Blog Archives

Armageddon: Acrostic








The Sunlit Path: Senryu


She follows her heart
Save in the certain knowledge
That it is not hers



Sizeless is spirit
Unseen beyond its creation
And God is a verb

I Told You There’s No One There (Republished)


Some folks on the road to heaven
Are tempted to go astray.
All knew Parson Brown was one of these,
And golf what he wanted to play.

For he was only human.
But his flock didn’t see it that way.
“A vicar succumbing while we’re around?
Say, that’ll be the day!”

So every time he drove past the course
He saw the windows wide
And knew well that his stern parishioners
Were watching from the other side.

His frustration raged within him
Till he woke one morning at five.
The weather was fine and they were all asleep
As he crept down to the drive.

He quickly made his way to the course
And headed out for the first green,
Chuckling at the thought of what he was doing
And all without being seen.

But he’d forgotten the Angel Michael,
Who roused God from his forty winks
And said, “Wake up, Sire, it’s Parson Brown
And he’s out there on’t links!”

“Then I must punish him,” said God.
“As you know, it’s my wont with men.
And I promise you one thing, Michael;
That he won’t do this again!”

The vicar meanwhile was teeing off
In the early morning sun
But what a surprise he got when he found
That he’d scored a hole in one.

“Lord have mercy,” he exclaimed,
“Mercy upon my soul.”
But he’d even stronger language
When it happened at the second hole.

He went on to complete his hat trick;
Such golfing must astound.
The only man in history
To achieve an eighteen stroke round.

Even Michael, who’d watched the whole thing,
Couldn’t quite take it all in.
“But … but … but …” he spluttered to God,
“Tell me, how will THAT punish his sin?”

A wicked smile traversed God’s face,
And he answered, “Extremely well.
You and I may know what happened
But who can Parson Brown tell?”

~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~

Note that both God and Michael have broad Yorkshire accents.

The Projectionists (a poem)


Unendingly we puzzle and wrestle
To make some kind of a sense of
This motley old world of ours

This mad higgledy-piggledy mishmash
Of ecstasy and misery, joy and pain
On-off light and dark, good and evil

Why oh why oh why, we wonder
Does whoever created such beauty
Permit also ugliness, such cruelty?

What stories and parables we devise
Telling of gods and devils locked tight
In pitched battle until we know not when

After some time looking into the case
Internally as well as beyond these eyes
Decided we see projection, in both senses

The dualistic dual played out in the world
Actually takes place within our own minds
No matter why we may find ourselves here

Ours is the awesome power and free will
That is our inheritance and our birthright
And also therefore ours the responsibility

The Pilgrim’s Progress (Republished)


Will I reattain as it was written
The ocean where crystals shatter and drip
A will-o’-the-wisp with magic lantern
The westering shrouds of a mourning ship?

Will I be arrested on the waters
Carried off to the strand of the dead
Among the willows by the river
Where the grass is scattered and the shadows are fled?

The quality of majesty in a jealous god
To leave an amnesty in his will
Miscellaneous chaos still takes its toll
The cannons sound across the hill

The smoking candle, the sounding bell
Written and arrested as it shall be
While one skull wanders in search of a ring
The other stares open-mouthed at me



Perhaps best assume
This is as good as it gets
For how would we know?

Postprandial Pals


When the curtain falls
Those acting opponents
Clean off all the pancake
And repair to the pub

Dunnow’s Offspring


I manage
My uncertainty
Though many
View it a terrifying
Spawn of the Devil

Find themselves
Fearful of drowning
In danger
And adrift
Understandably therefore
Cling to some lifebuoy

The Cage


The days shorten while the nights lengthen
Then the nights shorten while the days lengthen
Then the days shorten while the nights lengthen
Then the nights shorten while the days lengthen

Setting up some kind of zero point or other
Measuring, counting, recording year by year
Offers us the pale illusion of understanding
The option of conjuring up some kind of god
Who created all of this in seven days (or not
Depending on your own preferred conjuration)
Meanwhile – or meaninglesslywhile – god forbid

The days shorten while the nights lengthen
Then the nights shorten while the days lengthen
Then the days shorten while the nights lengthen
Then the nights shorten while the days lengthen

%d bloggers like this: