pink wings
hovers as if waiting to swoop.
A cloud bird, formed of water, scattered light,
and my imagination.
And now a loud but tiny human bird,
a jet from Gatwick headed who knows where,
moves beneath the cloud bird and is gone,
a speck of dust against the sky.
The sun sets further, and pink wings turn to grey.
The streetlamp now seems brighter,
human defiance shining against eternity.

June the Third

There once was a poet called Jay,

Who claimed that he'd write every day,

But his efforts at verse

Just became worse and worse, 

With 18 in Feb, 6 in May.

The wrong side of truth

Another response to Brian McLaren, this time to his comment that conservative Christians often find themselves on the wrong side of truth.

The billy-goats gruff had to move,
And oh! how they feared that troll.
But when you're on the wrong side of that wooden bridge,
Get a move on: you could lose it all.

Galileo gazed into the sky,
And oh! how some churchmen raged.
But those who thought the Sun was whizzing round the Earth
Are a footnote in history's page.

Charles Darwin saw how Nature worked,
And oh! how some churchmen laughed.
But saying apes can't climb down from their family tree
Isn't big or clever — just plain daft.

Some people make the Bible God,
And oh! how they turn and twist.
But if you treat a poem like a science book
You'll never know just what you've missed.

The troll says we should stay put.
And oh! how we fear his voice.
But God is on the far side of that wooden bridge
and truth is the braver choice.

Alternative last verse:

The troll says we should stay put.
And oh! how we fear his voice.
But God calls us to cross that wooden bridge,
and truth is the braver choice.


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Naked Spirituality - a preresponse to Brian McLaren

I've just bought Brian McLaren's book with that title and thought I'd write poems before and after reading it to see how the book changes me.

Naked before God, like St Francis.

Stripped of burdens, but also of shields.

A life without iphone - how can that be!

No piano, guitar, or desk or pen,

but still with my mind, my voice, my me.

Does that give me the right to be here at all?

So let's go further: increase the pain –

no job, no degrees, no role in life.

Who's left? A puzzled man, and scared,

but still loved by family, friends and wife.

Does that give me the right to be here at all?

And I think I can see where this road will end,

the road of Job, an earthly hell.

A man without contacts, health or home –

am I still me? Do I have a soul?

What gives me the right to be here at all?

And now, standing naked, alone, bereft,

my identity gone, my being unfurled –

only now do I see how utterly much

my faith was wrapped up in the things of this world.

What makes me think I am here at all?

And now, can I muster the courage to be?

Is ‘God’s child’ an empty phrase in my mind?

Yet one flash of hope breaks as now I see

that God too stands naked, and undefined –

freed from my cleverness, culture and creeds,

is the future the greatest adventure of all?