New Year's Day

So the year begins again.
Last year wiped away
with all its highs and lows.

Births, weddings and funerals
counted out.
Statistics to some;
great wonder, joyous celebration or deep tragedy
to others.

Successes and failures
surfacing in the melting pot of life,
to be scooped off
and observed temporarily.

Trophies placed on shelves to gather dust.
Pain and disappointment
compartmentalized
by coping mechanisms.

Jobs gained and lost.
Friendships found and faltered.
Books read
and movies watched.

Snippets of significant conversations
lodged with vivid memories.
Thousands of others
wrapped in forgetful fog.

Goals accomplished.
Some still pending.
Dreams fulfilled
or badly broken.

Last year was full of these things.
Each year is,
and always will be
until the end of this world.

We only truly understand another's journey
when we have been touched by life in the same way.

Yet let us be there for each other,
even in our part understanding,
as this New Year is ushered in.

Let us trust the One
who gives us such
a grace filled opportunity

to see a New Year in again.

What to give at Christmas

What shall I give at Christmas?
What do my loved ones need?

They need me to be close,
and if distance separates us,
to know that my love reaches them there.

They need me to hug them,
more than once,
to feel safe
and that all will be well.

They need me to tell them
I love them,
not when I want,
but when they need to hear
those words of life and blessing.

They need me to slow down
long enough,
so I am not just a blur
at their visions edge,
but vitally present and real.

They need me to listen
to tales of favourite things,
and oft told stories
enriched by the telling.

They need me to laugh
at their jokes,
affirm what they share,
and smile with true understanding.

Most of all they need me to
reflect to them
the unconditional love, grace and mercy
I receive from my heavenly Saviour,
whose birth we remember this Christmas Day.

Last Chance to Buy

Last chance to buy
extravagant fragrances
soaked in celebrity culture.

Christ cut out
of Christmas
with satanic surgical skill.

Unwanted presents
passing back and forth,
to be re-gifted,
or donated shortly
to grateful charity shops.

Confectionery bulging
over the ends
of every aisle.

Supermarkets consumed
with sweet stuff,
cleverly packaged
to show the serving
in a more generous light.

Shoppers struggling
for car parks and trolleys,
festive jingles
ringing repeatedly
in their ears.

Inflatable Santas
sitting crookedly
on top of shelving,
sagging with slow deflation.

Traffic jams
in sleepy side streets,
as harried parents
stuff stockings
which get bigger every year.

The epoch of materialism
is at its zenith,
showing no signs
of waning,
except when natural disaster
or sabotage
brings commerce to a temporary halt.

Last chance to buy

Last chance to buy

Last chance to buy


before the Boxing Day sales.

Word Received for New Zealand 27.10.2016

I am making of you a mighty nation
and a mighty people group who will
shake the earth by the power of My Spirit.
The time of My power has come
and My people have made themselves ready
to be clothed in My power and to walk in it without harm.
Heal the sick, raise the dead, drive out demons.
Demonstrate to an unbelieving world that My Kingdom
is indeed at hand for those with eyes to see.
Rise up in the knowledge of who you are as sons
and daughters of the King and stand steadfastly
in the battle.
You will see the powers of darkness overturned
in a greater way than ever before.
My Spirit in you will accomplish these things.
It is not of the flesh so no one can boast.
I will be exalted in this day says the Lord of hosts.

Handel's Messiah

Brooding expectation in tuning violins.
Audience anticipation of familiar joy
from music touched by genius.

The Conductor's careful control
with back to the audience,
but fully present
with orchestra and choir,
as they navigate melodies
striving for perfection.

The singers perfectly positioned
as each voice carries
clearly to eager ears.

Peace fueled delight
wrapped in Isaiah's comfort,
and John the Baptist's resounding cry,
beheading not silencing his words of life.

The Glory of the Lord shall be revealed
and all flesh shall see it together.
Sweet clear voices and deeper resonance
join in sublime harmony.

Voices chime out in peals of praise.
Manuscripts clasped in fervent hands,
each one in rapt attention
to the finely polished score.

Divine inspiration within Handel's mind.
God's Word wrapped in glorious tuneful form.

Unto us a Child is born.
Unto us a Son is given.
He shall be called Wonderful.
Full throated proclamation pours forth,
lifting spirits and warming hearts
with satisfying Truth.

