Blood from a Stone: Incarnation

Tiny hand
wrapped around
my lady’s finger
 
Tiny Hand
wrapped around
my heart
 
squeezing 

Advent

In that perfect moment
with that Baby’s cry
the world and all that is therein
cried out.  Cries out
screams, moans, moos,
barks, whines, sobs, shouts
sings out
the one Word
 
I am waiting
for that perfect moment
to come
even so come
 
Every moment
is now and ever shall be
that perfect moment
no bigger than a mustard seed
held in the palm of
my hand
offered up
on my knees
down and
crying out.

Over There

He went
            for King and country
            maybe
            for God and glory
            maybe
            for something to do
 
            some way to define himself
 
He crawled through the mud
of the worst men can do
Until he saw
He was a worm
 
Cocooned the earth-bound soul of him
weighted with so much death
weighted with so much darkness
immured it
until the butterfly
beautiful, unsubstantial
charming and unencumbered
 
And yet
 
tethered to the festering
mass of the soldier
he’d been –
 
Over There.

What Cost

I wonder if she ever knew
 
Did she know?
 
How could she have known
 
that he was never who he said he was
that he was not all there
 
How could he be?
Having left that man, that
            monster
            on the battlefield
 
That he had to be larger than life
            in his dreams
to fight the monster
            in his nightmares
 
The monster had fought and killed
            and bled and screamed
            and hated and raged
            and wept and wept
 
He had to kill the monster – didn’t he?
 
So what came back was a myth
            of sorts – wasn’t it?
 
and how do you love a myth?
as it’s being written
 
How do you write a myth from within?
 
How do you kill yourself without
            killing yourself?
 
Kill the coward, save the hero?
Kill the hero, save the coward?
 
Kill the boy, save the man?
Kill the man, save the boy?
 
What cost.

Requiem I

When my father died
            there was Houseman
            and Wordsworth
            And there was Tallis and Vaughan Williams
 
When my mother died
            there was nothing
            no poet, no composer
 
When my sister died
            there was colour
            there was sorrow and celebration
            there was champagne and Barber,
            the psalms and the requiem
 
What was for my mother?
            a laugh I knew was private
            a poet for me, a composer for me
What was for my mother?
            words had betrayed her, I think
            music, abandoned by her
            as too much vulnerability
 
I would give her words, compose a symphony:
     strength
     sorrow            
     anger                                       
     love    
     hope
     joy            
     absurdity                                       
     pride               
 
(rest in)
     peace.

Body of lies

at 4
a fireman
 
at 9
an author
 
at 13
unsure
 
at 14
only more so
 
only sure I could be nothing
could be only nothing.
 
Unloved.

Amen

O my Belovéd:
Teach me to hear the music in all things –
that accompaniment to the still small voice
which speaks to me continually of love and truth,
bringing joy, comfort, compassion, health, and hope
 
Help me to sing the songs I was meant to sing
Help me to find the harmony to sustain me
and to hear what the music is telling me.
 
Amidst the busyness of life,
help me to find the still point that is love
the place of harmony where truth flows
through and around me –
unquenchable, purifying, tempering.