To live each day like this,
So free like blossom windswept,
To not know what is work or play or rest,
But simply steps and words and smiling back,
To live each day like this,
So full of a glorious emptiness,
To let go of the possibilities,
And share food that tastes like the first time,
Tastes like the first day of Spring,
Just me and a milky sun watching on,
And there is so much time and space,
So many gaps and moments of peace,
Stepping in and out of the world,
Like a flickering movie scene,
Watching then acting then watching again,
Swept up on waves of awareness,
Swept back to gulp the air,
To live each day like this,
In a never ending picturescape,
This then all a frame of mind,
That each carries deep within,
This then all a gift we have,
That we left at the world's front door,
This then all a living secret, a raided casket,
That we now declare as TRUTH.
('In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, He was in the beginning with God, All things came into being through Him....And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.....And the word became flesh and tabernacled amongst us...This was He of whom I spoke...He who comes after me has been before me....He has declared Him...I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness...behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world' John 1:1-1:29. TRUTH is the word. The word is the TRUTH. Who stole the word? Who stole the TRUTH? 'A living secret, a raided casket'. Who found the word? Who found the TRUTH? You did!)
Friday, 26 February 2010
Monday, 15 February 2010
Glittering Prize
We care about the big things,
Over which we have no control,
The famine, the flood, the state of the world,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little things that lie just under our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we no longer see,
That which we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.
We care about the big things,
For these are worthy of our name,
The job, the car, the next pretty house,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little people that lie just at our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we don't see,
Those who we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.
Remember then the little things,
Brought each day unto you,
The glance, the pause, the touching hand,
The vision of how it could be,
Gather the children that lie at your feet,
Lift them to your gaze,
Hear and see what you love as your own,
Linger in the awareness of now,
Mend then the detailed stitching of our emotional lives,
Heal the leaking spirit of our daily grind,
For those who sacrifice for a moment of love,
Render the world as a glittering prize.
(Named after the Simple Minds song of the same name! An ode to the little things and the little people. It is an old, old message which I know we've all heard before. Maybe if we keep saying it over and over again, it will seep into a change in our behaviour. Until the next advert, the next newspaper article, the next disapproving glance.....what iron will it takes to live for the little things!)
Over which we have no control,
The famine, the flood, the state of the world,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little things that lie just under our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we no longer see,
That which we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.
We care about the big things,
For these are worthy of our name,
The job, the car, the next pretty house,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little people that lie just at our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we don't see,
Those who we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.
Remember then the little things,
Brought each day unto you,
The glance, the pause, the touching hand,
The vision of how it could be,
Gather the children that lie at your feet,
Lift them to your gaze,
Hear and see what you love as your own,
Linger in the awareness of now,
Mend then the detailed stitching of our emotional lives,
Heal the leaking spirit of our daily grind,
For those who sacrifice for a moment of love,
Render the world as a glittering prize.
(Named after the Simple Minds song of the same name! An ode to the little things and the little people. It is an old, old message which I know we've all heard before. Maybe if we keep saying it over and over again, it will seep into a change in our behaviour. Until the next advert, the next newspaper article, the next disapproving glance.....what iron will it takes to live for the little things!)
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Reclamation
Caught you skulking in the shadows,
Scurrying from town to town,
Glimpsed you sat at the bar in some southern hotel,
Idly stirring a cold dank coffee cream,
You are like a faint rash, a feint accomplice,
You are the sediment of my deepest draught,
The ridiculous dream of faithless friends,
How I would squeeze the life out of you,
Should you come within reach,
But, No, you are the unseen shadow, the slippery soap, the unscratched back,
Speak to me, you, the muted minister of my self doubt,
.............
.............
Speak to me
............
............
'Time was when I didn't need you,
Time was when I had my own life,
Time was when we were friends'
............
'Cast out in this splendid isolation,
Cast out to peddle like a paupered soul
Cast out to watch, observe the distance'
...........
'When will you let me come home?
