Timbre of the Heart

A rare bird indeed

we are exotic, an ancient lineage

migrated south.

We are two much, one to know another

protect, preserve our own our offspring,

territorial ties that wound

What we love, what is it?

The glorious plumage?

A splendour to behold

The sound of our call, cool, titillating talk?

are but echoes in the sky.

No, much more than that.

The most glorious sound to adore

is the heart beating in our chests

Listen, my friend, keenly –

look with those two deep oceans you keep.

See – every word, move, motion,

every flash in the eye, affection

reveals the timbre of the heart.

 

Soundings

 

Barstools, beers and lonely cheers

Sideways glances, sound and fears

Top of the loft, corner of the street

Just dropping off, by chance again we meet

 

Perched high above on a leather bus seat

Looking down on you as sun and horizon meet

Living through pictures on your wall

Passing on paper cranes, love and all

 

Resonating strings and sings around

Searching for words unspoken sound

Fathom feeling depths unknown

Silence falls like shell shock tone

 

Rivers of lyrical, satirical rhymes

Flood down the mount of eternal time

A single vase of living water, blooms

Tapped from the source in our living rooms

 

 

 

 

Dearest Hope

I hope…

keep yourself from feeling

resentment at my leaving you

here, my dearest.

It is joyous to depart,

do not let sadness taint

the inevitable start

to a “new” day.

Do not hold it against Him,

let comfort cover you

and soften the impact

you feel after free-fall.

It will save you, bruised not broken.

I am nothing but

a haunted house

occupied by a Ghost

that keeps all others out.

I fear it not, for it dispels all fears

– the hate and the fight –

it lets in the light through darkened shutters,

breaks down inhabitable disguise.

I stare into your face

no mask, of self – a trace,

an empty broken shell

awaiting to be whole

and filled with life anew.

No cold, hard, barren ground,

broken fossils incomplete

no slowly sinking mound

weathered turf, carved concrete,

chiselled words standing proud.

 

Within one heart rests humanity, whole –

my only other hope is you are there

once you too, are grown and old.

Add. 43490 f.23

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Image source

All may enter

I came upon a midnight clear,

following a star,

traveled over dark terrain

not measuring how far.

Finally I came near

to where the Saviour lay,

peering in I caught a glimpse,

a baby in the hay.

Though many were drawing near

I stealthily kept pace.

At the entrance to the room

I saw a hardened face.

“Can I come in?” I humbly asked.

“I’ve no incense, oil or gold

I bring myself to worship him”

The One whose birth foretold.

The keeper of the entrance

Looking down on me, grim

Took in my appearance, said

“I cannot let you in,

you’re not a king, bearing gold

and oil is for the dead!

Your incense is not pleasant

perhaps you’d bring a ram instead?”

I fled away to distant land

and waited for the time

to meet him when he grew

to know this Saviour is mine.

I heard every Word He said

from his birth to the tomb

in the streets, or temple court

sitting in the outer room.

When finally His breathing stopped

My heart nearly did too

I waited near and mourned the day

Not knowing what to do.

When he arose he conquered death

His grace had found a way

to make my gift acceptable

Now I await the day,

When I can see Him come again

I need not touch His wounds.

I have felt them for myself

and long for His coming soon.

 

——————————–Earth image source

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ego

thistle balls

‘Tis a weed in the garden

Do nothing to make it grow

Some think it’s just a flower

Daring where it shouldn’t go

Through many will multiply

And choke the others dry

Some, worse are hurtful

Prick your fingers till you cry

Just to show how incessant

cursed ground, set apart, they are

I plucked out a whole garden full

here, you see my scars.

 

 

Current

river stonesSwamped by rapids and torrents

sweeping debris downstream

eroding every sandbank

every creature’s home of dreams

pulling on weeds and reeds

that populate the banks

irrigating flood lands

without a word of thanks

Such forces here faced

buried deep in to bedrock

a boulder immersed in waters deep

clear water for the flock

The gushing noise it causes

could illuminate our fears

But rather not still water

growing tepid over years

Such solid rock is moulded

constant force of river wide

smooths out all imperfections

buffs the surface to a shine

no watershed moment could

make a boulder weak

one so vast and solid

made from mountains’ peak

————————————–Photo by Beverly Nguyen