Deep night finds blossoming in dawn, where light
And shadow crystallise into a dream
Fit to enchant the dormant mind that might
Forever seek in vain to find a seam.
And is it with the day the mind begins,
Or is it that the mind begets the day
For light to rid the onion of its skins
And tinker with the clockwork in the clay?
Things change, things change beneath Eternity,
And when analysis shall have an end
What will remain? Beside a gallows-tree,
A victory banner floating on the wind.
IT’S THE WINE TALKING
The scum rises to the top
The dregs sink to the bottom
I’d point this out more pointedly
But my mum always said
It’s rude to stir (or point)
She also said
There are three things you should never discuss
Politics, sex and religion
Nothing else has ever interested me much
… She’d be appalled
THERE’S ONLY ONE I IN BIGOTRY
God gave us two eyes
In His infinite wisdom
So we could see things
From more than one point of view
But one too many for some
Just give me three days
If I’m not back in three days
You’ll know that I’m dead
HOUSE OF MIRRORS
What if “self”
Are no more
Is this pasture
Less than contentedly
And who believes
Did the programming?
Each their own mountain
Up and up
All those souls down far below
And each other too
I TOLD YOU THERE’S NO ONE THERE
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.
Nursing scorched wings, you angel in disguise,
wondering gypsy with question mark eyes,
wandering homesick – no answers, no rest,
and for companions your demons at best.
What a rich,
being you can be being!
And being …
And being …
Projects smoke screens of promises and lies,
defends to the death, then later denies.
Flexible conscience, ethical mare’s nest.
Defensive? Fastest gun in the west!
And in the centre a wise,
that sees it all
and breathes in
and breathes out,
to the passing show.
And with detachment the fool becomes wise,
finds what never was lost. What a surprise!
Hidden in full view. Who’d ever have guessed?
Welcome, my angel, be welcome, be my guest.
who will be,
and will only