Passover

I brood upon the waters, waters as yet calm –

a soft and giving mattress resting

on the ocean bed; upholding ships that pass,

swimmers, baskers floating and feeling

the tidal pulse, the heartbeat of the world

thrumming through the birth waters of life.

But Pharaoh's fearsome grasp,

fist clamping tight on Hebrew shoulders

stirs an eddy in the tides of time.

Ripples become waves become cascading currents; 

an ocean's weight heaves and shifts

the mighty, grating plates; they hurl

the waters back, untacked and torn from ocean floor,

a tsunami of plagues, coursing, rushing,

dragging down and clamping under.

I am the Angel of Death. I am despised

and feared, mistaken for my Master’s enemy.

I visit His wrath on Pharaoh’s grasping greed,

his lust for fame, for towns to bear his name,

the immolated slaves, the whiplash stripes,

the broken pledges, stony-hearted pride,

freedom refused, humanity denied.

I visit all in time, but for today

pass over those with life blood on their doors.

Fear me not. Mistake me not.

Checking out

‘I used to work in bomb disposal,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ I answered, nervously, packing my bags,

my Sainsbury’s bags, with apples bread and beer.

His bearded, grizzled face eyed me quizzically

as he whizzed another bar-code past the glass,

‘Beep!’ for me to pack. ‘Twenty-five years I did it.’

Was it true? Could be; heroes need to eat;

retired, why shouldn’t they man the checkouts?

Or was he joshing me – a fantasist compensating

for his lowly, tedious job, with tales of derring-do?

Bags packed, cards swiped – ‘Have a nice day.’

‘Thanks,’ and off I went, not sure quite whom I’d met.

Another poem from Lee Abbey creative writing course

The Poor in spirit

One of several poems I wrote during a recent creative writing course at Lee Abbey

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for God can reign in their lives.

The poor in spirit, pure in heart,

shall see, with eyes not dazzled by pride,

the glory in their neighbours' lives.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for the empty purses of their souls are open

to be filled with grace upon golden grace.

Blessed are they, for they walk the world

unburdened by hefty loads of worth,

the weight of desire for approving words,

the downward drag of the quest for power.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for God has no need to fight his way

through tangles of teachings and grudges and gripes,

but can enter their open hearts with joy,

to warm and shine and heal and delight.