A dozen needles penetrate my skin
Circling round my navel like  they’re sharks
What comes out will  pacify what’s in

Is having acupuncture, like, a sin?
This circle is  a little needle park
A dozen steel pins penetrate my skin

The emotions  stumble, make a din
But not like any song of the Skylark
What comes out will  magnify what’s in

Once I lived in panic  and was thin
Like a cat that thinks she has to bark
A dozen steel pins penetrate my skin

Oh, evensong, oh music, oh Compline
Why is life so painful and so sharp
What comes out will   indicate what’s in

I make my submission to the dark,
From this grave, will rise the living spark
A dozen needles penetrate my  heart
Take them now and let me live with doubt

As I rise enriched  from deeps of grief
I feel alone as  if my old  world’s gone
Though trees still  flaunt their  newborn coats of leaves

The passing of the years, our  life seems brief
Oh, love, oh death, oh fear, oh lost my own
Must I retreat from darker depths of grief?

What new space must you and I conceive?
How shall I live where  my love was  undone
While trees will   haunt with   summers of green leaves

Our latent wishes, frozen,   must deceive
Oh, Freudian world, oh, Foucault, oh Lacan
Must I leave the holy depths of grief?

Like the flowers, most die  on graves of  grief
Oh, Shakespeare, elegaic, oh John Donne
See trees still    image life  in   shining leaves

Misfortune strikes, still love  and heart shall win
As we cling to life with threads so thin
When we rise enriched from depths of grief
The  trees   delight  in  mantels of green leaf

We have roaming souls,they cannot rest
Once they anchored,  now they catch the wind
Flying like a bird seeking a  nest

Life  has ideals, love has nothing less
Wounded by the winds we feel thin skinned
We have noble souls, they cannot rest

Do not wonder who of us is best
We are human,we have sometimes sinned
Flying like wild birds and stealing   nests

Is it better if we have confessed?,
Do we  offer pity ,heart and mind?
We have  anguished souls,  can they  take rest?

Love and hate and malice and incest
The grecian gods were human magnified
Flying like the eagles on their quest

Do we seek  fame or seek to be unbound
The world’s not linear, it is almost round
Life  has ideals, love  may  not interest
We have  pauper’s souls, they cannot rest

His absence left an empty open cut
Where was my blood that should have made a crust?
The weeping wound must heal from bottom up

The healing force is life and others’ love
Those who touch us gently without lust
His absence still an empty open cut

Slowly cells harmonious in this rut
Do their work and live as all things must
The weeping wound can heal from bottom up

Meanwhile my immunity has guts
Keeping off bacteria and dust
In his absence now a hollow slit

Tears fly horizontal,eyes are shut
Time goes slow and heavy weights oppress
The weeping wound shall heal if I have grit

Bring me wild flowers from the Clevelands plucked
Give me nectar where the wild bees suck
His presence was a comfort,laughter-lit
The wound heals and the love will never stop

We stayed with his family from where we hitched a lift in a lorry to the Cleveland Hills.We walked out in the sun and lay in some bee filled heather.We didn’t realise we were very near a steep cliff as this end of the North Yotkshire Moors crashes into the valley of the mighty Tees [recall High Force],Alas industry altered the lower end of the river as we all know the force of such rivers was used to drive water mills and other mechanical developments.

Wounds

I had an operation on my arm a few months ago and the wound opened after the stitches were removed… then a nurse said: it will have to heal from the bottom up…. that’s how I though of it.They tried sticky strips but they were no good as it was near my elbow so it was a hard place to heal with the movement of my arm affecting it

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The politicians walk on sinking sands
Like cockle pickers did in  Morecambe Bay
Humans need to live on  dryer land

Endangered  people  do not understand;
Wonder not if they should seek delay.
Our politicians walk on sinking sands.

The curtain of reality descends
Our rulers  get much shorter as they bray
Humans need to love the safer lands

Who in truth can full  Brexit defend?
Only heads and necks stick up and pray
As politicians  fall through sinking sands

Even as they go they  feel they’re grand
Swallowed up by moisture ,talking trade
Humans need to live on   steady land

Who is May and of what is she made?
Where her  rise and fall and who has paid?
The politicians walk on sinking sands
Human beings live best on  dry land

Who first  beheld  the world  and drew  the maps-
Language,words, and syntax to relate?
Who chose what to keep and what to drop?

Selective apprehension, struck by mop
Woomen’s weapon, simple undelayed
Who first engaged  with worlds  and drew  the maps-?

Before we had the words ,was God the cop?
Water hot,demonic is sins fate
Who chose what to keep and what to drop?

The settlements, the forests, twigs that snap
The centre is the home beloved, ornate
Who first  beheld  the world  and drew  the maps-?

Separate the moving from what stays
On the map the fixed we must then note
Who chose what to keep and what to drop?

Crows that fly and tigers detonate
Kill their prey and eat but don’t relate
Who first  beheld  the world  and drew  the maps-
Who chose what to drink and what to sup?

