granny’s garden

 

the dying daffodils reminded me

of a long ago tended garden.

Each flower had a place

Reds on the left and yellow to the right

 

Granny pulled their heads off

and stomped on each stalk

frenetically each day she roamed

the rows of yellow daffodils

 

grandad could kill nothing,

not even a slug so he slunk

behind and gathered the leaves

tying them all together

with ribbons of concern

weeping as the willow by the pond.

 

I used to think granny hated

like hated every thing

but I think she was broken hearted

for the man she knew before

 

Grandad’s heart was aching

for all the men he’d known

who laid down their lives

in the war to end all wars

 

Granny played a lot of things

taking the role of winner

She hated the name granny

Preferring formal Grandmama

 

But I loved this statue of

ice cold tendrils

I was never scared like the others

She brought fear to every one

But I heard her pray once

For me and R and J

And for the two H’s in her life.

 

Two broken hearted people

Living in a box

Unable to talk or even to listen

Forever bound in silence

On reflection of the pond’s surface

Of a childhood long ago

The only way they could converse

Was having red on the left

And dying daffs on the right.

train of thought

In olden times when trains were slower

a plume of smoke filled the air

wheels turned at a rate of iambic pent.. meter

and poets sat in carriages pipe or pen in hand

rhythmic duh dums filled the body helping poetic charge

and epic tomes of railway journeys

created whilst travelling the land

 

try writing on today’s trains with the warp speed

finding a table facing premium forward aft

full of beer cans and half eaten buns

children encouraged instead of left at home

youths so black in clothes and spirit

 

the man behind crunching thru salted crisps

the young boy playing loud war games with his shadow

the girl in front her cleavage    beguiling

is the closest to any meter you’ll find

no there will be no bestseller written today

haiku

rhubarb stalks

stretch ever upward

poison to my soul

 

willow bare

raindrops ponder

fall to earth

 

bird’s chatter

sweetly sing me

safe in tree

 

dark cloud descends

raindrops follow

wet walk in mud

 

bitter wind

crushes my hope

spring gone again

 

hermetically sealed

from nature through

glass we see

 

elephant grass fibrillates

wafts purposelessly

view yet inhibits

 

cloud shape

eagle lands wide

sprawls wings royally

 

roof subsiding

tree growing

nature returns it all to earth

 

spring cherry blossom

pink clouds

float in puddles

 

black turf melts in fire

gran ponders

ashes and dust all

 

autumn leaves –

black in spring

in flurries caught in drains

 

rocking chair cat

white as snow

clouds pass unnoticed

 

resounding breeze

ruffles cat

black against dark sky

 

hair whips eyes

wind rustles trees

birds take flight

 

touches raindrops

cold on skin

dark sky by night

 

daffodils bend

snow drifts across

smells cleanly cold

 

cockerel crows

dawn breaks through

spring’s happy day

 

blossom bright sunshine

chickens peck worms

breeze gently passes

 

birdsong sweet

child snags coat

birds take flight

 

evening sun coats sky

yellow orange red

cold descends bright fire

sushirape

the assault on my senses;

wake up wasabi

cringe    pickled ginger

so salty soy sauce

crunch    cucumber

slime     seaweed

stickiness of rice

smoothness of fish

that is sushi

 

the assault on my body;

tense   hearing him

furtive footsteps

look up      late

huge hairy hands

pull into bushes

ripping    clothes

grabbing    parts

that is rape

 

the assault on my mind;

covertly crying

gathering rags

running     home

calling out   “nothing wrong”

running    bath

“just need time    alone”

this is cover up

 

the assault on my life;

I allowed sushi in

like a man it took over my senses

I can no longer taste

semolina or porridge

I allowed that man power

like sushi he took over

I no longer abide

and abhor all men

Day six How would John Wesley take his coffee?

Two years ago or possibly less when I was given the task of reading these forty four sermons I completed the task. I am a monkey see monkey do kind of a girl and so if I am given a task I complete it. There is a whole world of difference between reading something and reading and understanding it.

Now I am discovering there is a whole pile of difference between blandly reading and engaging with the author. So there is what two hundred and fifty years time difference but I want to have a cup of coffee with John Wesley. His mind intrigues me, and as I travel half way across the country for a decent Spirit filled conversation I have no problems imagining travelling back in time.

I wonder what he would make of us now, there are no penny gin houses in London anymore but there are plenty of distractions for a Christian to get caught up in, like finding the best barista in town. Such opulence, such spendthriftly ways in church. Where’s the fire? Where’s the commitment? Let’s have tea instead.

Would we listen to his vitriolic sermons? Would we turn on our heel, well turned out ones at that? What kind of church have we become? What kind of welcome would he receive?

And I want to ask him loads of questions about how his ideas changed? And then I am thinking am I going to do this with all these theologians and preachers from eons ago. And then I am just smiling wryly and thinking of all the times in my life I was supposed to study and wouldn’t and what a transformation to this voluntary immersion.

So a daft small poem to celebrate reaching my favourite sermon (9)

Java with John

I wonder how he takes his coffee?

Or would he go for tea?

This instance of historic holiness

Sitting in our putrid mess

 

Wesley preached a mighty sermon

Lived a life shrunk from ermine

Forbearance he taught

Universality for naught

 

But what did he teach us

What can we learn

The heart of his theology

Is his astute pneumatology

 

To live a life in the Spirit

Collecting gifts and fruit

To love as we are loved

Communion with the unloved

 

So John will ye have a latte

With you being older than Kawate

I know enough not to offer Rioja

But what about a mocha?