Clear, bell like,

prophecy rings in tones

of various dimension.

Scientific tests of prophetic tradition

turn blind justice

into reasoned lust for control of the genre

by inquisition.

Peevish, pompous, minor prophets

expect their divination to rule our fears.

Is our benevolent weatherman

beatific or heretic?

Jonah captured by a fish

can’t hide from sight in paranoiac distance.

Blind Paul restored

asserts that vision fades,

love is assured.

Can blind faith be healed by clay and spit?

Translated by the heart

I don’t care if people

say that God can’t be part

of creation or else

it’s heresy.

I know they’re just talking

unsubstantiated

crap because I’m in God

and God’s in me.

Love is a bit like the dampness that comes after persistent rain.

Love is a bit like the air that fills the sky and every tiny space.

The birds fly in it, the wind blows in it, but we never see it.

Love is most like gravity.

A tiny force between me and the sun that holds a mighty planet in orbit.

A force that weighs my foot to the ground and links me to every point of the universe.

A mysterious, invisible, undeniable connection between you and me.

Deep in her gaze

we met

in love

with the dawn

she showed me

the sparkling jewels

which dripped

from

her silent mouth

I have very few memories of my year in the fourth grade, about forty five years ago, but one has returned vividly in the last few years.

M was petite and pretty, with olive skin and pearly teeth, her fair hair held back from her face with a clip. A lively little eight year old with a bright smile and skinny legs in a school uniform.

She wasn’t my special friend but we all loved her in our childish way.

One day as we went out for play time things just weren’t right.

M sat at the back of the room, and as we filed past her desk she hadn’t gone out, and was crying. Under her desk was a puddle. She had wet herself and was sobbing with shame.

In hushed tones Mr A saw us out of the room and closed the door.

When we came back, M was gone, and I don’t really remember her again.

In the innocence of youth, the incident meant so little. The class was large and children were away from time to time, or left. We had no expectation or need of explanations, so many things we didn’t understand, so many things to discover, and memories faded quickly.

In later life the horrible realisation that Mary may have been abused, raped or molested haunts me. I feel her pain and shame, and see the despair that was in her face as I walked past her desk.

I just don’t know what to think of it, I wish I could offer some comfort.

U2 – Achtung Baby

Every artist is a cannibal
Every poet is a thief
They all kill their inspiration
and sing about their grief

The perfect epitaph for a band that died of exposure in the cold world of novelty.

But I did enjoy them so long ago, and Achtung Baby was a great album.

Trouble and misery,

Battling demons with com-

fort in my fear dodging

society.

Broken hearted, impaired

neurologically,

might salvage something from

anxiety.

 
In the middle of the room was a huge piano.

A Concert Grand.

Black and shiny,

with a diagonal stripe of red and silver.

Stunning.
 
 
 
I couldn’t fully realise then that the dream piano represents the enormous impact of music in my life.