Unlocking, seeking, push my fingers through the gap,
searching for a surface on the space that is emerging,
listening for a rhythm that the life beyond is turning,
Morning
Mourning
Passing in the crack that now chases round the birthing,
Straining to a place where the edges fight the blurring,
To prey
To pray
Holding to the difference of a heart beginning beating,
Rushing to embrace what may be only fleeting,
A piece
A peace
Peace is an action, it is not what is left when the noise stops.
Peace is a choice, it will not materialise miraculously from nowhere.
Peace is a struggle for change, not a passive acceptance of what is.
Peace must be made by the willing and the heartbroken.
Peace must be built by lives of grace and determination.
Peace must be grown from deliberate acts of mercy and justice.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Look deep, my friend, look deep,
When you don’t know who it is you look for.
When the questions of the night survive the darks slow end,
And patience speeds away in breathing change.
Look deep,
for now might be the time it can be found,
Deep amongst the childhood tales,
Woven in the half sung songs of youth,
Pushing to be heard in loss and gift,
Seeking and reaching,
Hiding well,
In the remembered gaze of the loved.
In pictures painted with couldn’t care less strokes,
That had no fear of crossing lines,
And bleeding out.
Listen deep to what once whispered happy ever after now,
And span and ran against imagined skies.
Look deep, my friend, look deep.
For She may still sing.
My feet are sore,
Too long standing,
Too long waiting for change,
For direction, for a road.
Heel scoring thin grooves,
Shifting loose grit,
Exposing the ancient solid,
Chasing the hard cracks,
To unexpected places,
Long time baked brittle,
resistant to gentle softening,
But friable, daring a stamp to shatter.
Still waiting, not risking the blow,
Not sure what lies beneath,
What might be revealed,
Wrapped in roots of whatever grows,
Whatever we allow to grow.
My feet are sore,
Too long standing.
Too long balancing the options,
Foot to foot, toe to toe.
Feeling the blow, the punch, the slap.
Facing the challenge,
uncomfortable on my soles.
Curling, rolling, bending,
in anticipation, in waiting,
To stand un-moveable in my place.
As the air moves around me singing,
Pushing and provoking.
My feet are sore,
Too long standing.
I’m still waiting, waiting for myself.
Waiting.
I know I should be moving,
Stirring the earth into new ways,
Painting fresh paths with my momentum.
But I fear the cracking ground,
I fear the hardness and it’s brittle future.
I fear the roots that rise and twist and catch,
Me.
I fear me.
My feet are sore,
Too long standing.
Finding is only the end,
It’s the aching arrival,
The ceasing exhale,
The stretching of never.
Feeling the blood pool,
The earth creep up tired limb,
Sit they say, sit.
But there is peace in the in-between,
In the swing between planting,
Foot after foot.
Peace in the movement,
Peace in the progress,
Peace in the stretch.
There is peace in not knowing what comes next,
Only that next is inevitable,
Next is coming.
Next is yours.
Peace is in the search not only the finding.
Stand in the gap,
When they want to force you to take up an extreme, refuse.
When they want to you to be polarised, refuse.
When they want you to ignore the complexities and conundrums of life, refuse.
Instead stand in the gap where the real people stand.
Where the people who do not want to be pushed or defined by others insecurities and obsessions stand.
Stand where the subtle colours shift and shine, where the deep and generous patterns flow.
Stand with the thinkers and dreamers, the survivors and strugglers, the lovers and yearners, the busy and distracted, the confused and the searching, the poets and the prophets.
Plant your feet in the shifting sand and stand with the ordinary and extraordinary.
Stand while the edges shout their insults and slogans, their extremism and their intransigence.
Stand whilst they shout themselves to a deafened standstill in their fear and their anger.
Stand in the place of humility and love,
Stand in the place of unknown adventure,
Stand in the place of wonder and expectation,
Stand in the place of the God of desert and river, of exile and pilgrimage, of birth and rebirth, of love and sacrifice.
Stand as an invitation to others to stand there too.
Through the pleated folded shroud,
My personal projection,
I look upon the polished crowd.
Souls with a connection.
To seek a ricochet of me,
See an image bouncing back,
to paint my picture primary,
In contrast to the black.
More richly saturated,
Not my tired and beaten frame,
No more worn or torn or faded,
By doubts I chose to name.
A dream that flutters, spins, wheels,
Blown by the mornings cast,
Try to catch it, grasp the real,
hold on and make it fast.
And if I look at them I see,
If I can only dare,
The best of who I’m made to be,
A future me we share.
(Nb. Rhyme is really not my strong point!)
An opportunity embraced as we sat on the hill with cigar and cognac. This was the beginning of a conversation. It was a gift we didn’t expect. A street table ringed by dreamers, sketching possibilities and parties. The steps and avenues coming to life around us as we sat under the sacred heart. A gathering of misfits merging from cheap hotel rooms and packed cars. The plans had been lost somewhere along rural rail tracks and we were free. Free to share stories and find common energies amongst the night life of Paris. So many years ago now, but such an important time. Troubadours and story tellers, God speakers and pioneers, partners and priests forming new worlds, moving in the neon shadows and giving birth to something still growing. As the trains stood still paths were woven together momentarily and then off in new directions, setting sail across oceans spiritual and physical, reshaping institutions and sending others on pilgrimages of their own. The drinkers and smokers, the prophets and poets that sat together that evening became friends and collaborators. We’ve sung and celebrated together, we’ve painted and written, we’ve changed laws and reimagined the future, we’ve dreamt of heaven and seen it on earth. For all of that and moments shared I thank you.
Picture : https://www.flickr.com/photos/pedrosz/
When the road is blocked,
the obstacle too heavy,
We take the wild way
The lamplighter, the man who beat the march of night with hardened soles on cobbles and brick and reached deep into the gloom to bring life. Who turned the dampened streets a safe and sickly green as he walked. My grandfather told me of about the sacrifice of the lamplighter, to give the gift of light but to always face the dark.
But there are no lamplighters anymore.
PICTURA POESIS 