The bricks of the old wall while crumbling live Five hundred years of history passed them by While plants grew in the cracks below, above
Apart from people, this is what I love That ancient structures stand and do not die The bricks of this old wall while crumbling live
A little beauty will do well enough This cheers my heart and lifts my spirits high Wild flowers grow in cracks below, above
We fill our minds and homes with shop bought stuff Gaze on bricks and cracks, what will we spy? The bricks of this old wall while crumbling live
Like old complexions, older bricks are rough The Vicar cannot smooth them though they try Holes for plants inscribe these cracks with love
From generations past, ghosts wander. shy. Looking for their graves, they whisper,sigh The bricks of the old wall still crumbling live Tenacious weeds shall wave below, above
0 Posted on January 22, 2019 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, reckless are the horns
Let preconceptions, though well meant, depart Creative work evades such plans and schemes To write a poem will shake the entire heart
To write a poem will take our entire heart Our mind and soul, our body and our dreams. With trepidation, take a pen and start
We travel lands unknown without a chart. With our courage, trust the dark unseen For inspiration, take a pen and write
We bite the apple,bitter, hard and tart Knowledge enters in its dream -like streams To write a poem will move each living heart
No logic,reasoning, signs,however wrought Will bring to life the holy pattern’s themes With each image, still your dreaming hear
The earth, the oceans, seas, the sacred scenes Where humans live out daily what life means To write a poem, we need the mystic heart In emptiness, we fill our pens, we start
Our Father,Aneurin Bevan, Exploded is thy game; Why,Kingdom come, Before thy will be done. No N.H.S.No Heaven. Give us fair pay,our daily bread; Don’t leave us with PTSD As we confront those who legislate against us. And feed us not with deprivation, But deliver us from Weasels. For thine was the Fair Game,the Hour and the Story Maybe once but will it be ever again? …
A man can no more diminish God’s glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, ‘darkness’ on the walls of his cell. C. S. Lewis
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/worship_2.html
If we knew a human being who demanded constant praise and admiration then we would think they were a bit odd..mayube children need it and it’s nice to get a litttle but if God needed it all the time he’d be a narcissist which is illogical with regard to God
We worship God because it’s in our nature to worship and so we need to worship someone or something which is good.Otherwise we will worship the Queen new kitchens,copper pans, handsome men,lovely womem,loft conversions.expensive food…my calves,my eyes,my mind,your mind,arguing,war,sex,drugs etc,halogen cooking hobs, washing machines,
Better to worship trees if God is not your cup of tea
And I believe many people feel being grateful for the beautiful world is good for us instead of complaining all the time.Gratitude and making up quarrels is good for our spirit.I think it must be terrible for people who commit murder especially because even if they are sorry they can’t bring their victim back.In such a case praying and meditating might help.Sadly most murders take place at home and it seems children are often victims.That is something I don’t know enough about but povery and lack of work for men seem factors..Husbands and wives always quarrel and it’s not beyond imagining we might pick up the bread knife and wave it about.
If I were God I’d prefer people to try to get on with other people instead of worshipping me.In the past the idea we might go to Hell was meant to stop us doing bad things but I don’t think it worked as people in difficult situations lose control and now it is never mentioned.
What is most puzzling is why Christians like the Crusaders thought it was alright to murder hundreds/thousands of Jews and Moslems as they approached the so called Holy Land.You don’t have to be THAT intelligent to see that if God exists he made them as well as us.So why would he want us to kill them?I don’t know whether on balance Christianity has done more harm than good.I fear it may be so….Jesus would be surprised if he saw the Vatican… he is surprised,he told me just now… why not sell it?Give the money to the poor… well,it’s there in the Bible.. the still,small,voice
Evoking the beauty, the stars so far away, I like to watch geese at the end of day. Patterns and poems disclose other worlds. Feel the hand of a baby with the fingers all curled
See the trust and the smile when the mother is home, To create entire worlds for the one she has borne. For chaos and panic or not far away Even in adults who don’t care to say.
The little hands touch me so deeply, so well; How come the world is diving to hell? How can we kill little wains by the score Was it for this that I opened your door?
Was it for this that love electrified us, And we were lost in each other, in the holy white dove. Was it for war that we gave love our wombs Making more soldiers and filling more tombs?
The bombs are a-loading they’re having parades. It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude. Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes. Let the allies laugh blindly as the Lord Jesus dies.
O take me, dear mother.Please take me away I can’t see no point in saying my prayers. The leaders’ religions are making God frown. The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down.