God's glory manifest in crafted chorus
and the trumpets shrill cry,
a journey through the Messiah's life.

And He shall reign for ever and ever.

Long after the concert goers
wend they way home
with satisfied hearts and minds,
and alleluias rising from their lips.

Suspended In Starlight

Light filled beings
suspended in starlight.
Seraphim spinning
with delirious joy.

Cherubim's choral shout.
Warrior winged Creatures
coming close to Earth,
as on Creation's celebration.

Heaven's Hosannas.
Anthems echoing out
into vastness,
made by the Mighty One.

Psalms of eternal praise,
heard by mortal flesh and blood,
as the Incarnate One
comes forth in Virgin Birth.

Wrapped as a treasure.
Seen by men and angels.
Sent by His Father,
to save Mankind.

Don't Judge Me

Don't judge me for my height
the cut of my clothes
the size of my head
or the length of my nose.

Don't judge me for the shade of my skin
the place of my birth
the weight of my form
or the size of my girth.

Don't judge me for the speed of my mind
or my last school report
the way I say things
or the disease that I caught.

Don't judge me for the money I have
or the money I've squandered
the area I call home
or the places I've wandered.

Don't judge me for my lack of respect
or the way I treat others
the bad language I use
or the crimes of my brothers.

Don't judge me for not knowing better
or for getting it wrong
for despairing of life
or for not coming along.

Don't judge me
but help me
for I need you to see
I'm too precious to judge

God's love isn't just for you
God's love is for me.

Truly Heard

Someone tries to see
into your soul,
but you stop them
at the door,
unwilling to share
your treasured thoughts.

Is it that you
do not
trust them
to hear?

Instead you make small talk
skirting around the edges
of issues important.

Still reluctant
to show strength of feeling
in case an apathetic answer
arrests your enthusiasm,
and you feel the subtle slap
caused by careless listening.

You do not want
your precious pearls
to drop into the dust
to be trampled.

So you wait
with each pearl firmly clasped,
until you find another
who will give you time.

It is said
that being truly heard
is so close
to being truly loved
most of us
cannot tell the difference.

You have not yet spoken
all that is in your heart.
I pray one day when you do,
you will be truly heard.

Restless Minds

Restless minds
skipping through thoughts
as stones skimmed on a river in flood,
heavy with expectation
delivering rain drop
cargoes in constant cycles.

So many rain drops
making up those rivers of thought,
that ebb and flow
between our consciousness
and unconsciousness,

delivering urgent memories
and bulging trivia,

thousands of images
seen and heard daily,

recorded, sorted, and filed
in the distracted recesses of our overloaded minds.

We are trapped in the revolving repetition
of our far too busy lives,
struggling to slow down long enough
to even see the flowers,
let alone smell them.

We seek restoration and renewal
in visions that drain
and do not edify.

They suck our souls southwards,
into lands of troubled thoughts,
and triggering temptations that cannot lead to life.

We must still our restless minds
before we miss the Truth,
and are overcome by lies.

Word Received 27.10.2016

Covenant yourself to Me in this time and be faithful

to My Word and My Spirit above all else.

Covenant yourselves to Me and do not let the enemy 

separate you from each other or from Me 

and My purposes in your lives.

Do not let the enemy fragment you

but stand united as one body and one bride

looking expectantly for the bridegroom.

Do not allow divisions between you to rob you

of Kingdom power and authority that comes

from the place of unity in My Spirit.

Track back to where division came in

and allow Me to restore what has been

broken in times past.

I desire one people who are called

by My name, says the Lord.

Unforgiving

I will never forgive that person,
for what they have done to me,
the things they said
the things they did
no, I will never forgive them you see.

I will take this big jug of poison,
and drink its very last drop,
it's label reads
unforgiving,
it's power is to make my enemies life stop.

They deserve to have all my hatred,
and venom and censure too,
I will spread abroad
to all I know,
how incredibly unpleasant they grew.

I'll be lifted up before others,
and all will see I am right,
and if they don't
I'll reject them too,
until soon all of them will feel my bite.

Myself I will choose isolation,
to stop it happening more,
others are fools
you can't trust them,
or even let them back in through the door.

I think it is better to attack,
before others get their chance,
I'll be unkind
I'll be so mean,
and invite others to this same horrid dance.

