A foraged poem
In the land of his affliction
In the land of his affliction the wise man bows down low, glad in humble posture that the inner light will glow. As darkness smothers senses, so the heart must guide the way - the furnace howls, the errors burn the smoke of doubt holds sway. Acquiesce? No, persevere he turns within anew, takes up the cross and drinks the cup, walks like the faithful few. On route he knows the refuge is to share the gifted load - in sorrow poured out prayerfully a lighter yoke bestowed. 25th July 2021, Wiltshire, England.
Satan’s Sermon
You are my servants, vassals to, the earthly feudal lords who revel in the power of their temporal rewards. With streams of sacrificial blood their meal time and their play, my bloodlines will persist in this deception and decay. You slaves cleave to your comfort and your shallow, sensual days - a somnambulant collective I make changeless in its ways. Dear fools you carved my fiefdom, smothered truth and so obscured the fact of God’s One Kingdom and your victory assured. You chose the perfect master for you do not wish to know the pain of transformation that must come to those who grow. I’ll keep you safe, bound as I am, and help you to evade the word of truth, the way, the light, the reason you were made. With thanks to Screwtape. 10th May 2021, Wiltshire, England.
A Wished for Song
You're song, a wished-for song. Go through the ear to the centre where sky is, where wind, where silent knowing. Put seeds and cover them. Blades will sprout where you do your work. - Rumi
Initiation
To know reality, I must feel it
To know depravity, I must drown in it
To know flesh, I must touch it
To know grief, we meet.
To know humility, I must bow to it
To know fear, I must be it
To know sorrow, I must be lost in it
To know violence, we embrace.
To know weakness, I am broken
To know loneliness, I am born
To know futility, I am faithless
To know freedom, I submit.
To know a language, I speak it
To know falsehoods, I lie
To know truth, I am silent
To love, I forgive.
23rd January 2020, Somerset, England.
Whatever happens (in 2021)
A poem from Rumi to open the new year, with love to all who read these words.
whatever happens to the world around show me your purpose show me your source even if the world is Godless and in chaos show me your anchor show me your love if there is hunger if there is famine show me your harvest show me your resource if life is bitter everywhere snakes everywhere poison show me your garden show me your meadow if the sun and the moon fall if darkness rules the world show me your light show me your flame if I have no mouth or tongue to utter words of your secrets show me your fountain I'll keep silence how can I express your life when mine still is untold. Rumi
The Son of Encouragement
I knew him only briefly, but felt his heart to be wrought from finest gold and marked with rare sincerity. His manner kind and gentle, I have no doubt he brought consolation, strength and faith to those he humbly taught. He’d reached a place of steadfast peace and thus his presence flowed from here to his eternal rest, in love’s divine abode. In memoriam P.H. 1934 - 2020
Ah, God I May Not Hate – Kathleen Raine
Ah, God, I may not hate
Myself, who am your thought, who made
Earthworm and spider, gave
Being to the burying-beetle and the maggot,
Beak and talon and teeth, hunger to all creatures
Made to be your begetters and destroyers.
I who am living you from the numberless dead have raised
From the deathless dust of the grave
Dust of gleaming wings borne on the wind, seed
In the womb of the wind, borne
In cloud and tempest over the world
On tide and current made and unmade,
I am what you will, what you have willed
Life after life, maggot and spider, seed and harvest,
chromosome, flame.
No One Lives His Life – Rilke
Disguised since childhood, haphazardly assembled from voices and fears and little pleasures, we come of age as masks. Our true face never speaks. Somewhere there must be storehouses where all these lives are laid away like suits of armour or old carriages or cloths hanging limply on the walls. Maybe all paths lead here, to the repository of unlived things. Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours, Book 2
A prayer for the poisoned
Forgive my blindness Forgive my deafness Forgive my lies and pretence. Forgive my ignorance Forgive my coldness Forgive my scorn and disdain. Forgive my deceptions Forgive my incompetence Forgive my turning away. Forgive my ugliness Forgive my vanity Forgive my arrogance and blame. Forgive my depravity Forgive my ingratitude Forgive my weakness and guilt. Forgive my squandering Forgive my impatience Forgive my wounding and shame. Forgive my weariness Forgive my misery Forgive my fear and control. Forgive my faithlessness Forgive my doubting Forgive this poor, futile game.
Being a walking question mark 