Now words and sentences are  my new toys
I break them up and rearrange their parts
No longer do I yearn to play with boys

No longer either do I fear my voice
Or whether I upturn the church’s cart
Now words and sentences are  my new toys

How I spend my time may be a choice
Swift thoughts  like striped fishes  rise and dart
No longer do I yearn to play with boys

Spending time  like money, no surprise
We see the  futile waste, ungifted hearts
Words and sentences are   sscred toys

Words and truth create a new alloy
We wander on without a map or chart
Here is Eden ,as play girls and boys

For  life’s  tender  joys I am alert
Woe is woven in  for our soul’s birth
Yes  joy and sadness mix as we each  play
No longer  shall I yearn  for other ways

The elegance of  structure and of bone
Obscene  post- reason steely, cold and bare
God once dwelt in  culture’s floating domes

Post modern art repels and makes no home
Leaves us wandering, does not seem to care
For elegance. for structure  or its bones

Mathematics dry  and dead ,unknown
Is PC   and yet our hearts it tears
Dwells in texts and not in  human groans

Yet love  endures in ancient bricks and stones
The Tudor wall  here, built by hands with flair
So  elegant in structure red brick leans

Incoherent, what do  tower blocks  mean?
In ugly cities  hear slit skylines swear
Where the  echoed goodness. where the  sin?

Past unused  stome churches , traffic swerves
No more are children  playing   on these kerbs
The structure  of  imagination’s spun
The space   for  sacred living shrinks, is gone

Snow clouds hang  like   canopies forlorn,
Tinged with grey from lack of proper care,
While from the Channel sing the dread foghorns

Sailors in  the night  long for  new  dawn
Fear  boats of refugees may still sail there
Snow clouds hang  like   canopies well torn

A dinghy  holds the Saviour  lately born
There is no space on earth safe  from  great fear
F rom the Channel sigh the  families   drowned

From maternal’ space, Jesu  is torn
His father holds his arms  around  those dear
Snow clouds hang, are  lacy wings  no more

The hearts of  British ” natives”  have turned sour
Into Jesu’s side we thrust  our spears
Tune the channel.Requiems need scores

All  lives now, and all of time is here
Do not  mistake the song of silent choirs.
Snow clouds hang  like   canopies forlorn,
While in the Channel,  stuttering are the horns

If we seek  by will power sacred fire
We may be well consumed and turn to dust
Do not seek, do not  to this aspire

Our  wish  to grasp  endangers  true desire
As certain as real loving’s doomed by lust
If we seek  by our will  sacred fire .

Do not hope  I am  an unjust liar
I do not care, believe it if you must
Do not seek, do not  to heights aspire.

Pilgrims suffered as they trod the mire
They learned by their  hard journey we are dust
If we seek   to  grasp the sacred fire .

If we draw too  close to those red pyres
God may cloth us in his golden mists
Do not seek, do not  to heights aspire

This  life’s not easy and it is not just
Do not leave too early, lacking trust
We cannot seek  by will the sacred fire
Never seek,  be lowly, don’t aspire

The  walls collapsing inwards as I ran
Making chaos of the once loved home
I feared to look  or write with my dear pen

By two created, now remains just one
And as I sat I heard my own voice moan
My  walls collapsing inwards, I was done

Yet now the  fighting and the sorting won
I’m feeling joyful as I labour on
I feared to look,  or write with my dear pen

From all  the suffering ,mourning , the mayhem
The  grieving long through woodland wild to roam
Not to see  that Jericho has come

Who shall grieve the least, the lion, the lamb?
Is there competition in our groans?
The   walls are   cracking    like  old window panes

Human hearts feel like cold wet limestone
When we weep they soften like old bones
I felt the walls collapsing inwards  killing men
I dared to look ,I saw my  love  was gone

Sitting in the silence of my room
February, cold and icy damp
Staring at the wall,I saw my doom

I saw a tunnel black as Satan’s broom
To which my train was heading with no lamp
Sitting in the silence of my room

Filled with dark despair and avid gloom
Nobody could help me, cat nor tramp
Staring at the wall,I saw my doom

A  golden garment  made  this dead soul bloom
No words spoken, everything was felt
Sitting in the silence of my room

The cloud of gold made manifest love’s flames
Dissolved my stoney heart,destroyed my guilt
Nothing  now shall  ever be the same

Behind, beneath,whichever way we tilt
The  golden being hides in all we’ve built
Sitting in the silence of my room
Tears fell down like showers of tender rain

Dreaming of my landlady again
Her accent posh as if she would be Queen
She hated  mess and mould but mainly men

Pure and tidy like a new made nun
Her virtue and her vice competing streams
Dreaming of my landlady again

As she grew older, purity was won
Her husband ran away and she turned green
She hated  mess and muck but mainly men

I wonder what might be her favourite sin
Eating Weetabix with milk and cream?
Dreaming of my landlady again

Her spouse  provided her with just one son
His cot  annoyed her husband ,I presume
She hated mats and mice but mainly men

She had no vacuum cleaner than a broom
She polished it with duraglit at noon
Dreaming of my landlady again
I gave her up for Lent but she’s not gone.

