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.