My enemy has tried to approach,
say sorry and make things right,
they offer peace
I'm not willing,
so all I will answer is that I might.

But I choose to remain unyielding,
it seems much better this way,
and although I
do not have friends,
I choose to stay unforgiving today.

Meditation on Isaiah 30 verse 15

For thus says the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel.
"In returning and rest you shall be saved.
In quietness and confidence shall be your strength."

Can I be quiet
so that voices of the past
no longer haunt me,
and cries of the future
no longer tempt me into striving?

Can I be quiet
not from shame or sadness,
but from the deepest joy
that I can know a lasting peace,
in the pieces of myself
that still call for war?

Can I be quiet
in my spirit,
so that I hear His Spirit
more clearly
than my wrestling restlessness?

Can I be quiet
so that time and eternity
trade places momentarily,
and I hear the hush of heaven
as it waits for revelation
to settle in my soul?

Can I rest
not heeding the hurried rush
of future days,
that would stretch my spirit
out of shape,
and leave me with
a dull headache of discontent?

Can I return to the One
who found me
and saved me
from my worst intentions,
and showed me a way more wonderful
than any of my own imaginings?

Can I have the confidence
of truly knowing who I am,
and who He is,
and how a door of reconciliation,
so beautiful but bloodied,
has been made
so I never need to be alone?

Radical Inclusion

To be radical
has become something to be feared.

Too much.
Too intense.
Too overwhelming
for the niceties of society,
which desires moderation
in all things,
except personal satisfaction and sinful pleasure.

To be radically inclusive,
to do away with 'us' and 'them' forever
is a shocking idea,
for it is in the very 'us' and 'them'
that we find our frail identity.

We belong to this group, this organisation, this culture
safely.
We are not like them with all their obvious differences.

We feel secure
with those who talk and think and look the same as us.

We are inwardly disturbed
when people violate our norm.

Jesus,
the ultimate radical,
was loved and hated for it.

He welcomed the oppressed and the oppressor,
and didn't make them sit
in designated groups.

He was present,
available to all
who would walk out of their fear,
religious leader under cover of darkness,
or prostitute openly wiping His feet with her hair.

He calls for radical inclusion
from those who would follow Him.
That none would be turned away
from seeking His Truth.

He so loved the world.

Radical

Inclusion.

We should do the same.

Belonging

Do we need to keep playing pretend,
with assumptions
received by head
but not by heart?

Do we need to keep doing
the right things for the wrong reasons,
trapped by expectations
to fulfill religious obligation?

Theory theology,
safely disconnected from life,
in case any sparks of faith
might set alight
a gospel glow
so unpretentious
Jesus would enjoy it.

We stick with opinions
bitterly fought for,
rather than beliefs
written with
love stained ink
on hearts honest and raw,
longing for grace and truth.

Truth truer than true
can only be found
away from practiced performance
of religious rite.

This is relationship reality,
sons and daughters
belonging to our Father,
co heirs with Christ.

No higher purpose or agenda
than belonging
in eternal family.

The beginning and the end
of the journey,
the Father's love for us.

If only we would receive it,
and turn forever
towards belonging.

The Edge of our Unknowing

I find myself
at the edge of my unknowing,
contemplating whether to draw back
or to take a wobbly step of faith,
because the leap
seems way too hard
at the moment.

I like the idea
that Jesus stands
a little to the side of
the edge of our unknowing,
willing us to see
how wonderful the waves are close up,
if only we would get out
of our small but stable boats.

The edge of our unknowing
is not a place
you want to wait,
for it is crowded
with the curious but apathetic.

They stay long enough
to catch a glimpse of what exists
outside their comfort zone,
and turn their backs again
on mystery and wonder.

If it is something
I can't easily explain or rationalize,
does that mean
that it is definitely not of God
or that it definitely is?

Too many of us
are fearful of knocks to prideful self
or lowering of social standing,
to risk the journey
to where our understanding
becomes of limited use,
and we have to
trust Someone else
beyond the edge of our unknowing.

Slow burning faith

Slow burning faith
that keeps the glowing spark alight,
and clings to the Spirit breathed promise
through years of frustration,
and yet to be seen fulfillment.

Slow burning faith
that remains in the prayer room,
when disappointment
and disillusionment
have all but cleared it
to silence.

