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.
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.
The sound of sheer silence,
Fights to be heard amongst the clatter and clamour,
Still the battering fears,
The questions that scream,
The anguish that points and pokes,
And tries to suffocate my space,
Doubts that roar in the tumultuous wind,
Accusations that pierce my awareness fired by the storm,
Insecurities crashing in my head in the fall of a great river,
In the noise I hear no voice but my own,
My weak voice, my raw voice, my tired voice.
My voice bringing me down, destroying my confidence, prodding my wounds.
Stand, still.
Stand, still.
Stand, still.
Do not hear the storm, the wind, the rain.
Hear instead the sound of sheer silence.
Hear the voice in peace,
Hear the voice of peace,
Hear the voice… peace.
1 Kings 19:11-13
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.
God who is misunderstood,
May we find our understanding in you.
May others judge us for being too kind, and condemn us for giving too much.
Let people look at us and laugh at what fools we are for exposing our brokenness,
And dismiss us as idiots for caring, for risking everything to see another smile.
May they ridicule us for our tears and rubbish us for our bleeding hearts.
Lord, as they stare and point because we refuse to worship the god of self, and won’t bow down to appease the god of greed, may we look up and smile contented.
May love be our downfall in the eyes of those who look at us, and peace be our weakness.
Let those who attack us do it because we stand undefended, and because we welcome them for who they are.
May our homes be not our own and our lives a gift to others even when they show no respect or gratitude.
When we hand over the things we value and give away what we have worked for may we welcome the grabbing hands.
Lord, when you take what you have given us to offer someone else, help us trust in your wisdom for their sake.
May we find our understanding in you,
God who is misunderstood.
PICTURA POESIS 