Responses to Faith

The images were drawn, scanned in and coloured on-screen. The top eight are a recently-begun project that will include twelve poems/meditations (already written) with illustrations.


And a Prayer Happened


But did I stop doodling?

No.

As your call unravelled

On the end of the line,

I drew (instead of flowers and squares)

Your desperate, desperate news.

And there in between

The Terms and Conditions

And the name and address

(A utility bill),

I rough-scrawled a surgeon and you and a bed

(And even your illness,

With scribbly scowl and a face and legs).

But this is no Art in a worldly way -

It's a call from God

To my ear to my hand

And back to God,

And the bad-messy lines

Have broken the bounds

Of Time and Space

To be pondered by Him

As a prayer, as a plea,

As He tends the vast and precious realm

Of delicate human hope.


Seeing the Light

(Someone noticed a butterfly on the font during singing practice)

There’s light through the window,

And each every butterfly

Duly unfettered,

Yet oh, so a prisoner

Flat up against

The gaudy glass,

So desperately spreading

Magnificent wings,

Beguiled by a crafted,

Artifice glow.

Yet there’s a dissenter,

Unsung, unseen,

In a so-less-obvious

Corner (dark),

Who crouches alone

In sombre state

On the cold, heavy font

So near to the door.

And it's only then,

A kind, gentle hand,

It lifts that drab

And powdery sliver

Outside to drink

The quickening warmth

And the glorious glow

Of freedom, of summer,

Of a God-made day.

The Church Clock

Up the fractured vertebrae stairs,

The hollow tower,

And every tick and every tock

Is counting those steps and tallying the years.

The black iron cogs

In the time-worn clock,

Industrial halos for a myriad angels

Who, synchronised, dance

To the same Celestial

God-Born Beat

As that vital, skeletal, metal heart

In its venerable husk

Of stone.

The cogs, they govern

The wind-blown face

And they talk to the hands

And they bang out the bell

Over mortal concerns.

And the woman below

Hears its solid

Proclamation

While posing the blooms

For someone no longer a prisoner of Time,

Of one who did heed the Celestial chime

That calls the faithful to Heaven.

Seeds of Love


"Look," He said

As, being The Catalyst,

He pulled right out

The musty, swollen

Drawer of my Being

That I'd left neglected

For fear it should shame me -

Or jam and stick.

"Yes, look," He said,

"A packet of seeds.

Now… sow them."

And He indicated, firm,

Just once again

The creased and faded

Solitary pack

Of Sow-Me-And-Water-Me

In the guilt-laden

Deep, nagging gloom,

A forgotten corner

Which now had turned

(In my panicked mind),

To a starkly lit,

All-too-public spectacle…

But I did not reckon

On the delicate touch

Of His understanding.

"Please look," He said,

As I tended a slim

And fresh fragility,

And He watered the shoots

Of new, promised life.

Church

I sit at the kerb

With a cold flesh of stone

But, yes - a warming,

A breath within.

And my host is the village

That yet regards me

With care, with care...

And many have come

Who adorn this place

With a garment of Love

More subtle than paint

And finer than glass -

With a Love

That is myriad,

Woven all through

With the glow- warm thread

Of a beating heart.

And ever I watch

As young women text,

As a child runs past

And a man staggers by

With a yell to the world.

Come visit (crying out?

Or still in the moment

With utmost poise?

I really don't mind)

Just bring me yourself

And I'd love to break soon

(With you)

The Bread.


So, how about Sunday?



Mary


The wind blows the cloth

Against her form

And all is there,

And all apparent,

To be whispered about

Behind an aching

And tautened back.

And that swelling?

A whole, dark

Universe, world

To the unborn speck

So lacking in state

Of experience -

Yet He is the print

Of the infinite God

Who made the girl

And all around her

In the vast beyond.

The child (unformed

Yet infinitely knowing),

The world’s only answer,

In mortality confined

By a waist once slender

And easy encompassed

By a carpenter’s hands.




The Bread and the Wine

Hymn

He is the plain, the hillside,

He is the mountain on high,

He is the dawning,

He is the reason why.

He is the rolling thunder,

He is the hope on the storm,

He is the splendour,

He is the cure, the reform.

He is the sun, the harvest,

He is the summer, the rain,

He is the growing,

He is the gathering grain.

He is the wheat, the barley,

He is the grape on the vine,

He is the mannah,

He is the bread and the wine.

For the music, please click on the video below:

The Communion Table


The trees, all cut down,

Asleep in their tomb

Of a workaday yard,

Reduced to our narrow,

Rightangle Creed,

The stiff, mortal rule

Of set square and block.


Resurrected, assembled,

They could have been fashioned

A barrier, fence,

A deaf-mute post,

A marker of property

Loathing our presence...


But one has been chosen

To build that place

Where Faith is fed,

To be...

The frame of a stage

Where a prayer delivered,

(Salvation proclaimed)

May speak for us all,

And raise the the silver,

The crisp white cloth

And the fragile feast

That serves for a fare

We pray to be fit for

God.




