So scared

Fear makes her entrance
Uninvited
A surprise package. But
What happens next?

She came in disguise
A teacher, a friend
The one meaning no harm
The other – what drove him?

At four, a statue in the corner
When other boys and girls
Danced to the music that
Acted like glue to my feet – why?

And the other John
Who stood on my stomach
And confused me
And taught my heart to fear

Maybe, like a clever dog,
He could smell my fear
Of the music
And it bared his teeth?

Or, later, when tied to a tree
Or held captive
In a tree house
Or abused in an alleyway?

Behind it all
Was God. Loving God.
Not the author
But the cage-fighter-God

The One whose love
Casts out all fear
Like a wrestler launching
All his opponents -

Over the ropes they go
Yes, He has come
To supplant
Like a bouncer

To eject it all
All that damned fear
And turn another victim
Into a lover of enemies

Into a fisher
Of the sons of Adam
To call to my friend,
The other John,

Have you found
The One who is stronger
Than you?
Than your guilt?

So scared of love, still?
That bares all in its path?
Love divine: The music that
Unglued my feet.

Fingernails

It’s unorthodox, this constant life
Its interior ocean
Washing up tides, with
Winds from nowhere
Surfing waves that carry
A heart, a will, far beyond:
The trick, it seems, is to wait

The me-in-me wanted to
Travel into Arabia with the apostle
Fresh from Damascus
Or with David into Adullam
Or the Messiah away from it all
With the wild beasts of
Heaven and earth

But mostly the apostle
What happened there, Paul?
In Arabia?

And all the time
Like some drugged sluggard
Like Frodo with a ring too heavy
I am helpless
And cannot be enthused,
Rocking in the sedative
Of some interior ocean wave

And in its place a manky image
Of ordinariness gone wild
Seemingly unworthy of
Contemplation, but
This thought will not rot
‘If you want to know about
All things’, it says
‘Look under your fingernails

Look in places no one else will
Rummage away in bins, or, like
A five-year-old nestling
On a carpet
Feet twitching on the sofa
Rolling plasticine balls
Or folding and refolding
Silver foil, lost in wonder;
Then you’ll know all things.’

That day, under my fingernails
Lay foreign DNA, the
Fragment of another’s hair,
The innards of a wasp
Clapped to infinity
Some earwax, tile cement,
And salt from Beer Beach:
A sharper, more vivid log
Than my phone history.
Thank God.

And so I let Arabia subside
To learn what I needed to learn
To find what I’m looking for
Treasure lying in strange places
A Messiah in a manger,
A food trough, surrounded by
Angels and steaming dung,
Frankincense and stinking hay
There, ridiculously there,
On a remote Judean hillside

He’s a hunter, that Messiah,
A treasure hunter,
A finder, a fingernail finder,

A proof of incarnation
A prostitute here, a leper there
A Pharisee-by-night…Nicodemus…
…there’s a bit of him
In us all.

But only some go searching
Will we find Him hiding in you?
Under your fingernails
His DNA?
Inadvertently transferred
When your heart
Last reached out to Him

Not kneeling, or in a
Sanctuary made by man,
But in your tidal unorthodoxy
Something undeniable
A zephyr, a breath,
A breeze that made you
Look up.

Unmade Road

And beyond the front gate
My feet find an uneven path
Dislodging stones
And, if it has rained,
Puddles, or the
Road divots, potholes
Fill with snow and ice
On winter mornings

There’s a certain sound
Of slow traffic, of
Wheels turning and
Loaded suspensions
Less adept than feet
Tamed nonetheless,
Brought to heel,
By the lack of tarmac,
Stop signs, white lines,
Pavements, and
The rules of the road

The illusion of order

Here, on the unmade road
There’s time for
The crackle of gravel,
The distant, steady
Growl of a tractor,
Wood pigeons
And piano notes
Or the sounds of
Paddling-pool children
And the aroma
Of a Sunday roast

Only the foolish set out
To tarmac the future
Only foolish cerebellums
Contemplate whether
Controlling life’s traffic lights
Is in his gift, or hers;
We all were born on
Unmade roads.
It is the wazzocks,
Life’s plonkers
Who think otherwise

All I/we can hear,
And taste, and feel
All sights and sounds
All the ungainliness,
Even the roughness
And the unpreparedness
Demanding detours around
Around unfilled potholes
And jutting out rocks…

…all are gifts…

Beyond the front gate.

