Embedded Files
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
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.
Seeing the Light
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
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.
The Church Clock
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
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.
Seeds of Love
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
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?
Church
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.
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 Communion Table
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.
The Communion Table
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.
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.
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.
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 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:
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.
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.
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