Haven-seeking

Something strange has happened, something unforetold
Now the tide of grief withdraws, time the thing enfolds
Though our lives move briskly on, and memories fade away
Still I wonder, what of worth, in hearts and minds will stay?

Something deep in us was tapped, an inner wall was breached
Feelings hard to plumb were stirred, often out of reach
Dark and hidden reservoirs, deep within us welled
Grief for passing permanence, bubbled, rose and swelled.

For many in these isles, a rock was lost, that felt secure
In a changing world, for some, their footing feels less sure
Spirit of a nation feels, abruptly, more alone
Now those restless feelings, must find another home.

In a life so dedicated, might we find a clue
A hint to guide, a glint of light, to show us what to do?
In a hurting world, where hearts, like bobbing boats adrift
Seek safe haven, is there something here, which hearts may lift?

In these strange and shifting times, mournful tears have welled
Might it be a time to weigh afresh the hope she held?
Ponder where was rooted, that servant spirit poor
Humbly think again, upon that beckoning, welcome shore?

Image by Franck Barske from Pixabay

Audio. For BBC local & other radio stations

Putin poem

Putin you seem rattled, Putin you seem mad
Do you feel this gig has, on reflection, turned out bad?
Putin did you bite off, more than you could chew
When you thought “I want that country; think I’ll have it too”.

Had a big backyard already, should have made you proud
Spoke of it in glowing terms, in speeches long and loud
When you hatched your mayhem, with your cronies few
Did it cross your mind Ukraine might be a proud place too?

When you thought “not big enough, I need a bit more land”
Did you for a moment think, things might get out of hand?
When you sent your tanks to put a country on the wrack
Did you think, that country might just want its country back?

Mister Putin, though you huff and puff and stare and pout
Mister Putin I’m not sure you’ve got this thing worked out
But before you hit the buffers, and you lose the plot
Stop and think, “you know what, I’ve already got a lot.”

Come on Mister Putin, it’s time to cut your losses
Face it Mister Putin, you’ve not been the best of bosses
We’ll all feel much happier, if you stop seeing red
That would help us all sleep much more peaceful in our beds.

Image by Дмитрий Осипенко from Pixabay

Adieu to the Queen

What a memorable time it has been
A kind rarely witnessed or seen
And if you were there, I guess few things compare
With bidding adieu to the Queen.

People lined up, determined and bold
Five miles long, through the night and the cold
If you queued for Her Maj, then you merit a badge
And the odd person got one, I’m told.

Cool, calm and never in a stew
She liked to ask “What do you do?”
With her handbags and hats, and her corgis (not cats)
Ever constant and loyal and true.

And so at the end of the day
I wonder what we’ll take away
Something deep has occurred, quite profound, in a word
But its lasting fruit, well, who can say?

Image by Zorro4 from Pixabay

September Soliloquy

It’s early September, the turn of the year, and summer is waning, and we’re back into gear
The high days and holidays have all but departed, and there in their place, well, school has just started
Or is about to, and days running barefoot on grass, give way now to days sitting book-bored in class
For some there’s commuting, and back to the grind, irked by the colleague who doesn’t seem to mind
Clubs and societies start up again, ‘back to normal’ can be quite invigorating, but then
While you may like the changes, you might just feel dread; (the ‘cost o’ living’ malarkey isn’t going back to bed)
But whatever your thoughts, and whatever your feelings, whether raring to go, or actually just reeling
The start of this month can be a time to take stock, reflect just a little, take a break from TikTok
Ask deeper questions, what am I living for, is it really just the house and the kids, two point four?
Am I happy with life, is it going just right, or is there something I’m missing, maybe just out of sight?
Some kind of grounding, some spiritual light, that might make life richer, more hopeful and bright?
In the late summer period, when green leaves are turning, why not make it a season of wisdom and learning
In routine, find adventure, and rediscover awe; you might find some beauty that you’d not seen before.

Image by Petra from Pixabay

Commonwealth Games poem

It gives me great pleasure, it thrills me to report
It’s turning out to be such a fine summer of sport
Not just the lionesses’ footballing win
We’ve the Commonwealth games too, to sink our teeth in
Been a while since we’ve seen so much zest and such fun
In the buzzin’ and groovin’ ol’ city of Brum,
These games have a magic, quite all of their own
You can’t bottle it up, in a pic, on a smartphone
A compelling amalgam of the strange and the elite
Is what we see in this festival of cool sporting feats
I like that in a Games where the top draws excel
There’s a place for the home grown and quirky as well
When I look at these Games, you know they put me in mind
Of another phenomenon, of a different kind
There’s something about the whole quest to excel
That reminds me of the spiritual call to do our best as well
And the thing that distinguishes that bold inner ‘race’
Is God blesses it with some of his stardust, called grace
And the best thing of all is, we’re not on our own
In that spiritual gymnasium, we don’t go it alone
And so as these games reach their joyous conclusion
I pray that we’ll all have, a big grace infusion.

