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Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category


Do not look back with rage, despair or grief

To a past, distorted by fractured memory,

Which you cannot change.


Believe in the silence of listening expectantly

For God’s word of love for you,

Penetrating into your breath of life,


And swirling up from the fertile ground of the destiny

He has chosen for you.


A clear-cut stream frisks
Over moss-leathered granite –
Stones smooth from ancient moulding
Of a pattering current’s constant pressure,

And I dabble my gritted, bare feet,
Suddenly stark-chilled, as the hazy sun
Draws its corrugation of dust-curtains
Over the wave-cornfields, to turn and twist
Like assembled flocks of starlings’
Soaring arch in grey-black clouds.


I write absence on the page, (the pen is dry,
Sterile of ink), borrowing a strange
Song of despair from waterless clouds.

They feed me poisonous morsels
To kill with false satisfaction, breeding cancer
To the very core of my being.

I wish to understand the essence of music
That shapes language in black and white notes
As the background to a noble journey,

Where the Word is spoken and creates
With manifold splendour all that moves
In harmony and praise.

Yes, my desire is to be the scribe
Who tells the beautiful story,
After my eyes are opened to see
The world in faith and love.

Not of my own, but given once
I ask out of my need of Him,
The Author of my life.

First Love

He meets you at the mill-gate, thinking to
Pass by, but caught in your winsome trap,
Stops to gaze and fumble for silly words,
You smile in easy triumph at his loss,
Found in this strangely glad encounter,
And wait, perhaps remembering with
Irony the many others who bent to your will.
Now here this tongue-tied boy squirms
But does not want to go free. He listens
To the beat of a heart, edged with fervour.
He dare not move, for then he’ll reveal
The turmoil of uncontrollable passion
Which with violent twists tumbles
Its way through broken, bleeding flesh.


line-stacked cottage breathes
in rippled haze from its chimney gyrating
smoke skyward, and a
crisply laid meadow creaks and flakes,
warm from the dust-shafts of dawn,
as nature stretches dew-damp limbs
into a day-spring, freshly painted
with earthbound-rainbows, brimming
over with the densest clouds
of scattered bloom and petal,
for all is nurtured within the soil.

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