In The Middle Of The Night

She never did forgive him
Whatever were his sins
She gave them time to turn
She stoked their fire to burn
Hoping that he might learn
As with stiffness lent to stern

He never did let go
Whatever he thought he’d show
He did this so so many times
He wrote it out, rehearsed his lines
Looked everywhere for the signs
Became the one with the oft repeated rhymes

They never did make a fist
However long they kissed
They were from different grounds
They danced while displaying sounds
They were in the lost and found
Boundless simply to be around

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Handouts

It was the not understanding which saved me
The not understanding protected me through my life

I did not understand what it meant to fall in love
Yet I fell in love, I fell in love over and over again

I did not understand why I had the heartbreak of love
Yet I fell headlong for that torment, time after time

I did not understand that words raise, and rile me
Yet I was raised, or riled, in almost equal measure

I did not understand that I didn’t care for everyone
Yet I did make swift decisions in both directions

I did not understand how to forgive and forget
Only now am I learning that practice

I did not understand
It is the best thing I ever did

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Observations

Do I look to be that man who seeks forgiveness
Or one who turns his compulsions into addictions
Do I seem to be that lost soul who now says:
Please show me the way, this time I will follow
Do I appear to be that untidy man who has lost hope
That is in the sense of tidying oneself up
Do I strike you as that strict person, who states
That all has been done correctly, for it is his way
Do I stand out as the onlooker, that waverer
Who does not know when to stand or sit
Do you believe me to be the non-believer
Who truly has no idea at all whether to sing or to pray

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Edict

How different might life have been
If love had not raised so many complications
Then, to be followed by the rules and stratagems
Tools to manage this fool’s fascinations

Right now I feel that democracy has run its course
For what sort of lover does democracy deliver
What kind of society does democracy consider
When its only financial model is capitalism

Fat cats get fatter in the survival of the fittest
No matter lean minds turn to mindfulness
And me, caught up in meditation, here in the middle
Indecisive; other than to choose, to do nothing at all

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Thinning Out

It was a sparse congregation
For Conventual Mass
Only eight in the pews
Myself included

And the large monk
Who in previous years
I thought to be unhappy
Well he was absent

I am unsure about Compline this evening
For it is in the Chapter House
An altogether uninspiring room
With an even less engaging seating plan

It makes me wonder if the monks
Are taking the opportunity
To regress from the openness of the Abbey
Into the enclosement of the Chapter House

I for one certainly hope not
For whilst I am neither a believer
Nor even a regular visitor
I am enchanted by the setting, also the acoustics

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Vision

I saw you my love
In that light on the red velvet
Above and beyond the organists silhouette

I saw your gentleness
I saw your soft skin
I wished to love you, to love you tenderly

I saw your strong will
Your irrevocable spirit; also your strong defiance
I should not always ask that you join me

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Entrance

I am struck by the light
I am struck by the silence
I am struck by the stillness

I am here already
Yet already I have a desire to be here again, soon
It seems I am finding a new kind of longing

I am struck by the light, the brightness of stone
I am struck by the silence, even of the breath
I am struck by the stillness, all here moves slowly

Would that my love could be with me
In the way of the couple sat across the way
(She leans her head into his shoulder)

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Reasoning

I am here for no purpose, other than my own
It is neither doubt, nor faith, which attracts me
Yet I am thankful, for the beauty, for the welcome

2018 will be the one hundredth anniversary
Though of what I am not sure, but significantly
A grand new organ, with trumpets, has been installed

It’s in tuning phase, for which they ask for silence
Which is fine by me, for, being tone deaf
I would be able to offer so so little assistance

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Cusp

With this new light
Which oddly I call darkness
I have the gift of a book to read

I read about a conversation
Which began in daylight
And carried on deep into the evening

Two men; one younger, one older
Talking about Jung, indeed deciding
To make a film of Jung’s enquiries

I imagine them steeped in talk
Each, in turn, moving the other one on
Enveloping themselves in this, the new light

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Unnamed

There is one here in spirit
There is one not here at all
There is one not here, but waiting back at home

It is on the stroke of six
Darkness is the current light
The bells, the bells they are a ringing

I have taken photographs
I have strolled through the grounds
I feel, yes, I do feel to be welcome to roam

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Tart

Is it the comfort food
Or the calm surroundings
Which make me feel welcome

Is it the newborn baby
With mother, father, and young grandmother
Which says to me; life does go on

In Daniel Cronin’s book Words of Wisdom
This week in November is made up of
Days of Sin, and Days of Solitude

It seems I have all four attributes of sin
And it is true I do wish to be the author
The author of my own happiness that is

As for solitude, I do believe
That I have witnessed its beauty, and its silence
But I was not in the Audience Chamber of God

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Another Singer’s Song

Gifted are the gifted who burn with good news
Spoken so politely by the father of clues
Life then the provider thus ending all of the dues
He who wanders is the one wearing new shoes
While the one who remains is left singing the blues
Yes, the one who sits still is left feeling the bruise

It’s three in the morning
And all the best lines have been taken
It is another sure warning
Of the past times forsaken

Gifted are the gifted who burn with good news
Spoken so politely by the father of the clues

It’s words and its pictures
And lovers too far apart
It is thoughts of the scriptures
Not to know where to start

Life then the provider thus ending all of the dues
He who wanders is the one wearing new shoes

It’s buttons undone
And breasts softly rimmed
It is nervousness shunned
For skin cupped by skin

While the one who remains is left singing the blues
Yes, the one who sits still is left feeling the bruise

It’s all clothes off
With thighs there to stroke
It is the sensitive wroth
Of going for broke

Gifted are the gifted who burn with good news
Spoken so politely by the father of the clues
Life then the provider thus ending all of the dues
He who wanders is the one wearing new shoes
While the one who remains is left singing the blues
Yes, the one who sits still is left feeling the bruise

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Stained Glass

I changed my mind on delaying the cathedral visit
I remembered that I had my raincoat in the car
So I ventured out, five miles in busy traffic
I parked in the tightest of multi-storey car parks
It was raining, but the builders carried on building
The Green will be beautiful, I have no doubt
But it most certainly isn’t on this day, no, today
The Green is not one of God’s beautiful places

The tea looks weak in Patisserie Valerie
I have asked if the egg custard could be warmed
I know its not de-rigeur to microwave pastry
But I tell you, these are God’s little beauties
I know they can be a little bit messy
But, with the industrial strength knives and forks
They are soon brought firmly under control
And so so soon nothing is left on the plate at all

I can’t honestly recommend the high street
Not on a wet Tuesday afternoon in November
The red lights of the banks (a euphemism?)
Are the brightest colours to be seen
Shop doorways are filled with huddled
Would be customers, that is if anyone knew how
To recover the economy sufficiently
To turn these lost souls into dignified patrons

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