Words sketched out in a church in the middle of Oxford while escaping the mayhem of Christmas shopping. I was struck by the beautifully polished finish on the arches.


s your call unravelled

On the end of the line,

I drew (instead of flowers and squares)

Your desperate, desperate news.

And there in between

The Terms and Conditions

And the name and address

(A utility bill),

I rough-scrawled a surgeon and you and a bed

(And even your illness,

With scribbly scowl and a face and legs).

But this is no Art in a worldly way -

It's a call from God

To my ear to my hand

And back to God,

And the bad-messy lines

Have broken the bounds

Of Time and Space

To be pondered by Him

As a prayer, as a plea,

As He tends the vast and precious realm

Of delicate human hope.


Seeing the Light

(Someone noticed a butterfly on the font during singing practice)

There’s light through the window,

And each every butterfly

Duly unfettered,

Yet oh, so a prisoner

Flat up against

The gaudy glass,

So desperately spreading

Magnificent wings,

Beguiled by a crafted,

Artifice glow.

Yet there’s a dissenter,

Unsung, unseen,

In a so-less-obvious

Corner (dark),

Who crouches alone

In sombre state

On the cold, heavy font

So near to the door.

And it's only then,

A kind, gentle hand,

It lifts that drab

And powdery sliver

Outside to drink

The quickening warmth

And the glorious glow

Of freedom, of summer,

Of a God-made day.

The Church Clock

Up the fractured vertebrae stairs,

The hollow tower,

And every tick and every tock

Is counting those steps and tallying the years.

The black iron cogs

In the time-worn clock,

Industrial halos for a myriad angels

Who, synchronised, dance

To the same Celestial

God-Born Beat

As that vital, skeletal, metal heart

In its venerable husk

Of stone.

The cogs, they govern

The wind-blown face

And they talk to the hands

And they bang out the bell

Over mortal concerns.

And the woman below

Hears its solid

Proclamation

While posing the blooms

For someone no longer a prisoner of Time,

Of one who did heed the Celestial chime

That calls the faithful to Heaven.

Seeds of Love


"Look," He said

As, being The Catalyst,

He pulled right out

The musty, swollen

Drawer of my Being

That I'd left neglected

For fear it should shame me -

Or jam and stick.

"Yes, look," He said,

"A packet of seeds.

Now… sow them."

And He indicated, firm,

Just once again

The creased and faded

Solitary pack

Of Sow-Me-And-Water-Me

In the guilt-laden

Deep, nagging gloom,

A forgotten corner

Which now had turned

(In my panicked mind),

To a starkly lit,

All-too-public spectacle…

But I did not reckon

On the delicate touch

Of His understanding.

"Please look," He said,

As I tended a slim

And fresh fragility,

And He watered the shoots

Of new, promised life.

Church

I sit at the kerb

With a cold flesh of stone

But, yes - a warming,

A breath within.

And my host is the village

That yet regards me

With care, with care...

And many have come

Who adorn this place

With a garment of Love

More subtle than paint

And finer than glass -

With a Love

That is myriad,

Woven all through

With the glow- warm thread

Of a beating heart.

And ever I watch

As young women text,

As a child runs past

And a man staggers by

With a yell to the world.

Come visit (crying out?

Or still in the moment

With utmost poise?

I really don't mind)

Just bring me yourself

And I'd love to break soon

(With you)

The Bread.


So, how about Sunday?



Mary


The wind blows the cloth

Against her form

And all is there,

And all apparent,

To be whispered about

Behind an aching

And tautened back.

And that swelling?

A whole, dark

Universe, world

To the unborn speck

So lacking in state

Of experience -

Yet He is the print

Of the infinite God

Who made the girl

And all around her

In the vast beyond.

The child (unformed

Yet infinitely knowing),

The world’s only answer,

In mortality confined

By a waist once slender

And easy encompassed

By a carpenter’s hands.




The Bread and the Wine

Hymn

He is the plain, the hillside,

He is the mountain on high,

He is the dawning,

He is the reason why.

He is the rolling thunder,

He is the hope on the storm,

He is the splendour,

He is the cure, the reform.

He is the sun, the harvest,

He is the summer, the rain,

He is the growing,

He is the gathering grain.

He is the wheat, the barley,

He is the grape on the vine,

He is the mannah,

He is the bread and the wine.

For the music, please click on the video below:

The Communion Table


The trees, all cut down,

Asleep in their tomb

Of a workaday yard,

Reduced to our narrow,

Rightangle Creed,

The stiff, mortal rule

Of set square and block.


Resurrected, assembled,

They could have been fashioned

A barrier, fence,

A deaf-mute post,

A marker of property

Loathing our presence...


But one has been chosen

To build that place

Where Faith is fed,

To be...

The frame of a stage

Where a prayer delivered,

(Salvation proclaimed)

May speak for us all,

And raise the the silver,

The crisp white cloth

And the fragile feast

That serves for a fare

We pray to be fit for

God.




Words sketched out in a church in the middle of Oxford while escaping the mayhem of Christmas shopping. I was struck by the beautifully polished finish on the arches.