Sunday Song

Sunday Song
July 2011

It’s said you’re the way, the truth and the liFe,
They dance to thank you for your gifts of grace,
Sinners, saints, sheep, goats and sowers of strife,
All scrambling in the everlasting race.

David danced, wept his tears in temples old,
We bring our sacrifice, clothed in fresh shame,
Squandering pearls for the lies we’ve been sold,
Seeking real treasures, the love with your name.

True worship stands naked before your throne,
No TV preacher, no calls for cold cash,
Making crushed hearts bleed where once was dry stone,
Reducing our idols to piles of ash.

Let your living fountains spring forth and flow,
From this quiet place, let living seeds grow.

Advertisements

33°57′ S 18°24′ E

33°57′ S 18°24′ E
1 July 2008

I’ve been told that disciples
on a journey of 12 steps
struggle to locate a Higher Power.
In this city, they look up
to a solid lump of sandstone rock
and carefully place their prayers
on the altar of its table top.

More than half a lifetime ago
a small girl visited
her bight eyes, awake, looked up
and fell in love with
its overarching stillness.
When she returned as a woman
a mother, a friend, another’s lover
the mountain looms ever the same
yet now it seems aloof and strange.

There’s something about this space
that sets the stones in us ajar.
City of light and dark entwined
a playground for the rich and foolish
as well as bread and butter for the poor.
If I’m supposed to build a home upon a rock
how the hell can I ever hope to scale its wall?

That colonial tin-pot bastard Rhodes
planted his first imperial seeds here
Now we (poor sods) reap what he has sown
and carefully water our own small dreams.
In landing here, I hope to find myself
instead, find questions
more immense than any stone.

A Yellow Rose

A Yellow Rose
Wednesday, 9 April 2008

According to those in the know
a yellow rose bud means
friendship and
a still small voice saying
“I care”.

I wish I knew the cure for a broken heart
but even if I managed to distil five small drops
of magic spell
I would have swigged the lot
so many heartbreaks ago.

To grow a seed of love
watch it burst into bloom
as you water it with joy and tears
only to see it wither with neglect or betrayal
these are harsh cruel lessons
in this life we call meaningful.

I could be maudlin and say:
every perfect rose
carries an armoured underbelly of thorns
but you know that already.
Better to guard your heart
and allow your own
bruised petals to heal.

Love is not lost
Nor is every lover untrue.
But hope
now there’s something
worth keeping alive.

eyes to see

eyes to see
sun 12 Oct 2003

You haven’t taken my eyes
but you know why my
sight has forsaken me.
I’m back in the pews
with your people again
praising or bleating
in worship to you
(depending on your perspective)
We like sheep (and goats)
have gone astray even as
we try so hard to follow
a straight path of our own choosing.

You are good and we love you
more than anything
more than eyesight
but I don’t understand you
I never really have.
When I no longer see this path clearly,
please be my eyes and guide my feet.

I love you more than
the eyes I used to know
Some people say:
(call them mixed metaphors
if it pleases your grammar sense)
they’d give their right arm
for a pearl of great price.
Can I truly say:
I’d give my right eye
to know you more
to taste a little bit more
of the depths of your grace?

I’m not sure
(really I’m not)
but given a choice
I want you
and
I also want to keep my eyes.
What good is knowing you
without being able to see
your love in action?
Without being able
to measure (by eye)
the creative leaps and bounds
of your grace?

I love you more
more than I did before
and although this love
I measure out in days and hours
and doctors’ appointments
will wax and wane
I want to believe
that you will
always love me
so much more
than I ever can when
I say I love you.

Give me eyes to see
help this blind seeker
to accept what I struggle
so blindly to understand.

Love me more
so much more
than the meagre portions
of my love for you.

Speak –
your servant
is
listening.

And I want to hear
what you’re whispering
to the ears of my heart
and
please
please
please
teach me how to use
the eyes of my heart.

Of Borges and other myths

Of Borges and other myths
30 Oct 2002

So what’s this whole love thing
about anyhow?
Memories of fragments of
Borges-styled ziggurats
Monuments to might-have-beens
Towers of Babel in the mists
of Babylonian sacrifice

When all it comes down to

(even in the middle of a
riot scene set in the
period costume drama of
some 16th-Century French
adultery-liaison-orgy)

Is a matter of two minds
reaching
for
the other’s heart

Flesh, sexual prime, desire…
all these seem arbitrary
in the face of spiritual longing
whether it’s on my knees
seeking the face of God
or gently pressing the centre
of you as you struggle to
suppress your moans

When actually it’s simply about
pushing deeper into you
In search of white heat
No Freudian salute there
But a longing to slide with you
down the slippery slope of
my feelings,
my heart
my soul cry
for you.

coffee@six

coffee@six
sun 9 sep 2001

Sitting @ six am
in a 24/7 coffee shop
actually it’s disguised as a
Woolworths & Portugese chicken takeout
in petrol-station clothing

Waiting for the sun to rise
and my woman to pick me up
Stayed up all night
worked some
wasted most on technical stuff
I kinda tangled myself in a Web of confusion
but I’m here now writing
on a wobbly tin table
as Bob Marleyesque muzak washes the air
on a perpetual rinse cycle

‘I wanna wake up witha yoooou’
the speakers croon
and I consider a woman at home waking up
s-l-o-w-l-y
and a little girl who’s not yet three

I think I’m happy but I ain’t sure
what feeling broods beneath
this shoulder load of tired

All I know is
I want things to change
I wanna stay married to
a woman who’s happy with choices
she’s made
and years, her best years
invested in me

good seed good fruit
none of that worry ’bout
money chucked @ gen-u-wine trash

So I’m here
the writer waiting for the counsellor
and the future of who my child becomes
lies asleep
like the station forecourt
just outside.

early monday morning

early monday morning
Mar 1995

You lie awake in my dream tonight
your long hair strewn across the sheets
of my bed
I see your smile
the laughter healing gushes up
inside me
spilling out into my life
my world
and all the scenes
I rehearse with you
so many times
through long dark nights
of space
it takes to piece
together fragments
towards the understanding
of deep water
between us

When I fall into darkness
you are the one I long
to curl my spine against
yours the hidden eyes
I want to swim
inside
and when I wake
sunlight filling each
delicious crack
in my longing
yours are the arms
I run to throw
my self into

Dreaming without you
in the flesh
is like reaching
for fruit that
is not here:
your perfume fills my nights
and your skin is the
only smoothness I yearn for
woman who inhabits my dream
come back to me