The Bicycle Poems (iii) The Pursuit of Wisdom

I can’t think of anything else
That is worked on upside down
Farriers and upright horses are plenty
As are car mechanics, vehicles hoisted maybe
But always uninverted
Even doctors examine the human body
Held in an upright position or prone
But rarely, you know, upside-down

But a bicycle, unless on one of those
Elevated frames in a workshop,
Is commonly A over T
Sat serenely, we wonder,
On its saddle and handlebars
Awaiting a service, a clean,
An inspection, from an eight-year-old boy
With his can of 3-in-1, a rag or two,
An old toothbrush, shaking
The pink rust-removing fluid

At least that was back in the day
Before the aluminium-alloy takeover.
Once, it was shiny steel
Beneath the weathered and grimy
Wheels, spokes, and hubs,
And any exposed part
Out there in all weathers
Neglected.

Until your father looked at you,
And there was no escape.
It’s strange how heavy wisdom
Lies on top of a child, or later,
As if the sheer thought of Now
Ramps up an interior inertia,
The inability to shift one’s
Limbs towards the Promised Land

Periodically, we are
Faced with the truth; the rust-truth,
The accumulation of days:
Of the legitimate, unavoidable,
Courage-catapulted lives
Into and among the living,
Leaving its wear and tear
Increasing the effort, the grind
Nevertheless, we plough on
With our “I’ll do that tomorrow,
So I will”
Backward glances.

But the eight-year-old,
Kneeling in the morning,
Toothbrush dipped, starts
Between the spokes
Chasing down the ruddy barnacles
Yielding with surprising ease
To the see-sawing of the toothbrush
Its hairs bent over like windblown trees
With the relentless oscillations.
An hour later, though, and it’s done

Lemonade is brought to him, with ice,
By a watching mother he didn’t see
And, like a real man, he wipes his brow
And smells his worked fingers
A layer of skin missing
Muscles aching, proud and tired.
Then to resume, drink downed
And a fresh cloth to buff
The bike ‘til it shines like the Sun.

First – remove the rust
Then pour on the oil.

On the chain spinning now
Like a mad dog running after its tail,
Free, no complaining squeals,
None remain, a silent whirr, that’s all.
And more oil is sunk
Into the hidden hub-caverns
To do some interior good
Out of sight.

First – remove the rust
Then pour on the oil.

Rider and machine reunited,
The upside-down world
Has run its servicing course.
The rider, full of promises,
Flies round the block,
Careers along well-known
Ten-foot-ways and down to the beach,
To watch the pounding waves
And let the sea-spray land
On face and frame,
Stopping off at a shop for who knows what
Bike flung to the ground, the pavement,
It’s all joy
Before heading home,
Leaning the shining one
Against the garage wall

Intending to put it inside.

After tea.

The Bicycle Poems (ii) Seven Ages of the Bicycle

Now we are six
And I am left alone
With John Newport’s bike
To fall from repeatedly
My grass-stained knees,
Well scratched,
Collecting blood and grit
But ignored and barely felt
And, before sunset,
The boy, the bike,
And the beautiful Earth
Are, at one.

Add a decade and off-balance
Is the norm, the preferred state,
Playing with the limits
Compulsory skid-turns,
Or hanging onto lorries,
Two-ups, no lights,
Hands off the handlebars
No shirt in the summer
Faulty brakes, carrying a full set
Of golf clubs, or rugby boots
Slung round my neck,
Off-balance, the norm.

At twenty-six I commute
On Arnold, a fine five-speed
Holdsworth, a smooth pedigree,
Over the hills between
Whitstable and Canterbury,
On the Winkle line. And past
Kent University built high
Above the Cathedral, like God,
On misty mornings, dark evenings
Wet, windy, and sunbaked
Tarmac-melting days,
Punctures and pounding legs
Race me home

At thirty-six Arnold is stolen
It is my fault. Left unguarded
Leaning in the garage, unlocked,
And visible from the road.
Someone else’s now.
May he discover Arnold’s
Freewheeling excellence
And the joy of the road.
I am in mourning still,
An unusual sadness
Yielded to heaven

Later, thrills aside,
Handlebars gripped
I grind into work,
In Bristol now, over the Downs
To the Gloucester Road
But not every day,
Each ride, a painful reminder of
The need for umpteen gears
Annoyed at those who glide past,
I twist my lips at electric ‘bikes’
They should be renamed
Or pelted with mushrooms.

