Bridge

A country pasture, mid-winter:
stone bridge spans trickling stream.
Imperious crow caws atop a leafless lime;
lifeless machinery slowly corrodes,
tucked between hedgerow and cluttered
farm debris. Nature rests, undisturbed.
Standing on the bridge, an angel,
singing, fiery arms aloft, palms raised.
Its voice, unheard by earthbound ears,
vibrates the cosmos. The brown grass
greens; a tree bursts into blossom
without explanation. The crow leaps,
seeks a new perch. The stream dances,
ebullient. The seraph serenades the
landscape, lost in a moment of awe.

Longing

Our futures are guarded
and coldly dictated
by those proud-minded
dwellers
of our heart’s moral
high ground:
mountain ranges so bleak
that food and shelter are
the critical factors;
the atmosphere
so rarefied
that sustaining the organs
most vital for life
is the overwhelming
priority.
Devoid of other desires,
these prudent gatekeepers
overlook
the lowland plains and caves
where envy and longing
languish,
ignored and disdained,
harbouring dreams
of founding hospitals,
navigating oceans,
directing stage plays,
eradicating malaria.

 

Pictured: Richard Copley Christie
Window in the Christie Building, University of Manchester
Christie was a Mancunian lawyer, teacher and philanthropist

Reading: Alain de Botton,
The Pleasure and Sorrows of Work
http://alaindebotton.com/work/

Middle

Am I merely a latecomer
to the ego feast, developing
in middle age what others
developed in middle school?

Revelling in accomplishments
others made on leaving college;
finally building skills, career,
while others have their crisis?

An invisible man, I pride myself
in wearing the very finest of
bandages: nothing ostentatious,
but clearly quality wraps.

Despair

Accept your despair:
that’s the answer my friend,
you can’t ever fix it
however much you expend!
So let’s forge ourselves tools,
a pick and a spade,
then dig day and night
in sun and in shade;
let’s create in ourselves
a reservoir deep,
a storage container
and in it let’s keep
every emotion
that we ever feel,
the ones we like least
and everything real:
our joy and our hatred,
our fondness and fear,
our peace, pride and terror,
our doubt and a smear
of despair and despondency
such as you felt
when you first came to me
with that heart you’d been dealt.

Devil

The devil loves church,
ain’t no doubt about it:
if there’s a doctrine then
he’s gonna spout it,
if there’s a sermon then
he’s gonna preach it,
if there’s a Sunday School
he’s gonna teach it,
if there’s a worship song
he’ll sing it loudest,
if there’s a creed to say
he’ll speak it proudest,
if there’s a holy robe
he loves to wear it,
if there’s a burden
he’ll sure as hell bear it,
if there’s a custom
he’s certain to follow it,
if there’s a wafer
he’s sure to swallow it,
if there’s confession
there’s no doubt he’ll take it,
if there’s a procession
then he’ll always make it,
if there’s a liturgy
he’s sure to chant it,
if there’s absolution
you know that he’ll grant it,
if there’s a prayer meet
he’ll always attend,
if there’s a hierarchy
then he’ll ascend,
if there’s a Bible
you know that he’ll read it,
if there’s a revival
it’s likely he’ll lead it!

Any religious
pursuit or activity,
any devotional
deed or festivity
that brings us relief
from our day-to-day life
our work or our family,
and all that is rife
in the world, such as war,
such as famine and pain,
meaningless suffering
for financial gain,
homelessness, poverty,
sickness, pollution,
climate change, genocide,
mass execution:
church helps us exist
in this cauldron of hell,
helps us feel better
and stems the groundswell
of emotional torment
and practical action
required by humans
instead of distraction.
No wonder the devil
loves church and its trappings:
it’s the number one place
where sweet FA happens,
providing a safety valve
for faithful attendants
releasing the pressure of
life’s natural tensions,
letting them go back
to business as usual,
letting the world carry on
as excusable.

Friendship

We sit on a low wall
in the late afternoon sun,
drinking pineapple juice
from tall plastic cups
and finding childlike
pleasure in the
meandering progress
of a small, black beetle
across the uneven ground;
in the call of crows
from a nearby tree;
in crunching the ice cubes
from out of our drinks;
from the loose-fitting silence
that garbs our friendship.
Decades of understanding
have bloomed into serenity:
doing and saying nothing,
in the simplest of settings.

Down

Which way is down?
The path is no longer
so obvious, like in the
heady days of youth,
when all routes were
plainly marked, and “up”
was the only trail worth
pursuing with vigour.

“Down” should be conspicuous,
but I cannot seem to find
the way so well. Perhaps
the lack of signs confuses me,
or the way the light plays
tricks on these old eyes?
Maybe I’m just not so keen
to find this subtle path.

In any case, I stumble on,
sometimes clearly climbing,
sometimes on level ground;
at others I descend with
aching knees, making my
way Homeward through a
course of trial and error
and the longing of my heart.

Swimmers

Quantum swimmers all,
our doting parent
affirms that our unseen
achievements exist;
ensures our truest self
knows our unsung efforts
are nevertheless
acknowledged.
As we thrash and wobble
our way to life’s deep end,
the silent voice
of total devotion
buoys heavy limbs and
reassures heavy heart.
Though inattentive
lifeguards flirt and joke,
though bigger kids
spray water and laugh,
our progress is constant
and utterly without restraint.

Experienced

All very well
reading research,
poring over papers,
policies, procedures,
developing practice:
but are you experienced?

Have you been there
first hand?
Using the service,
not running the show;
otherwise,
how can you know?

Commissioners and
workers with
one-sided arguments
making decisions that
don’t affect them
in the least.

We like to do
things different
here.

Progress

Progress, it seems,
is really decline
into poison, death, and division;
yet still, we preserve
so many lives now:
but do we deserve this provision?
Give a billion souls
a quality life
with all of our clever machines:
and yet we observe
with increasing speed
the destruction of all of our means.
What kind of progress
will anyone make
when our planet makes the demands?
Devour each another
and everything else
with our very own blood-covered hands,
until, last of all,
we wipe ourselves out,
leaving only a hideous mess.
Or instead, dare we dream,
we actually learn
to live with so very much less?
And what of all those
who will never accept
such taxing and troublesome terms?
Will we also send them
for better or worse
to make food for the grubs and the worms?
For the sake of our progress,
and all in the name
of what we declare common good
will we carry on doing
what we’ve always done,
what we want, or, at last, what we should?