Author: MARK BERRY

Mark is a Pioneer and a Creative, with over 20 years experience. He is a founder of the safespace community.

The year of the poets and the prophets

This could be the year of the poets and the prophets.

Why not?

The politicians and profiteers have failed us, the powerful have had their way.

We’ve bowed down to the fear-mongers and fat-cats, who’ve divided us and made it pay.

This could be the year of the poets and the prophets, the artists and the authors, the makers and the movers, the strange and the sublime.

Through them old songs can be reborn and new storylines be told.

Through them there’ll be a place for poetry to fill and shift the soul.

They could paint the future rich in colours still not mixed,

and speak the whispered love language of heaven in our midst.

Could they teach us to abandon the desperate greed for power,

And seek a simple beauty in the patterns of a flower.

To stand and watch the sea breathe deep against the broken land,

And the whitening of the knuckles as we hold another’s hand.

Could this be a year of art, of story, verse and song,

Of the dreams in colourful compassion we’ve painted for so long.

A year of risk and possibility, of creativity and love.

Of tales and tunes that tell of hope and launch us high above.

To look upon this world we walk with eyes that see the new.

So let the poets weave their spells and the prophets speak of you.

Icarus

Icarus was a fool,

Who would not learn or listen.

They tried to teach him properly,

To never fly too high,

to play within the lines,

To keep to the boundaries,

know where the danger lies.

To stay in the safety zone,

and not exceed his limits.

“Don’t reach too high,

or push beyond the edge”, they cried.

But Icarus the fool refused

He flew on wings of wax,

And sought the sun.

He risked the greatest fall of all.

To fly so high and then to die.

Does that make Icarus a fool?

Evening

In the half light, as the day retreats and the lamps come on. We throw off the starched and stiffened expectations, and pull on ourselves. Objectives of the nine to five are kicked under the bed and heaped upon the floor. Pockets of busyness poured onto every surface, the keys to action dumped in readiness for the mornings panicked search.

But now, we breath, exhaling the pressure of today’s endeavours, inhaling the time we have before the hangers drop and the shoes are retrieved from their place of rest.

The urge to share our stories dissolves in the second glass as the evening grasps and grips. The struggles and stresses get pushed to the side of the plate and are left piled up by the sink to glare back at us in tomorrow’s breakfast rush.

The aspirations of achievement make way for the tales of the hardship of others, their lives and deaths. We watch people doing what we always dreamed of and dismiss them for it. We listen to the tragedies and comedies and are grateful for the sofa and the satellite.

We watch in the comfort of lounge minds and of bucks that have passed. Tut and moan at the state of it all, then sneer at the helpless, whilst we pour another glass of safety.

Relax, tomorrow never comes.

Step

Sometimes all there is is a need to put one foot down in the dirt and follow it with the next. To empty the mind of a destination and get lost in the step. Sometimes that is all.

The day after begins

Flat light takes the edge off the world, diffused further by the condensation painted window.

A pigeon softly sings it’s simple tune, disturbing nothing. Lulling, a dawn lullaby. Numbing.

Waking from unexpected sleep, nothing seems quite there, not sharp or focussed. Reality hung over.

All the energy of the season lost, expended on surviving, even the air feels drawn and wasted.

People move with batteries fading fast. Slowing as they take forced steps in the normal. Curling against the grey, on streets that once sparkled but now are dimmed.

Memories coat the buildings twisted with the lights still hanging but extinguished. With the bags of bottles and paper waiting.

The colours change from primary to pastel. From the sharp and bright to the washed tones of fogged life labouring to rise and pierce the fading night.

Focus shifts, falling from the thrill of expectation and the tension of togetherness, to moving solitary feet, in turn, along damp monochrome paths.

The day after begins.

Boxes

You in your box and I in mine,

I see you, I judge you,

You are not the same as me over there in your box.

I can dismiss you as an idiot, an arse or worse, because I need never know you. I need never know the way you think or feel.

I have only a second to decide, do I offer you me? Do I chose to know and be known? Or do I add to the thickness of your box, and further mark the gap?

It depends on how I feel this moment! Do I have space to share my space, do I have room for another? Do I want somebody to love or somebody to fight? Do you draw out my insecurities or make me feel powerful?

I sit and lean back, the moment has passed. You are no longer here. Did I just miss someone significant or was your moving on a blessing, could we have built together, or would we have torn ourselves apart? But that future, whatever it might have become, has passed by in the next lane oblivious. A lover, a friend, a brother, a rock, I will never know?

If I could say one thing to you, in this moment. If I could speak my soul to you it would say this.

Next time indicate!

Thank you!

Thank you if you’ve viewed. liked or followed any of my poems this Advent. This has been my first real attempt at poetry! I’ve very much appreciated you even looking at my first fruits. Because of you I will keep writing and blogging! Thank you!

Happy Christmas

May you blessed in the dawning of the true light that chases away the darkness.

May you be blessed in the birthing of a new future where grace rules.

May you be blessed in the shining of prodigal peace, whatever your story.

May the father & mother God look on you with mercy and love.

May the Son grant you the knowledge of the love and acceptance of God.

May you be blessed by Creator,

Redeemed by the Son,

Given breath by the Spirit

Amen

Christmas Eve


In this hollow night the heart that has beaten within has been born.
What was known but not known is now met.
In this time of hatred, anger and division,
there is now grace.
In this lonely place we are no longer alone in our fear.
We have a new Mother and Father,
what was once all mighty has chosen to be humbled,
made vulnerable and fragile.
I may never hold the child or feel his pulse,
I may never hear his cry or see his smile,
But I am there and he is here.
I can join the choir and sing the song of the angels,
I can reach out my hand in wonder and desperation.
For unto US a child is born.
In this hollow land the love that was held by few has been born afresh.
I must play my part and give myself in gift.
I can put down my baggage and follow now.
I can begin again and be reborn,
humbled, made vulnerable, fragile.
In the child I am born,
In the grace I am forgiven,
In the love I am embraced,
In the peace I must walk.
Hallelu-jah, the light has come and filled the darkness.