A Poem: Beauty II

Ah, beauty is beckoning to us. And for all her glorious tresses,her unguarded open face,her generous voluptuous gift,beauty is shy and retiring,un-eager to draw a crowd,more often sneaking up unawareswith something singularly unique. So that when we partake of her gift,beauty is surprisingly intimate,personally presentin a way that speaks of herbeing prepared,seeking our acquiescence,bidding our … More A Poem: Beauty II

A Poem: Still-Point

Have you ever heard a word or two and thought, ‘I knew that too?’ Somewhere within…. Did you ever want to articulate each word of knowledge spoken, the wisest nuggets ever shared, the things to which you’ve resonated with ‘me too’, like a little ‘ah’ of certainty, of kindred-ship. Have you thought if you did … More A Poem: Still-Point

A Poem: Feeling

We have been given a body in which to experience space, proximity, life in all its intimacy, and solitude. The mind, the heart, the spirit, each are earthed, grounded by the being that feels first by flesh – via skin, that sensitive covering, though which all sensations move, and affection is given, received. The self … More A Poem: Feeling

A Poem: God’s Garden

I bemoaned the lack of things. A certain symmetry, or correct aligning. A certain youthful vignette from memory. A certain flush, a just bloomed, rounded, skin of apple – a store-bought peach, blemish-free. I bemoaned the silver thread. White-water crest of waves through a river long and dark, its only shine now caught under starlight. … More A Poem: God’s Garden

A Poem: Memory II

Someone gave us memory in sepia tones, rose coloured hints. Someone knew that the past, as a door closed, no longer accessible, was a step too cruel. So someone gave us sounds and smells, scenes to provoke us to reminiscence – and imagination to fill in the long blanks, to make a narrative out of … More A Poem: Memory II

A Poem: Grass

Three of the most beautiful lines: ‘He does not raise his voice; He does not crush the weak, or quench the smallest hope.’ So all our hopes, though they might beat against our chest with wings, or lie smaller than a mustard seed hidden in the hand, can grow in time like the tall grass … More A Poem: Grass