Creeds  have danger, action is what counts
Love your neighbour subtly and with care
Tell the truth in suitable amounts

Good  deeds are done in secret,God’s about
But views of him are  hidden  and are rare
Creeds  are minor, action is what counts

Do not offend nor patronise nor doubt.
The beggars  in the doorway  room nowhere
Tell the truth in suitable amounts

Live a secret life  but sing and shout
Write a letter clear and tinged with flair
Creeds  are minor, action is what counts

Preach no gospel,  do not sulk or pout
Hunt  no beast,admire the mad March hare
Tell the truth in suitable amounts.

If you meet a stranger, do not stare
If you meet an angel be prepared
Creeds  have danger, action is what counts
Tell the truth in suitable amounts

Is what I make  original and new?
Can  Imagination   leap and fly for me
To   recreate the glory   this child knew?

Who lit the candle flame that brought me view?
Who opened up my inner eye to see?
Is what I make  original and new?

We birth into a culture others grew
We´ŕe part of all,  responsible yet free
Oh,   recreate that glory  children knew

We make music with our voices too
The ram ś horn  or the stringed lute make plea
Is what we make  original and new?

The charcoal on the paper is a cue
I sail  with wonder on my  inner sea
Oh,   recreate the glory    children  knew

Oh,God , oh eye,  have mercy upon me
Oh God, the voice, the hand , the touch, save me
Is what I make  of worth and pattern new?
Oh,  recreate the glory, spare the Calvary

Porous bricks are air more than theyŕe clay
They  bake in sunshine,  soak in  British  rain
Inside the ir spaces human feelings stay

Anger, comfort,  love here find their place
And where thereś hatred they  may fill with pain
Porous bricks are air more than theyŕe clay

Children´ś laughter, grey fogs of disgrace
Dogs’ mad  barks with cats mioaws ingrained
Inside these spaces,music  noises stay

The  Shopping Complex   lacks an atmosphere.
Concrete does not soak up human pain
Porous stones are air more than theyŕe clay

From metal doors and windows bare and  clear
Emotions,  voices,kisses  flush to  drains
Inside such metal  beauty   cannot stay

Love  climbs  up  the roses  bleeds on   thorns
From red brick, old stone,    grace   is  new born
Porous bricks are  prayer more than theyŕe  clay
Inside the brick and stone old feelings  play

What is here nobody human knows
We barely see the other as we talk
We can´t put into words what our eyes show

If we see the beauty,  how love grows
Looking longer, thinking less,   tongue taut
What is here, nobody human knows

God is visible to all who´ŕe very slow
As we wonder,wander, as we walk
We can´t put into words what we are shown

Snails and beetles,fishes as they flow
Living waters,  buttercups,skylarks
What is here,  we can´t entirely know

The beauty of our naked love  brings awe
Eyes gleam,polished sunshine in the dark
We can´t   contain in words, but can we show?

Grace and patience light a living spark
Jesus is new born ,true  love lies stark
What is here no human fully knows
We can´t  describe  with words but painters show

I wear three pairs of woollen socks in bed
I wear a nightdress made of  petrol oil
A  hat of cashmere and a stole  of red

I turned the central heating off  and noone said
Why are you so foolish and so wild?
I wear three pairs of woollen socks in bed

I am a wraith,  have slept with a few dead
I met a man ,I bore his ghostly child
A  hat of cashmere and a stole  of red

I gave birth  with no aids  before I wed
I walked alone down  many holy aisles
I wear three pairs of woollen socks in bed

Ten times miscarried.I am now ill bred
I  cannot flirt I have no female wiles
Just hats of cashmere and a  book I read

In the sacred rites of love embroiled
I keep the change and mail the counterfoil
I wear three pairs of woollen socks, they breed
A   bag of cashmere holds  the books I read

My electric blanketś frozen to my bed
The sheet looks like a block of Arctic ice
I shall sleep inside the fridge tonight instead

At least my fair complexion won´ t turn red
I see a frozen cat and twenty mice
My electric blanket´ś frozen to my bed

I wonder what a husband might have said
If  he  found me on a bed of rice
I shall sleep inside the fridge tonight instead

Now I ´ḿ old  perhaps I can be bad
I have been so gentle, paid the price.
The electric blanket´ś frozen to my  head

I  ought to buy new shoes and paint the shed
Then I can indulge  in Eros´ vice
I shall sleep inside the fridge I´ḿ so ill bred

Love and hate  decided by the dice
What we do is chosen by its price
My electric blanketś frozen to my bed
I shall weep inside the fridge  where I´ll go mad

I am not idle though I do no thing
For reverie takes place when we relax
I learn from these wild blackbirds how   to sing

I   am savouring all my past doings
Wandering through wild woods on hidden tracks
I am not idle though I make no thing

Do butterflies feel sad they no wage bring
As Oxford students revel in the Backs?
I learn from gay wild blackbirds how   to sing

I hear the  bells of  heaven softly ring
As  the mother gives her baby suck
I am not poor though I  possess no thing

At  Christ’s Mass we see the food he brings
His torn body bleeding  left its track
I weep with  dear wild blackbirds  as they sing

In the world he made there is a crack
We cannot mend it nor put evil back
I am not idle though I do no thing
I learn from  contemplation how  life stings