When will you bathe me, waive the sorrows I caused?
When will you heal my withered hands?'
..........
Lets's meet again you and I
Not for gain or recrimination but just for something to do
You know sort of like young men do
When they know not how to tune their hearts,
Let's find the ways that rebuilt the trust once lost,
Through nothingness chats that pass the time,
And prove that we no longer have the will to kill or maime,
After you, no after you, no after you, please do
The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace
On into the possibilities of the male condition,
On into the white light that will fuse our bones once more.
Beyond the muck and blood of our unspoken separation
(This is a poem that wrote itself. There was no thought or idea in my mind when I started it so I suppose it is a stream of consciousness from somewhere. Something or nothing can be made of it. So what do I make of it now in hindsight? I think it is about the reality of our fragmented psyches i.e. the idea that we are made up of many sub-personalities that vie for control and dominance and don't always agree with each other! This is the central theme of the psychological model of transactional analysis with its sub-personalities of parent, adult and child and the internal dialogue that these 'energetic states' engage in as they struggle for their identity and role within the overall 'I'. In this poem, two sub-personalities have been fighting each other, one has 'won' the fight and banished the other, denying it a voice or a presence until now reluctantly inviting it 'back to the table'. We hear the banished fragment pleading to return and to be forgiven. As the poem nears its ending we learn that these are two 'masculine' sub-personalities that are not necessarily that emotionally intelligent :) ('The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace'). Still, in their own awkward way, they seek reconciliation and the psyche reclaims its completeness. You cannot 'kill off' these internal voices without destroying your authenticity - though many of us spend many years trying to do just that!)
Scurrying from town to town,
Glimpsed you sat at the bar in some southern hotel,
Idly stirring a cold dank coffee cream,
You are like a faint rash, a feint accomplice,
You are the sediment of my deepest draught,
The ridiculous dream of faithless friends,
How I would squeeze the life out of you,
Should you come within reach,
But, No, you are the unseen shadow, the slippery soap, the unscratched back,
Speak to me, you, the muted minister of my self doubt,
.............
.............
Speak to me
............
............
'Time was when I didn't need you,
Time was when I had my own life,
Time was when we were friends'
............
'Cast out in this splendid isolation,
Cast out to peddle like a paupered soul
Cast out to watch, observe the distance'
...........
'When will you let me come home?
When will you bathe me, waive the sorrows I caused?
When will you heal my withered hands?'
..........
Lets's meet again you and I
Not for gain or recrimination but just for something to do
You know sort of like young men do
When they know not how to tune their hearts,
Let's find the ways that rebuilt the trust once lost,
Through nothingness chats that pass the time,
And prove that we no longer have the will to kill or maime,
After you, no after you, no after you, please do
The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace
On into the possibilities of the male condition,
On into the white light that will fuse our bones once more.
Beyond the muck and blood of our unspoken separation
(This is a poem that wrote itself. There was no thought or idea in my mind when I started it so I suppose it is a stream of consciousness from somewhere. Something or nothing can be made of it. So what do I make of it now in hindsight? I think it is about the reality of our fragmented psyches i.e. the idea that we are made up of many sub-personalities that vie for control and dominance and don't always agree with each other! This is the central theme of the psychological model of transactional analysis with its sub-personalities of parent, adult and child and the internal dialogue that these 'energetic states' engage in as they struggle for their identity and role within the overall 'I'. In this poem, two sub-personalities have been fighting each other, one has 'won' the fight and banished the other, denying it a voice or a presence until now reluctantly inviting it 'back to the table'. We hear the banished fragment pleading to return and to be forgiven. As the poem nears its ending we learn that these are two 'masculine' sub-personalities that are not necessarily that emotionally intelligent :) ('The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace'). Still, in their own awkward way, they seek reconciliation and the psyche reclaims its completeness. You cannot 'kill off' these internal voices without destroying your authenticity - though many of us spend many years trying to do just that!)
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