Forgetting to retract my feet
From the stirrups, the pedals,
The bloke, the bike, and
The beautiful Earth
Head off in random directions.
It’s an abrupt landing.
Bruised but laughing,
Now at sixty-six, and
Still falling repeatedly,
Collecting blood and grit.

But may I steal a glance
Into the future? Will you
Grant me your humour still?
At seventy-six, ‘Faith,
I am competing in a triathlon’
My grandchildren can swim faster
Run further, and ride bikes
Upright, or not, for the world to see
But it is I in the saddle this day

Can I get off now?
Have I finished the race?

Written with more than a nod to As You Like It, Act 2 Sc 7 ‘All the world’s a stage…’

‘All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with a good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’

The Bicycle Poems (i)The Puncture

How long does it take
To mend a puncture?
To lever away
The tired beaten tread,
Rubbed raw on tracks,
Pavements, kerbs:
The world.

Image from Shutterstock

Mud, grit, and half worms
Slide onto grimy hands
Working the levers,
Separating body and soul:
The tough tyre-circle
Put to one side,
Revealing the inner tube,
Pliant and bubbling
With its last gasps,
Its wound exposed.
To be examined, gently.

Skilful, careful hands,
Clean and dress the tear:
Plasters are glued on,
Pressed hard to seal
The lingering wound,
Its memory fading
As the clock ticks.

Enfin, the tough circle,
Levered once more
And stretched to return
It to its rim,
Relaxes and sighs:
Cool air once more
Inflates the inner man.

How long does it take?
Five years longer
Than you think.

The Zebedee Files – finale

3.

I wonder, how old
Are we when we first
Let go of our own?

Until we feel that
Earthquake inside
Tearing us between

One of two secrets: to
Gain a getting, or freely
Give our light away

He knew; aftershocks
Shook them loose: two
Sons of light given

Only brief glimpses
After, of their own hearts
Discipled by another

Givers both: 153 large
Miracle fish sold
To fill the gap, the debt

Then…cold, blackest news:
Herod’s sharp sword
Taking firstborn James

Yet inscribing his
Name in a Testament
Yet to be written, and

John: Son of thunder,
Hard labour on Patmos
Staring into heaven

In the Spirit
On the Lord’s Day
Like his father of old

Zebedee, by name.

My website/blog www.unlessaseed.com has had an MOT and service and is ready to hit the road once again with some improvements

Hello!

My website/blog www.unlessaseed.com has had an MOT and service and is ready to hit the road once again with some improvements:

1. Subscribing enables you – free of charge of course - to receive regular updates via your email as articles and blogs are posted

2. Navigating from page to page, blog to blog far quicker and slicker

3. Pages: (i) What is a Christian? (ii) Book/Film/Podcast Reviews, (iii) Poetry, and (iv) Everything Else continue as before but with more focus on the ‘unless a seed’ reference (John 12v24) as a message for the here and now.

4. Writing – currently editing/re-writing an historical novel set in 1799, a children’s book set in a land further than far away…and an accumulation of poems.

5. Links – links to other sites that have caught my eye such as daughter Rachel Stevens’ podcast Believingin interviewing a wide range of friends, colleagues, family members about their beliefs…a cocktail of Christians, Muslims, Atheists…with Rachel’s twist of Christian lemon.

But mostly, I hope that you will at least test-drive the blog, enjoy the content, subscribe, and leave comments!

A quick note about Facebook. Links to www.unlessaseed.com blog posts, poems, and so on, will mainly be made, not on my personal FB account, but on my Christian Writer page: Facebook

And lastly…apologies if you’ve received this message from various sources (email/FB/blog) and are feeling nagged. If so, rather than grumble, please make contact and there’s a pint, coffee and cake, or a glass of wine waiting for you as an apology.

Hope to find you at some point here on www.unlessaseed.com

John

The Zebedee Files

2.

Barely a poem, more a
Reading between the lines
First stop: the mother
Kneeling in the dirt
Grubby dress
To ask of who?
Whom did she see?

After the top jobs
For her boys
Chancellor perhaps
Home secretary
It’s comical. Do any
Of us know more than
The Jerusalem donkey?

The sons of thunder
Squirming under
Their mother’s thumb
Her love too strong
For her to see
Beyond their peering
Eyes and strong limbs

James and John
Also on their knees
Held down by her
Version of the future
There was only one
Perhaps who knew
Of no earthly glory

Zebedee, by name

The Zebedee Files

1.