Broadcast on BBC Radio Jersey and Guernsey

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Racket Reflections

Anyone for tennis? I love it, I’ll come clean
A massive fan of Wimbledon, in S double-u nineteen
The atmosphere, the strawberries, I even dig the queues
Nadal and Radacanu, Murray, Norrie, you choose
Hanging out on Henman Hill, especially when it’s hot
Delicious thwack of ball on racket, hitting that sweet spot
There’s something quite balletic, about how they move on court
The beauty and precision of this game give pause for thought
Does our love for the perfect backhand, drop shot hit just right
Intimate a hunger, for a more elusive delight?
Revelling to see that lifted trophy, golden plate
Does it somehow stir a deeper urge to celebrate?
One apostle Paul compared this life we live, to a race
One in which a Loving Presence carves us out a space
Hand in hand with Father God, when every game’s been played
Am I ready for that crown in heaven, that’ll never spoil or fade?

For BBC local, Premier Christian, and community radio stations

Image by davidkenny91 from Pixabay

‘Stranger Things’ soliloquy

On my phone just lately, among the clicks and pings
Something strange was happening, tied to ‘Stranger Things’
If like me you’ve missed it, it’s a Netflix show
Which resurrects an eighties hit, and half the world’s gone “Oh…
This song is rather good”, and if you’re puzzled still
The track that I’m referring to, is ‘Running up that hill’
The work of one elusive Mrs Bush, that’s her, it’s Kate
If you don’t know her songs yet, well, it’s ‘better late…’
In a scene from Stranger Things, a teenager called Max
Is levitating, eyes all funny, having bad attacks
I won’t go into detail; it’s out there, all online
Suffice to say that Max is stressed, depressed and far from fine
Oppressed by troubling thoughts, and Venca’s foul embrace
A bad un, who won’t give Max, a lot of free head space
Her friends dig out her favourite song, this striking eighties hit
And basically it saves her, that’s the gist, that’s it
It gets me thinking, what oppresses us, and me, and then
What do we, and I, turn to, to make us whole again?
If a piece of music helps life run a smoother course
What if I could tap into a deeper, richer Source?

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

Putin & Paddington poem

I wonder what makes you get right hopping mad
What stirs up a bee in your bonnet
What tempts you to use certain words that are bad
Not easily put in a sonnet.

Well I’ll tell you mine, though it’s hardly great fun
Not naturally conducive to laughter
So, if that bothers you, well wait till I’m done
And huff and harangue me, well, after.

I read Mr Putin is moved to compare
Himself to one Peter the Great
Inclines me to give him a Paddington stare
And kindly suggest, “Not you, mate”.

You may think you’re hard, Mr Poots, like ol’ Clint
Who looked good in shades and short stubble
But I think by now you need more than a hint:
It’s not cool sinking countries to rubble.

Not clever your delicate ego to stroke
To big up the ‘great Russian nation’
If that means another place goes up in smoke
And faces a dire decimation.

You might want to ponder one greater than you
Who didn’t with crime share a bed
Nor cook such a foul toxic odious stew
But gave up his own life instead.

Image by Andrew Martin from Pixabay

Father’s Day-Summer Solstice Poem

Summer solstice swift approaches, sun attains full height
Bathes the northern hemisphere in shimmering heat and light
Strange how it suggests connection, with another day
Says something, I feel, to fathers, with its bold display
Early morning shaft of light the woodland bird awakes
So the sleepy dad, of his first child, a first glance takes
Feels those stirring pangs of love, a strange paternal glow
Early swift cementing bond with one he’ll grow to know
Then as summer sun through morning charts its rapid rise
So the infant’s spurt of growth puts joy in father’s eyes
Noontime, and the swelling sun up to its zenith climbs
Parallels paternal love in heady vibrant times
Then as blazing afternoon brings warmth to nook and hollow
So the child steps further out; a father’s love will follow
And, as solstice sun sinks low, its power dimmer grows
So a father’s love does mellow; still its beauty shows…
Could it be, the father’s heart, and summer sun above
Both draw sustenance, being grounded in a greater Love?
And, as child, and nature, in that love and sunshine thrive –
Opening up to this great Love, would I feel more alive?

For BBC & community radio stations, Premier Christian Radio.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Platinum Putin – a poem

I have some mad ideas, if this is one, then tell me, stop:
What if Mr Putin and Her Maj just did a swap?
The Kremlin could arrange for HM Queen some toast and tea
No better boost for Poot’s ego than Platinum Jubilee.

There’d be far less destruction, less waste and damage done
If Poots had been contented with a flypast (way more fun)
Surely brings more pleasure, less dismay than threat of nukes
To have a neat formation of some Spitfires and Chinooks.

Just think, the commentariat, instead of endless fawning
Would just be glad that they had lived to see another morning
No braying about duty, service, ‘ne’er puts wrong a foot’
Just celebrating that the world had not yet gone kaput.

Ukrainians would benefit, to have at Kremlin tiller
One who favours selfless service, over being a killer
Reckon they would celebrate and cheer and scream and clap
A Kremlin head who wasn’t out to wipe them from the map.

For the Russians, it would surely be a welcome break
From wondering, ’Is our leader mad?’ – to have some tea and cake
A chance perhaps to soften, the world’s collective frown
And take a cue from Lizzie, with her cheeky smile and crown.