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
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?
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.
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.