A few soothing notes
Disturb the oars
Unfolding nets
Boats overturning to
The music of the morning

The early rays soften
Already soft greys
Overlaid with dawn fire
Woodpigeons - such
Unspectacular greeters

Moving three fishermen
Bed to bread to boat
Skins leather-tanned
The hue of hull timbers
Slatted and daubed

Against the Galilean
Storms. One stands,
Eyes closed, breathing in
The air, his habit; his heart
An ear, listening

Waiting for news; of a
Heavenly music beyond
The liturgical score; his
Synagogue stacked with
Dry wood, but no fire

Rumours from the Jordan.
New notes. Whispers of
A conflagration to come;
That’s all it took
To pull two sons away

From the boats, from a
Father who freely
Gave his only sons into
A baptism of fire to ignite
The dry ones of Israel

His sunset-soft grey hair
Now overlain with
Heavenly flames
His heart, an orchestra:
Zebedee, by name

The Tap. The Funeral.

You will have seen this:
A tie loosened; eyes unblinking
The suited man barely managing
To burrow his way out
Out. Outside. To breathe

Felled by an image, or
The pure notes of a Spanish guitar
Or its fiery rasps. Or the image
Of someone he once knew.
Or Belsen

Or a woman presumed dead, yet
Singing hymns,
Looking at her wristwatch
Scratching her itching ear
Like she used to

Shock when it comes, propels us
First inside, then out.
Outside. To breathe.

Then the return…to the funeral
His enclothed collectedness:
Tie straight and
A face that belies no truth
A steady hand for the champagne

A necessary pretense
Until a light tap on his shoulder…

…together they exit
Outside to breathe,
To treat the past with
Oxygen and a cigarette.

I broke a mug

I broke a mug and
It broke me

I didn’t know it contained so many
Gasps and repeated Oh Nos!

Stunned for those ten or twelve seconds
I bent down and cradled each piece

Each coffee and tea-stained fragment
A personal decade-long history

From allotment shed, a gift,
To kitchen…all those sunrises…

“Days of miracle and wonder
Don’t cry baby, don’t cry”

I broke a mug and
It broke me

It didn’t let the light out
Through the cracks

That’s not how it felt
Light, I find, is a heavy thing

It pours out like lead
In the furnace of sorrow

Watch now as I piece together
The jigsaw with glue

The grave can wait a while
You have more coffee to carry

I broke a mug and
It broke me

The Moon

That precious tidal-rinser of our shores
That soft illuminator of tall trees
And horses’ manes at dusk

A constant reminder
Of other worlds
Above ours

An educator,
A lone adventurer,
Buffeted and pockmarked

Carrying a history of glory
Her surface illuminated by the Sun
Yet suffering the suffering of the defenceless

The Moon is you, is me, is all
Who have or are to live
And shine out

Unknowing of the next impact
The soldier next to you decapitated
Or the spouse who suddenly is not there

Cratered yet rolling on
I could never
Shake

It off, this
Shock-cratered
Life, scattering the light
In all directions to all nations
All creeds, convictions, cultures
It is the Moon that guides us home

Follow Me

Can I hear His voice calling me?
Must I leave myself once again?
Who is this Man?
Follow Me is all He said
Why look for the living among the dead?

What is it about this Man I cannot refuse?
A king wearing no crown that I can see
A prophet His message His flesh
A priest offering Himself
Beckoning me

Can I hear His voice calling me?
Must I leave myself once again?
Who is this Man?
Follow Me is all He said
Why look for the living among the dead?

I don’t deserve Your look I want to say
But His river of mercy is too strong
Undoing all that is wrong
Offering His hand to pull me from the waves
Drowning here I cannot stay

Can I hear His voice calling me?
Must I leave myself once again?
Who is this Man?
Follow Me is all He said
Why look for the living among the dead?

I wanted to kneel, but He said walk
I wanted to walk, He said swim
I wanted to swim, He said fly
I wanted to stay low
But He set me on high

Can I hear His voice calling me?
Must I leave myself once again?
Who is this Man?
Follow Me is all He said
Why look for the living among the dead?