The centuries of living so free , so mobile; The holy land blessing as they pause for while. The little black tents like wombs of the night Are all gone to shredders as we sing, Silent Night.
Elena,a baby wrapped in woollen clothes. On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow, [ change Niegoreloje.] 1939.Father,mother,brother You passed through the Arctic Wastes of life. Still as if travelling on a train To an impossibly far destination. As you left the German Army crashed into Warsaw Lost,your aunts Your cousins. Your culture. How does God select the damned? You had your own baby,here in England, Not lost like all those others. Your father died by his own hand, The hand of history; The fingers twitching, Not sure where to point. Then settling into frozen grief A sculpture only your mother saw. You saw too,Elena. You always saw,though you can’t remember; The long journey, your mother’s breast, Your father’s silence. Only the dead know that silence. Only the dead weep With the rocks and stones . And the ice in each eye Fell like snow down your cheeks As you held your own infant. Warsaw to Moscow, Moscow to Jerusalem. Always journeying Looking for what they can never find: The home they left behind The presence of the dead Lying in gaunt heaps Like rubbish Your aunts, Elena. Your cousins. You never knew them. But there’s a hole in your mind Through which the Polish wind forever blow
So my copse has ripened to a wood How many living creatures dwell within? The shades of green, the sunshine, and the Good
Once we had three apple trees,a glut Today, too old to fruit, they stand there still My copse has turned into a little wood
Neighbours hint that I get my trees cut Yet these leaves of green make my heart full The shades of green, the sun the wind ,the gods
Once we read there was a total Flood Now we have the bush fires and their will Still, my copse has turned into a wood
Trees have their green sap where we have blood They will never wound, will never kill The shades of green, the sun the wind ,the gods
Just like Eve and Adam we may sin The maple waves away my mental pain My copse has turned into my private wood The shades of green, the long path.Come, my Love.
I have walked the silent paths of grief Sunless,dreary,cold and all alone.
I have slept on beds of winter leaves.
I know that death’s a greedy starving thief. Although my heart weeps and my joy has gone. I have never felt I was deceived.
I have learned that human life is brief. I have learned by sorrow we’re undone. I have sifted earth and what’s beneath.
I have felt the dark emotions seethe I’ve felt cruelly burned by glaring sun. I have learned the geography of grief.
I wait in sorrow for this life to cease Yet some are never loved by anyone I have dreamed in beds of winter leaves
Unconsoled grief can make us dumb Into our hearts, we drag the ice that numbs I have walked the silent paths of grief I have made my bed on winter leaves
Hidden in the sprawl of suburbs green, Extended semis,kitchens full of tools Ancient houses where the long lost dreamed
Visited by Tudor king and queen Here to hunt,to gain release from rule Hidden in the sprawl of suburbs green
Keats’s autumn mists and mellow streams Where children loved to fish in dark cool, pools Edged by houses where the long gone dreamed
In new kitchens, butcher’s sharp knives gleam See tall fridges where the meat is cooled Common in the sprawl of suburbs green
Busy parents don’t hear children scream. Welcome to the demons of misrule In the houses where no-one can dream
Now time is racing, pauses are for fools Post and pre, our modern life is cruel Hidden in the sprawl of suburbs green Ancient houses, would that I could dream,
Someone told us that you are feeling rather low. Are you planning to commit suicide?
No I’ve never been very good at planning I believe in spontaneity
Well are you thinking about it?
Dr I think you need help. Have you heard of Heisenberg uncertainty principle? My
I’m not certain.
That’s the thing nobody is certain. We might plan to commit suicide at 4pm and then 0 we might see the ice cream van coming down the streetm
So you would rather have an ice cream then die at 4 p.m.?
Well I could have the ice cream now and then commit suicide at five p.m. unless something else happens like my husband comes home from work and wants to go to bed with me.
What before he to’s even had a shower?
Sometimes men can’t wait
How about having sex in the shower?
It’s too wet for me
Anyways the doctor wants to know if I’m planning to die soon.
Tell her to make a novena and see where her God will reveal the truth.
But it’s so uncertain isn’t it because even if you’re planning something you can change your mind because maybe you’re doing it because you want to write a novel and you’re living out the action in your own real life first to see how it goes and if you’re satisfied with it you can write it all down and make it into a novel and make a lot of money out of it!
I don’t know what Heisenberg would have thought but as is no longer here we just ignore that.
The one advantage of feeling low is you can’t go any further down
He that is down need fear no fall
He that is low no pride
Wow you’re getting poetic
And if you’re at the top you can’t go any higher so you have to come down
Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.
