Hello- yes, its been ages since my last post, and I promise to do better in future (honest). I've posted this poem before, but it seemed oddly relevant at the moment; there's much talk about "freedom", but, for me anyways, freedom without social obligation seems rather hollow at best, and at worst denies the freedom and the health of others. Alright, sermon over, here's the poem:



Freedom Food

Freedom food
from happy Hens,
marked with the stamp
of quality.
Free range,
given room to peck
and cluck.

From golden grains
to golden yolks,
and packed
recycled
and green.

But green,
no longer,
although recycled,
she breaks the shell,
with slow moving fingers
and coughs up phlegm
as yellow
as the splash
of freedom
once tasted.

We lie

We lie
within an open space
and this space
cries out for space

Space beyond
our curled backs
and our heads
sunk deep
within pillows

Sinking to forget
that sinking feeling
when
sunk within the duvet
we
within our own holes
neglect
to make us
whole

Drmmer Boy

The passing of time gets to us all; here's one for all those who wake up one morning wondering what happened?

The drum
Beat
time
to a military tattoo
and you
in a shirt full of flowers
improvised
off beat
with many crashing cymbals...
...but in time
you had to keep time
and the drum
beat
you.

ICON

There are times when I feel deeply ashamed to call myself a Christian, especially at this time when the Church at large seems intent on destruction and isolation in its debates over homosexuality and the role of women in the Church. Yes, you can say that Christ was male and heterosexual (although there is no proof for the latter), but is that the point? Is it not the case that Jesus represents the Divine in all human beings, irrespective of sex, race, gender and sexuality?

The story of Christ's passion mirrors our own predicament; each of us suffer and die, but with God's grace we pray that we may find resurrection.

Here is a poem I wrote some years ago which expresses this hope in the most mundane of settings:

The clarity of the dark
leads to a solitary flame
as wax drips, a figure kneels to another,
three dimensional, the other two?
But the eyes cut, hands heal.

Eyes cut, hands heal, despite nails,
because of nails,
that nail her, nailed to the past.
Angels nailed, past, present,
seemingly, the future drags on.

Remember the Children's cry,
tiny bikes rusty in the rain,
thrown amongst bright molded, plastic bricks
finding foundation in uncut grass,
as children find perfection in television gloss.

If only adults found it that easily
amongst piles of dishes
unwashed in the kitchen sink,
nailed, just the same, nailed,
"Don't you want to kiss me?"

But she too received a kiss,
a kiss led to the nails,
nailing her to the past, the present
a future which drags on.
dragging love and all it's remnants
behind her.

"Don't you want to kiss me?"
As we gaze at photographs
and remember miracles,
we remember miracles...

But today, I talk in the garden,
you, unhearing, read a book,
eat chocolates,
and we wait,
hoarding love and all its remnants,
in the hope of resurrection.

(note: the original had "him" instead of "her")

Tweeded Cap Gentlemen

Well, the Bishops are about to have some fun in Lambeth, or some of them are at least. At a time when a number of our esteemed primates are throwing their toys out of the pram over gay clergy, we learn that sexuality might have a neurological basis. Could it be that the only real "sin" is that which denies our God given identity? Just a thought, here's a poem I wrote some years ago in the beautiful city of York...

Two tweeded cap gentlemen,
wax jacketed in the damp January air,
emerge from Old Shag cloud,
breathing Old Peculiar sweetness.

They take a stroll down the cobbled road,
authentically Disneyed for coach trips of old timers,
feasting on the taste of Olde England,
cream tea in bent beamed tea shoppes.

Olde bookshop window,
promising Punch and Picture Post,
Vera Lynn nestling Bluebirds
as she sung over the white cliffs of Dover


Through the door ,
past the fraying tomes of yesterdays
that always seem to end in five minutes
towards the magazine rack.


They select one ,
pink and glossy,
a kiss on the cheek,
and our two tweeded cap gentlemen
hold hands,
step out, together

Snow in Springtime

The weather here in the good ole' UK has been seriously odd recently, really it has! Yes, I know us Brits are well known for going on forever about the weather, but it seems that the problem is far from localized. Anyway, I was asked to write an eco-poem, so here it is:

She was snow in springtime
a snowdrop
she withered in the chill.
Now, reclined,
chilling with chilled white wine.
Born from the vine
in springtime and in winter
her coming and her passing
intertwined.