Joey Mitchell…live performance…on Hope

Steam on the Windowpane

It’s winter on the top deck
With the morning commuters
Yawning, respiring
Exhaling, coughing - and I,
Creating finger-art,
In our collective breaths
Draw a line on the window
And escape to an outside world
Of rushing trees and cityscape

On my way to fit snugly
With another,
A living jigsaw piece of
Flesh and vibrant clothes,
Smiles and sadness
To meander through the
Mystery of knowing someone
You can never fully know
To exchange words
To exchange a kiss
A hug
A steamy cup of coffee

After, a walk
Through a park brightly lit
In a January sky
Brilliant in its clean-air blues
Passing others and their dogs
Exporting tufts of breath
Nostrils and mouths at work
The rhythm
Of footfalls and arm-swings
Taking me to a graveside

It’s there that I discover
How to hold my tongue
And let my grandfather speak,
His advice still seeping up
From under, from inside
His interred frame.
A man with strong eyebrows
And a piercing gaze
With love simmering
In every harsh syllable
Of his few words:

‘Whatever you do, son, put some
Steam on the windowpane’

I sigh and wish he could see
His message left trickling down
On the number forty-two.
Advice from a hard life
Of personal victories kept
Far from public gaze
His pride, tucked away
In the soil that fed us
During the impoverished
Years, that bought
My school shoes
And hid his tears.

We Shall Rise

Escaping to the beach
Sandals and tee-shirt discarded
Looking down at the
Rhythm of the waves
Toes tipping over the jetty
My arms leap up and,
Free from the planet, I rise…
…and fall

Columns of sunlight pour
Through the water illuminating
Seaweeds waving with joy
Fish dart about
Iridescent in shoals, but
No sooner do I relax,
Calm and at home,
Than I rise

Wounded healers, fashioned
Somehow to sink like stones
To suffer shipwreck and sorrow
Our outer garments,
Facades and masks removed
O! Take us under Lord
Let us see life and light
As we fall

Until at home
Above and below
In season and out of season
Abounding or abased
Until we know You, truly,
In reverses and walking
Drenched and anointed,
Then we shall rise

And on that day
When the Sun falls, when
Dress rehearsals are complete
When we journey beyond
Our horizons, what we know,
And all is laid aside,
We shall rise

To face the One, whose
Garments were taken and torn,
Distracting the soldiers
His toes tipping over the brink
And arms stretched out wide
Proving for all eternity
That falling
Is only a prelude:

We shall rise.

Lost & Found

A long heavily stained
Desk, teak maybe
Stretched across the dingy
Office a flight of stairs
Under the concourse
Where life is faster

The man, an identikit
For all L&F officers?
Overweight, pallid
And unimpressed
A trained smile,
No deus ex machina,

No joy, and I wonder if
Anyone is waiting for him
Or whether we all
Look lost and this Earth
Is where we are deposited
Until Someone comes

 For us

Growing Towards the Light

Are you?
Is what he said
Straight in, session one
After small talk about the
Geranium on his bookshelf

And me prevaricating
Talking about auxins,
Anything
Except why I was there.
I thought session one

Would be…
Less poetic, less allegorical
You know
Less tangential
But he was straight in,

On my turf
Trespassing on purpose
Irritating the metaphorical
Edges of me, to flip me,
To see what’s underneath

Like the limpet
I was am will be…
Trouble is with these
Professionals
They charge enough

So silence is expensive.
I turned around
And said ‘Yes, I am.
That’s why I’m here’
His name, engraved by the way

On a brass plate, Sr. Garcia,
From Buenos Aries,
‘Call me Jesús’ he said,
His warm smile told me
Where to sit

I nearly knelt

Two Toothbrushes

That soft early morning light
Seems to catch things unseen
Cobwebs in a sway
Translucent green leaves
Shedding a fitting peace

That time of day
Requiring no speech
Facial muscles
Yet to recall
Quite what to do

An automatic pilot
Shuffles you forward
To a mirror, to a basin
To a shower as yesterday
Is washed away

And there they sit
Like living counterparts
Facing each other:
Two toothbrushes
Quite different

Yet revealing more than
Speech can convey. Bristles
Worn down on one side
This one, encased in unrinsed
Paste, contentedly untidy

The other, almost shining
Upright, ready for life and love
Disaster, and heartache,
Not quite comprehending
Her neighbour

A guest I am, immersed
In a forty-year marriage
For three mornings.
Unbeknown to them
I guess,

Who owns each brush
Standing as they do
Opposite, yet facing each other
In the morning light
Shedding a fitting peace.