Love Me Tender

The weather forecast a
Short sentence, a précis,
Summing up the struggles
Of the atmosphere as
‘Gentle rain will fall’
On the summer-baked soil
It will fall, until suppertime
Until the earth is softened
By the tender rain

At school, now
I am five, maybe six, and
On the art table lies a
Block of ice-cold plasticine,
A pleasant pink slab
Of resistance, looking at me
Too hard, so it thinks, but
Patience wins, fashioning
Long warm snakes

One day I may purchase
A kitchen tool,
With mountain range stipples
And bring my weighted swings
Down upon inert meat and
Those tight unyielding fibres…
What is this wooden mallet?
An enemy or a friend?
A tenderiser; that’s its name.

Stay Your hand, Lord
Stow Your word of
Hammering love divine
‘Case I end up pummelled,
Destined, like Your Son, to say
‘I have come to do Your will’
Oh God! Ignore my prayer
Listen not to my sunbaked
Ice-cold resistance

Here I am…
Raise your holy hand
Swing Your weight
Until I am fully done
Until I taste as I should
Until I take Your shape
Come like gentle rain
Defeat my sun-hardened
Soil. Love me tender.

Amen.

The journey home – a lament

Like some troublesome
Subterranean bindweed
There’s one response: Out

Dig deep, uproot the
Damnéd growth ‘til its evil
Intent lies naked

For the world to gaze
Upon and weep at its own
Reflection and mourn

For an Eden lost
Our collective mind estranged
Will we journey home?

Gaza bruised, Hamas,
Unbearable to all your
People locked in pain

Jerusalem, drenched
With Messiah tears, your chicks
Still to be gathered

Midnight Train from Paris

Not used to trains leaving on time
And unfamiliar with the need for
Hurried steps in a station
We pelted along the Parisian platform
Launching ourselves through
Ominously closing doors

Our reserved carriage, full to the brim
With unbudging French skiers
Whose indifference and wry smiles
Ejected us Anglaise to a
Downgraded allotment:
A corridor floor crammed with skis

I remember nothing, nor does Neil.
We Brits, we band of two brothers
Making silver purses, perhaps, from pigs ears
Descended into the abyss
Of unsought and the unlikely
Torpor of deep sleep

Mercy arrived in the form of the ticket collector
Shouting ‘Billet, billet’ until we stirred
Then, ushering us off the train,
In a frenzy of ‘Vite, vites!’
Unceremoniously dumped at dawn
On an unknown platform

One stop from disaster
The Chamonix tunnel to Italy

In broken French and faith
Somehow, we wove our way
On buses and steep ravine-sided trains
To Chamonix, our destination
For a friend’s wedding
For a wedding

Idyllic in the snow
Idyllic in the horse-drawn sleigh
Whisking bride and groom at speed
From Church to reception
Idyllic in much wine, song
Food, and feasting

A taste of heaven.
Almost missed.

Deus ex Machina

Chris-ti-an-ity:
Christ pouring out His life-love
As us in His world

Mystery of Christ
In us, the hope of glory,
Saturating all

Bridges we become
For the Almighty lover
To bring the Shalom

Take the shot

Light glancing and flashing
From a needle held high
Piercing a delicate membrane,
Beneath which sits lurking,
A dose or two of an antidote
That rejoicing chemical

Atropine by name, whose

Alkaloid molecules lie in wait
Poised to dismantle and
Destroy unbidden invaders
The paralysing poisons
That shrivel and staunch
Bringing life to naught

The true purpose of anxiety

The all-pervasive nerve agent
The great distractor
The gnawing, low-level
Stomach-troubling life-friction
Slowing and braking,
Shuddering its victims to a halt

‘Til we cry out in our
Anger and our shame *

‘Til we submit our recipient flesh
To prayers sharpened and
Uttered like fork lightning
Piercing, tearing open
Liminal membranes into
The fiery love of God

Swords and shields yielded:
Our fruitless aggressions,
Our flimsy fig-leaf
Protection rackets that do not
And casting aside all masks
That fail us, we

Take the shot

Let the fiery love of God
Permeate, baptise us
Deep diving into our troubles
And turmoil, our churning seas
And paralysed wills until
We re-emerge into the light

Our dancing feet unglued

*Simon & Garfunkel – The Boxer

Pain woke up one morning

Pain woke up and pulled on socks
The stout shoes of a marcher
Pain splashed cold water on an unshaven face
And drank a cup of tea
Without noticing

Pain met with the hurting
To flock like starlings
Unaware of the terrible beauty
Of their black murmurings
And flow like blood

From Portland Square to Westminster
Pain-painted placards held aloft
A river of anguish, chanting
Like bewildered children
‘Free Palestine
From the River to the Sea’

We humans,
We import and export traders,
Now in toxic waste, to and fro
Violent convulsions
Of sorrow-full souls
Invisible retchings of pain

