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!

Walking

soaking streets, polished by the evening rain to reflect the lamplight tone. drawing me in solar hue, passed cars running with trails of clarity down tinted glass. on, following behind the rain, breathing the nature smells, the trees and grass, lavender, reaching to me through the pavements drenching. my feet move through, through the gaps where there is no resistance to my walk. buildings shade the sky against the deep violet, domes and towers block the light of night. I am aware of the people still and stiff watching my walk, but I see no faces. they stand and then they fade as I walk on. but there are some who I see and who stay, those who have committed to me and those I have promised. they are always there, even as they sleep. their colours tint the streets and I feel their presence in the glowing heart. green flows with the stream as the new day shifts the view and I walk on, toward.

Sleeping

I hear her sleep, breath telling stories I cannot know. The stillness only broken by a rare twitch or turn. The day has drifted into the night. Taken up by the warmth as it rises from beneath the blanket. Filling the space above her head with its concerns. Be free yesterday, she must rest and make space for tomorrow, your only home now is the movies that play in the deep. Do not wake her with your game of ‘what-ifs’ or disturb her rest with the things that can’t be changed. Play if you must, but fade with the sun when your time has gone… for she has other tales to write. I hear her sleep, breath whispering desires and hopes. Be still and rest well. Be still

Home?

Sometimes I have an emptiness in my centre that feels like it might spread and eat me to my edges.

Sometimes it’s beyond full and I fear that those edges might rip and I will flood across the ground.

Rarely do I know equilibrium. Sometimes I long to sleep in certainty, to be peacefully numb. Mostly I want to feel and to feel means knowing.

Sometimes I would willingly jump to know the rush of unstoppable air. I would love to know what it is to lose everything. I would give and give to feel it all come back in a momentary look. And then be gone for ever.

Sometimes it scares me, to be alone, to not know real intimacy, that is where I dare not go! That is what wakes me in the dark and tears my soul. I know in that second I would give it all to feel for one breath, one glance, one kiss.

But there are days when I pray this wasn’t so. When the need is too strong and the emptiness wells. When I stare across the still water in hope and desire, looking for the surface to break with life. When the wind drops and suddenly I hear the silence and it is lonely.

Life in the time between time, In the moment that the wave breaks, in dropping cloud as it waits to release the rain, in the dawn and the dusk, in the delta between land and ocean. This is my home, like it or not!

Tender Dawn

In the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us, To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace. Luke 1:78+79

dawn rising,
filling the void with sending blue,
washing through the darkness,
seeping between hard edged living
crossing the divide.
promise and potential flow,
eroding meaning into the shapeless,
the noiseless into melody,
the alien into nature.
stretching and shunting time,
expectations moulding into purpose,
purpose into pain,
In the now falling brilliance.
blue shifts to grey.
fears of the night now relieved,
are absorbed by fears of the day.
loss enveloped, in sleep bites again,
wounds dulled, resharpened by the light.
can the cold dawn transform?
can it pour into the hollow,
can it flow.
can it flow.
can it embrace and surround,
can it lift and hold.
easing me on,
leading me out,
can the rising dawn be tender?

beauty?

Beauty (as proverbs says) is fleeting. At least if our understanding of beauty is based only on looks and outward appearance it is. But ‘true’ beauty is a wonderful thing, it shakes the spirit, causes every part of you to fly, to spin and wonder. Beauty is in the play of a child and the sacrifice of a parent, the hand of a friend and the fingertip touch of a lover. Beauty flows from the undefended, from the innocent and the vulnerable. Beauty sparkles in a deep smile, but also in the freedom of tears. Beauty is life lived without pretence, where one is invited in to the whole person. Where joy and pain are shared with generosity and honesty. Beauty is in the passionate kiss and the desperate embrace. Beauty is in an unguarded glance and an open heart. Beauty is in the singer and the dancer who does not need an audience. Beauty is in the fighter, the survivor, the one who will not give up. Beauty is in the struggle to live and the spiritual quest. Most of all I think beauty is in the one who sees and celebrates the beauty in others before their own.

Life on dirty streets

Life on dirty streets.
Streets of carelessly scattered stories.
Dropped packets that once wrapped precious living,
Yellowed and twisted stubs of grabbed moments,
Torn up world views,
dripping on leeched muted images.
Kicked and blown, ripping remnants
spotlit by stuttering neon,
transported by locomotive urgency
and casual drunken dance.
Butterfly bushes shooting out
from micro pockets of earth
congregating in gaps and wear.
Dust propelled by rain becoming home for colour blooming.
Corners and steps make sanctuary for the chased and the watching,
doorways spilling and spewing tales of everyday existence.
Life pushing deep,
finding space between the crowd.
Life on dirty streets.

the stream

Given time a stream cuts deep, slicing into the hardest rock. No need for heat or cold, no need for tools or explosives, no need to rush at change. The caressing current, wears away at imperfections and weaknesses, smoothing, shaping, carving, creating glistening shapes. Down and down through the layers of the years, through all that has become attached and grown. Melting away at the outer coats and stripping back the shell, slowly, gently exposing the colour and texture of innocent days and sweet memories. Pouring down vast funnels into inner places and hidden hearts, washing, quenching, stirring. On it tumbles polishing beauty back in to the worn and dirty, spewing its load out into the ocean where it binds and births life and land for others yet to be. Time slows and water flows, rest and watch. Change is happening.

A tree by the water

In the rushing flood may my feet dig deep and find purchase.
May the bite of the stones into my soul waken my senses.
Bend my knees that I may not be an obstacle to the flow.
Give me strength to stand and become one with the waters,
Give me balance that I would not be cast aside.
Wash me not away but strip me of my mess.
Help my flailing hands find the hands of others,
That we might stand strong together.
That we might be the roots of a tall tree,
A tree that dips it’s branches in the waters,
And grows into a home for the small and weak.
When the waves still and the floods settle,
May the water swell rich fruits and paint vivid colours.
Twist us as one toward the light of heaven,
And bind us deep into the earth.
May our shadow be a place of healing,
And all those who rest in it find love.

(inspired by Revelation 22)