The Three Kings

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They forgot, with their filled shelves, the warm stairs

to a familiar bed, buttered toast

by a glowing fire, and the certainty

of the days ahead, how we wander through

strange towns, across ice crusty fields, never

on our land, always, always trespassing,

how we are invisible, untidiness

merging into a neglected world where

they plan, dream and play. Yet these three rich kings

came to find us beneath the watching skies.

Surely, the gifts were some kind of excuse;

did they not know they were foreign to us?

We couldn’t turn them to food and shelter.

They just stood there discovering fatigue

and the anxiety of the homeless.

Nativity

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The scent of Christmas is in the air.

How it has moved from the stench of the beasts

in the stable to the priestly incense

bell-chimed over the poors’ body odours

now to fruity emanations, the smells

of cooked meats, of mulled wines and plum puddings

we don’t know. We are inclined to forgive

indulgence as our animal nature

but the shame of knowledge hangs over us.

We don’t consider the beasts of the fields

as our fellows but look to the angels

to lift us to the innocence of birth.

Advent

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That moment –

The air announces itself,

its chill transformed, registered

and inhaled with hope.

The passers by can be dismissed

with a nod, blinds can be drawn

across the sun’s investigation,

and the rains can fall

through the naked branches.

So when the car drew up

all there was, was the road ahead

stretching across a hidden valley

to where the clouds

touched the horizon.

Bruckner’s 4th Symphony

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It ended with a crescendo of brass

and drums, emerging from the sombre stir

of strings. An hour of harmonies resolved

to their final joyful destination.

With an upward gesture, the conductor

pruned the sound to its echo in the arch

of the hall and raised the crowd to its feet.

Everybody stood, save one, and shouted

their “bravo”s laced with smiles and tears. The one

still sitting looked about him, bewildered

by the discordant clamour, the unchained

emotion of those in charge of his world.

He saw then that he was being taught lies

hiding from him the limits of reason.

Can we be serious?

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How should we take ourselves seriously?

The shades of our internal world enchant

and abstraction seems to link us to God,

but He saw that faith was a thing of deeds,

the step on the water, the touch on skin,

the shape of mortise, the connected wire.

As we step into the cold morning air

we shelter under layers of protection

that we design for camouflage or show,

shaping the truth to prevent exposure.

bread making

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It’s not often that I think about need,

though, God knows, needs devote hours

to nudging me awake from whatever

torpor I seek to hide in.

I can’t bear to take the dough

between my fingers, feeling its lift,

resisting my efforts to make my mark,

to leave some kind of impression.

I will press and the lift will spring up

again with its own ideas about form;

savage slashes with the razor

are turned to shades of colour, nuanced curves.

I see that I gave forgotten

that the spring is powered by need.

Progress

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Civilisations die, it is decreed

no matter whether taste is choked by weeds

or daily tragedies run to seed.

The iambic pentameter fades

and real life blunts satire’s blades.

The gentle solace of a well placed rhyme

is spurned by students of the present time

who turn their pens to fearless blank verse,

the whimsy of prose poems and much worse.

In bleaker moments

haikus sit in cherry boughs

sipping acid rain

until we are left with the calculations

of bean counters and influencers’ lies.

The Back Garden

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The garden waits patiently

for us to pay it some attention.

Choking weeds get a free hand

and dead flower heads litter

the darkening greens. Then the breeze

stirs in the sunlight, the blackbird

cries its warning and I move

to where the apple tree shades

the bleached wooden bench. The plants

continue to play Grandma’s footsteps.

worse verse

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Civilisations die, it is decreed,

no matter whether taste is choked by weeds

or quiet tragedies run to seed.

The iambic pentameter fades

and real life blunts satire’s blades.

The gentle solace of a well placed rhyme

is spurned by students of the present time

who turn their pens to fearless blank verse,

the whimsy of prose poems and much worse.

In bleaker moments

haikus sit on cherry boughs

sipping acid rain

until we are left with the calculations

of bean counters and influencers’ lies.

Maturity

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The day crept through the curtains

and the commuters’ brushing sound

painted the day’s arrival

on his mind. He stayed, eyes shut,

clinging to unconsciousness.

But the bedroom had returned,

solid, angled, work-a-day,

demanding activity.

He still resisted, thinking

sadly of his lost passions,

that his chance to change the world

had slipped away – no longer

were all things possible.

He had settled for foothills

and the mountains frightened him.