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
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.
When I see you,
I see the things that are me,
and I see things that aren’t.
We share so much and yet,
It is the things we don’t,
that give charge to the spark.
I often wonder why and how,
What scribed the roads you’ve walked?
What days have dawned and passed and set?
What fights you’ve left unfought?
And in the dark what spins your mind,
and weaves into your dreams?
If I could see your first light thought,
Would it reflect my own?
So when you look at me,
what image do you see?
Sometimes I almost wish I knew,
and then maybe I don’t.
If I was all of you, and you of me.
What would there be to wonder?
What would there be to seek?
How could we leap into the new,
and touch the sharp unknown?
If you and I were of one mind,
that edge would never hone.
Life would leak and seep and drain,
And fade in knowings dawn.
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.
Inhaling shallow chill,
Caught as my insides rebel,
And refuse to accept the air.
Rushing carefully, cautious speed,
Learning to move again,
On crystallised black top.
Limbs confused unable to adjust,
Brain disconnected in the cold.
Move quickly losing endings,
Sensations fade from sting,
Numb pain sucking in.
Dash, don’t dash.
Breathe, don’t breathe.
Cracking doors offering refuge,
Shiver building from below,
Endure the uncontrollable,
Waiting for it to fade,
With the hoped for relief,
Slow breeding warm,
Lungs welcoming,
Digits screaming,
Forehead drumming,
Blood daring to flow,
Pause.
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!)
they carried promise
fealty, worship, sorrow,
giving the unseen
PICTURA POESIS 