Sometimes I just write poems...

...not sure where they come from
but sometimes they just do...


I think this one is a tad self-indulgent. It reminds me of that man in the comedy sketch who would begin a beautiful landscape and then accidentally use black paint and run off screaming into the wind at what he had done.

I think that this one is perhaps about community life...but it could be about many things.



Called, collected together, cemented
Voice-strong, lament long-lamented
Higher than highest pitch
Lower than the deepest deep
Hiding fearfully, behind hands - peep!
Daring exposure in a search for 
closure
A vivid, vivacious, holy disclosure: Who am I, Lord?


Struggling silently surrounded
Freedom felt keenly but socially bounded. 
Who am I Lord?


When do I get to be untied?
Alive without bits of me having died?
Am I part of a corporate struggle - then if so, show me the struggling
                                                                                                    the sliding
                                                                                                         the hidden


Is mine to be a hiding place that's so very forbidden?


Dare to bare skin in a world that says 'cover-all', whilst revealing so much other stuff that's shiny and perfect and causes the soul to blush
but is deep down deluded but so comfortable in threaded fluff.


My REAL is sore and delicate and fracturing. 
It's attempting to find skin with which it might find a matching.
There's a life beneath, pushing through and painfully hatching, 
But the dry bits are bleeding and on surfaces catching. 


So whom should I rub against where there is no friction?
And in whom do I make a home that won't become an addiction?
For I don't want to run there escaping these sea-scapes, 
I must stay in the waves awhile and wait 'til the dawn breaks. 
I must keep afloat now, a little while longer, 
Not falling asleep as the waves become stronger. 


Bring me into shore, Lord, I need a resting-place. 
Patch up my wounds, Lord, and clean up my sun-burnt face. 
Place me on solid ground, hoist me up in a panopticon
From where on all sides I'll gaze out on your smiling Son. 
Lower me down again and refresh me with real sight, 
Have me pitch a new tent in the rays of your ember light.