bad poetry

Love {arrived}

van-gogh-nativity.jpgThe thing is …

No that won’t work

 

Joe, Joey, my beautiful man

God says I’m pregnant

O Lord give me the words

 

I get it, the whole angel thing

I really do -but Joseph

 

Lord he’s a chippy not a theologian

How is he going to understand?

 

~~

Mary, my Mary my sweet angel girl

She is still sweet

 

The angel dude he visited me too

Explained it all so even I could take it in.

We are having a baby… Whoo hoo.

 

~~

two thousand years of literal and liberal,

of conservative and radical

 

there are some who believe the incarnation

and there are some that doubt

just as some scoff at creation

 

and here’s their deal – the argument they say

Mary lied to cover an indiscretion

 

How could the Messiah be born

In such a lowly way

To a peasant girl in Bethlehem

 

~~

Me – I’m all in, believe the whole thing

Creation, Fall, Rebellion, Redemption

 

And the best bit, as in any story

In the last few paragraphs …

Of a city, a hill and no more sorrow.

On {strike}

strike it once,

strike it twice,

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

talk at table

of striking miners

and Fidel Castro

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

politick of youth

so very long ago

no work on Maggie’s farm

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

perspective and reflection

two powerful God given tools

left and right, nada

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

clarity attained

it’s God’s will in His way

No only ever could

 

strike it once

overstate with twice

stretch your neck out on the block

 

Moses what were you thinking

Disobedience at the end

Sad but painfully true.

 

 

Sky Path

Who worked the path

That I traverse

To make it easier – for me

 

I love to look up

Into the inky black sky

A rainbow collar around the moon

White shiny dots

Outline the plough

And the guy for archery

 

Sometimes even planets

Are seen but I know nothing of these

I see only pinhole camera dots

 

Filled with wonder

Full of awe

At the hands that threw those lights into space

And who made my heart His home

Someone told me about the deathstars

Bright shining lights signalling death

 

One night two years ago

I saw a shooting star

Drop from the sky

 

Billy sang it was a satellite

And he wished you cared

But I saw it shoot

And I did not wish anything

As it fell down straight.

To you though, my love, my friend

 

I look forward to spending time with you

Your mission field was a small patch of land

Seeds planted in each new child

 

I wonder do the others

Bear their seeds on their path

Maybe if I looked horizontal and not up

I would see across the meadow

Or see pairs of oxen too

Evenly yoked through history

 

The people came before and are yet to come

The ones who surround me now

The crowd of witnesses from the field

 

Bringing us all

Closer to Thee O Lord

Closer to Thee.

{lonely} boy

No messages, you have no messages

the sanitised voice revealed.

No messages, no friends, no life

Thomas concluded in his head

 

He imagined pressing the button

the proclaimed the number of friends

no friends, you have no friends

Thomas moved through his house

 

Once more he imagined the button

the shrill metallic female

Shouted, don’t you get it – loser boy

no message, no friend, no life

 

Thomas had been here before

in the aloneness of loneliness

he stood by the window

and cried.

Lost

The fragment of mirror showed

I was no longer me

No longer my brother’s brother

Or my father’s son
The unclean swine I tended

Ate better meals than I

But no matter how hungry I was

I did not touch their food
Dad, he taught me the scriptures

He showed me right from wrong

Each day was a lesson

Something to chew on and grow
Do not murder, do not steal

No coveting another’s wife

Each rule, each law, each point 

Was made in love by dad
Minding pigs, I look back

Returning to my home, in mind

I realised I had not really left

Through the food the swine ate
Before my dad was born

Some of our kind turned Greek

And maybe for a while I did the same

Though I did not uncircumcise
All the money in the world

And all the food of a banquet

Cannot replace my home community

So I refused {point blank} to steal
I planned to return to my daddy’s place

Unsure of his response

Expectation of punishment

I still longed to be at his side

Once more

Listening to his deep, wise, words
The rhythm of his farmyard life

Beats still into my heart

I yearn to be his servant 

Not a son, after what I’d done
But look! Dad is running

Hoisting his robes above his knees

Breaking rule after rule but hey…

He running and smiling and laughing

And hugging and kissing me.

Prodigal

The son was lost

Not only lost physically

Like I am each week

On a Wednesday

In Dublin, by Donnybrook

But he was lost from his culture

He was no longer “Jewish”

He no longer felt human

He smelt of pigs

The pigs ate better than him

Which showed in a weird queasy way

That he was not a hopeless case

He had within him

Buried under layers of crud

Some integrity

He had no dignity

But a tiny, small bit of rectitude.

Enough to make him know shame and guilt.