Hamas, Hezbollah, Fatah
A trinity less united
Except in receiving foreign funds
Billions of dollars, rials, and euros
Their investors’ blushing faces
Turning away too late

Disgusted by a Supernova massacre
By Kfar Azar’s defilement
But the blood sticks to your hands
Tehran, Brussels, Washington
No amount of cold water
Can remove the stain 

The Kfar Azar pain
The Supernova misery
That woke up that morning,
Discordant, a few miles
East of Gaza, in the Negev -
All of that pain

And the pain of the pogroms
And of Hitler’s henchmen
Has woken up this morning
And painted Stars of David
On F16 fuselages -
Sickened Israel vomiting

Her laser-guided agony
Of despair in bombs and missiles
Her promises to end Hamas
Unbearable, carrying her
Towards poor Gaza

Ruled not by peacemakers
But those fuelled and fed
Funded and fattened by whom?
Which fund paid for your banner?

Who set brother against brother?
Ishmael – which means God listens
Against Isaac – which means laughter

Let the Miserere be sung
Let the tears fall

Let hot tears sear and
Wash away the pain

And let the children sob
Themselves to exhausted peace 

Lord, have mercy, let
Isaac’s laughter be heard

Once again.

Bing Videos

Is there a purpose in forgetting?

12.55

My fork is raised, and
My eyes are feasting on a
Steaming chicken pie

The fork fails to touch
Even the exterior skin of
The golden pastry

A silent alarm
Sounds in my head, I see
Seventy pupils

Pushing and shoving
Peering through a window a
Hundred yards away

Waiting for me

Waiting for me to rattle some keys

A miracle. God,
Secular humanism
Notwithstanding, has

Fished out a large crowd
Away from football, ‘seconds’
Not enough girl chat

To the Thursday Club
A Christian Union
Stripped of tradition

12.56

Like the woman and
Her coins I tear around
Searching for the keys

12.59

The key turns the lock
And the door opens wide, no
One is the wiser

Privately I am
Beside myself with horror
And excessive joy

1.00

God did not forget -
His selectively robust
Memory, forgot

My frail frame and
Sluiced all my iniquities
Forever downstream

Our lapses - signs of
God maybe? Marinading
Us in the divine

Ain’t gonna to study war no more

‘…they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore’ Isaiah 2v4

Are you outside my city limits
Or corralled in my deepest parts?
Are you in heaven
Or walking down country lanes
To all our Bethlehems
Unseen?

Why do I find that
Other-worldly chuckle
A spring of water
Speaking to me:
It’s in the asking that
You stumble over the answers

You do some intriguing tricks
Unexpected engineering
Like workmen setting up
Orange fences before dawn
Cups of tea in hand
The steam appearing to
Work harder than they

Rising up but the work
Is out of sight, below,
Unseen

Your last incursion
Took me by surprise
Incoming wounding words;
Missiles lobbed and landing
Like sharp swords but changed,
Somehow, into ploughshares
And set to work

Plough me Lord
Plough my heart
I open the gate
Bring in your metal
And turn me over and over
Run your oxen over me
Turn my stones to soil

I ain’t gonna study war
No more
The fight’s gone in me
I have a new weapon
Durable and immovable
The peace of the Lord.
Ploughing may not be over

But I see seeds held
In your hand
I’m going to wear my
Long white robe
And not budge
From the riverside, I ain’t
Gonna study war no more

Protection Racket

The fruit and veg shop
With shabby paint
Is well stocked in celery,
Sweetcorn and Cox’s apples
And sells freshly baked bread,
Oddly, on a Wednesday

Customers stream in
From dawn to dusk
Cashflow runs riot
The Books topple over
Unbalanced in the black
Yet the paint still peels

Lunar months come and go
Taxes are paid, but until
The Other Tax is settled,
There is no peace;
And then there’s no money
Even for a lick of paint

Mafia Voluntá and Ragione,
Crowbars in hand, beat and
Beat spirits into empty silence
And Sentimento, no better,
Crushes all in his path
With pitiful weeping, our

An apostolic cry shatters the air

Infernal self-protection racket.
Unsafe in our own hands, we
Like dried plums and apricots,
Take on weary old age:
Hearts shrivelling as sure as
A veg shop with shabby paint

An apostolic cry shatters the air:
‘Wretched man that I am!
Who will deliver me
From this body of death?’
Guttural, the cry of the Israelites,
Weighed down with bricks.

God, it seems, is only waiting
For our appearance on stage
To scream, to let our spirit roar,
Then whisper in disbelief
‘Thanks be to God –
Through Jesus Christ our Lord’

And, suddenly, there He is
Fresh pot of paint in hand
Pockets bulging with
Milk and honey
Smelling of fresh bread:
Every day is Wednesday.

Voluntá - our will, Ragione - our reason, Sentimento - our emotions

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:

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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.

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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.