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
The sound of rain falling in the deep night is a reminder that every now and then the world needs washing. The dirty streets littered with our selfish striving and strewn with the harshest words, dropped casually during the day, need to be cleaned. Hopes forcibly squeezed out and dreams stolen wait to be washed into drains, longing to be recycled and fed back in sleep’s stories. Prayers of the ones no longer here descend to rattle against our walls and fences, some seep through gaps and splits to water shoots of memory. Fall night rain fall.
In the turmoil of life, in the chaos of the storm, when you lose your sense of direction and place… in the dreams you have that seem too distant and out of reach… in your self doubt and feelings of failure and being an imposter… in your addictions and the needs that dominate your thinking… in your deepest pain and brokenness, illness and heart ache… in the emptiness of being alone and the incessant noise of the crowd… May you find still and rich peace, peace that is beyond measure and understanding, peace that cuts through the collected crap and soothes your soul.
We are only people,
We tie our hands to straining beasts,
That promise only stretching goals,
Elastic expectations, Self imposed.
We cannot reach, We are no good.
We fail at what we set ourselves,
We cannot measure up.
So stop and sit and be.
And hear the voice inside release.
Let go the ropes that pull,
The one tied to what was,
The one tied to what won’t,
The one tied to the other you,
That whips the fear within.
Sit and share the tears and tears.
Stop and sit and be.
We are only people.
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.
Blessed are the survivors, those who drag themselves out of bed each morning and just because they have to. For they show true heart and guts and they will know admiration.
Blessed are the bruised, those who carry the scars and wounds inflicted by the jealous and the angry and yet keep going. For they will leave their attackers behind them and find clear road ahead.
Blessed are the strugglers, those who fight each day to shake of their doubts and fears just to give themselves a chance to breathe. For they will draw deep on their true spirit and will feel the touch of the divine.
Blessed are those who set their face to the future in desperate hope and determination, for they will know themselves and they are seen and known and loved.
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.
PICTURA POESIS 