Beginning...

Beginning - Pause, Bearing the image, Bone of my bone, Stone, Towards bigger poems

Pause

Sixth Day - almost done.

Are we sure we’re ready?

Light? Good one! Check.

Firmament? Still firm. Check.

Land? Alps and orchards, heaths and beaches. Check.

Stars? Sun, Moon, Saturn, oceans of galaxies. Check.

Birds? Fish and wiggly things? Check.

Animals? Hooting, howling, squeaking, squealing. Check.

All set then. But are we sure?

Can they bear the burden of the Image?

Will they speak the lyric of the Word?

Eternity paused.

And in that pause God dreamed, and in that dream

Were burning forests, air unbreathable,

Rivers and seas were slicked with liquid filth,

Machines for mincing people into mud

Rattled and shuddered, while a billion tongues

Cursed and lamented, insults, taunts and lies…

And drowning in that tide of hate, Himself,

Naked and pierced to the marrow, giving all.

Time woke again, with a sigh that shivers

Trembling through every made thing.

And God said, “Let us make man…”

Bearing the image

Still without memory, still unaware

Of any possibility of future, there

Sprawls Adam in his golden thoughtlessness

Upon the green of Eden, where he is

Contemplated. While he continues whole

Completeness only incompletes his role.

The cut is deep. A trail of scarlet blood

Leads to where Eve too slumbers upon sward.

Adam’s wound will close, hers will remain.

New life is only birthed in blood and pain.

She dreams of a thorned and weaponed future where

A cross awaits the offspring she will bear

And now the image opens in her eyes 

Of Love most fully given when it dies.

Bone of my bone

In a velvet purse

I keep blood and treasure,

destiny and source –

fear my hips' swagger!

You are the pen that skids

lightly on the paper.

I am the book that holds

the word for ever.

I am you and not you

both kin and stranger

like lover and like foe

I demand surrender.

Stone

I was hot then.

I flowed molten into the dark

from his glowing mouth.

He named me from his being:

"I too am Rock."

Brittly my stony voice

tinkled into the wastes

as I slowly cooled. 

Then I out-sat aeons,

my being all patience. 

Now I wait here

poised over darkness

hoarding his wrecked body

Till I become a mouth:

and he speaks a new word into the void.

Towards Bigger Poems

“The mountains skip like lambs… the trees of the field clap their hands”

Immobilised, these mountains

Have no heels for skipping

But they dance in the swaying of their trees.

These sitkas, oaks and cedars

Have no hands for clapping

But the breezes shake their branches.

These branches have no song

But they lift up the birds

And carry their carols skywards.

But the birds have no words…

Here, little sisters, take mine.

Let me be your librettist

That your song may resound in me

That my song may be healed with

Your ancient majesty, your green upwelling,

Your swift-winged melody.

Then our dance and our applause,

Our music and our meaning

Will be offered in praise to the One

Whose party is just getting started…