Category: Poetry

Every Birthing

NOTE: what follows is a response written in creative, poetic prose on the idea of biblical hope.

The biblical word ‘Hope’ is all to do with waiting, tense with expectation. And that hope is based upon the faithfulness of God in the past; we look to that to fuel our hope for his future kingdom.

“I want it now, why do I have to wait?”,
“Be patient”, I was told in days of old,
“I’ve only got so many arms”, “I can’t do everything at once!” is now my response.

Instant gratification solved my probelms was my placation.
Yet as we grow older we come to realise that impatience and frustration don’t make a good life.
It seems that every good thing takes time to flourish and ripens only when it is destined to do so.

A life of immidiacy may seem thrilling and desirable but ultimately does no more than scratch the surface, leaving the soul malnourished and under resourced.
It takes time to learn the basics, embed and master new skills.
You can’t build a house, or much else without learning first, then practicing, making mistakes and developing your craft.

So too, I think, with the spiritual life. To develop your inner spiritual life, to craft inner temples and tread on the vast unknown terrains within takes diligence and humility.
Acceptance of the lowly beginning of apprentice from which we all must start.

The route to growth/life is failure learned from. So we willingly take up our burdensome crucifix and pursue the wild entity, who so freely did us from our chains loose.
For blood, sweat and tears are the elixir of life we seek,
pain and discomfort are the crest we must peak,
in order to become like the Son we learned from.

And over time as we graft and proactively wait, follow the flow of breathe,
like a skilled sailor we wait for the change in breeze, waiting on Spirit.
Developed and grown from within we become, until the promised of flourishing.
Ripened at the destined time, the gift given to deliver is ready to be birthed into reality, through excruciating pain, for the benefit of us all.

Every birthing of Spirit-embodiment bring us all closer to union. And when we look into the face of that One, in whose glow we shall know as we are known, we will be made new.

So we wait in tense expectation, and with gritted teeth lean in and become.

And he will be called…

This poem is a reflection on the Christmas story; as the birth of the man called Jesus.

 

“And he will called wonderful counsellor.

 

A little baby he was born so vulnerable and weak,

His daily routine consisted of noise, food and sleep,

But not necessarily in that order,

To his parents he was a miracle of life the very same life he came to reorder.

 

They watched his first steps and heard his first words,

Saw Creator God smile at small chirping birds,

Their growing little boy they brought up a good man,

Taught to pray each night he’d be part of God’s plan.

 

And he will be called wonderful counsellor.

 

Playing in the backyard or out on the street,

Forsaken his shoes preferred are bare feet,

Like all children being fully in the moment;

Kicking a football, racing an opponent.

 

He went to your school was taught by your teachers,

Yet quizzed religious leaders leaving them speechless,

Through thick and thin you’ve been as your friendship has grown,

This love isn’t pretend each other’s secrets you’ve known.

 

And he will be called wonderful counsellor.

 

A following he gathered as his wisdom was shared,

Of those within hearing no conscience was spared,

Teachings as sharp as the edge of a sword,

But for spiritual seekers the words struck a chord.

 

Miraculous signs followed him in every direction,

He fed five thousand despite the meagre collection,

Thy kingdom come he taught us to pray,

While fulfilling that statement his very birth day.

 

And he will be called wonderful counsellor.

 

Aimed at the powerful his rebukes had a sting,

While the lost and rejected he welcomed back in,

He literally turned tables challenged the status quo,

Simultaneously God and Man two thousand years ago.

 

He rocked the boat too much for the for the ruling elite,

Charged a thief and a robber was nailed to a tree,

He walked a lifetime in our shoes in him we can trust,

The Grand mystery made known Immanuel – God is with us.”

Love like skin

Love like skin,

I wish I could describe it clearly; building sentences to encompass this perfect thing, but these letters are too feeble I fear. No adequate structure can house the maternal, paternal spirit that eternally permeates all here.

Infinite envelopes finite; two things so opposed they’re like day and night. They don’t exist on the same plane, one soaring up high the other still on the runway. The only time we experience such a gift is in this current moment. Maybe that’s why it’s called the present.

Love like skin,

It’s describing beautiful art, completely failing to convey the depth of emotion, the power within creation. Yet these very words are the vehicles we use to arrive at an understanding destination.

Holding me closely, sealing my entirety within. It amplifies my good, and nullifies my sin. Through a distillation process it makes me what I should be. It fits so well, like a tailored suit, it was made just for me!

Love like skin,

It’s with me everywhere, on the outside, within. If you cut me it bleeds. When I walk down dark alleys it leads. The dirt of life, the stains of selfishness to it they cling. You can’t remove the king from this skin.

I lay myself bare when I paint you this image, I don’t claim wisdom but seek to encourage. My desire; we all climb this mountain called knowledge until in future we ascend the final ridge.

Love like skin,

For now I only see dimly as I walk through life’s journey. The route I go you can’t, it’s custom-made we each have our part. But in shared symbol and image our foundations are laid.

A Fathers compassion for his prodigal repenting, a Mothers heart for her dear children, he causes it to rain on the righteous and the unrighteous without distinction. And as these raindrops coat all in a film that’s glistening so his love covers all like skin.

What if…

What if I’m open?

What if I risked being wrong?

I’ve caught glimpses of things that never were, had visions of happenings that possibly are.

These inklings, fleeting ripples in perception are beyond my understanding.

What if I’m mad, my brain deceived my spirit hoodwinked?

What if it’s just me, my imagination gone wild?

And yet it goes deep you know, knows me….somehow.

I talk, I listen and it responds, each time a different way. Sometimes imperceptibly and others clear as day.

What if it’s real?

What if it’s here, does it feel?

I ask waiting to receive, seek looking to find.

I knock on the door, what if it opens?