Slow burning faith
that holds on
against impossible odds,
believing for a miracle
that appears to be permanently
lost in the post.

Slow burning faith
that knows the trustworthiness
of the Sender,
and expects the promise will arrive as perfectly created
as when it was first mentioned.

Slow burning faith
that is willing to keep the fuse lit
for decades if necessary,
before the miracle explosion
changes the life landscape forever.

So don't let doubters quench with their query's,
don't become weary with waiting,
too tired to try anymore.

Fan the tiny flame.

Wait for the answer
that will blow all
unbelief to hell.

Raise another standard
to God's faithfulness,
and to miracles
that come to those
with slow burning faith.

Set up to win

If the Kingdom
is a family business,
why so often
do we not support each other?

We look with resentment
at another's field of favor,
ruing their blessing
as if it brings us loss.

We should set
each other up to win,
delighting in victory.
Not comparing
the spacious sweep of our field,
seen smaller through eye's envying
another's better blessings.

Our heavenly Father's
gracious gifts
do not finitely finish,
and when one does well
another does not go without.

Our words carry
life and death,
to encourage or discourage
that is indeed the question
we should ask ourselves.

Do not hoard up your blessing
when it greets you,
but let it continue to flow
its way to others too,
or your joy will silently suffocate
and gratitude be forgotten.

Let us reach out our hands
to those sinking in stinking mud,
and not watch them
with deliberating judgement as they fail.

Let us be faithful
in the fruitful fields of the Father,
and set each other up to win.

Grit

I have heard
it is good to possess grit.

Can it truly be found
outside a western,
inhabited by men
toughened by tragedy?

As a daughter of the King
can I have grit?

To persevere when all seems lost,
to have a stubborn spirituality
that will not take
the world's no for an answer

but continues to wrestle
until first light,
even if I do
walk away with a limp.

There is indeed an excess
of moderation
in the modern world.

A desire for loose liberty
without the safety cordons
of judgement and truth.

The world is having
an identity crisis,
but refuses therapy
denying it has a problem.

Grit is a determination
to see the truth break through
the stubbornness of lying barricades.

It will not stop
until the final whistle blows,
the trumpet has sounded,
and all is truly seen
as it really is.

Lord may I possess grit
in these darkening days.

Don't stay in the hallway

When you find yourself in a hallway
of confusion,
misunderstanding,
unclear vision,
or disappointment,
do not linger too long.

Consider the hallway
not a cause for consternation,
but a choice to co-operate
with a forward call.

Do not over speak with others
why you think you are in the hallway.

Others have their reasons
for being there too,
but the over told tale
can fuel
your trembling heart's
desire for reassurance

so you forget
to seek solution
from the Author
of your answers.


Don't make your home in the hallway.
It is not meant to be
your permanent address
but a moment
on your destination journey.

Don't stay in the hallway

but go on wards

to the gateway

God has ready for you.

Father's Day

The pain
we feel when
things are not going well
for our child
is
a tiny glimpse
of the Father heart of God
for us

when we

choose

what is not
the very best
for our lives.

He is sad

not an angry sad
or a disappointed sad
or a frustrated sad
but

a sad so wrapped in
intense
unconditional
everlasting
love

that when we catch
a glimpse
it brings us
to our knees

and

into the warm again embrace
of the

ever present

Father

of us all.

Meditation on Psalm 32 verse 7

"You are my hiding place.
  You shall preserve me from trouble;
  You shall surround me with songs of deliverance."


Singing not fighting
is the order of the day
when trouble comes near
to keep it away.

It may sound odd
to start singing a song
and not take a weapon
to make you feel strong.

The power of the singing
is not yet understood
by those who don't see
that the Lord means them good.

But now I will choose
to listen to the sound
for it will bring me back
to His solid ground.

The Lord sings aloud
and He calms my anxious heart
all I need is to choose faith
that is my part.

I choose to believe
what He says and He sings
as He lifts me up
on deliverance wings.

He will keep me from troubles
and if I find myself there
He will hide me securely
in the place of His care.

Petrified Words

Words become petrified
under layers

of misuse,

misunderstanding,

half-hearted belief,

and double minded talk.

Words that carried

power

and

authority

robbed and
left for dead.

Words once

loved

and

cherished

with holy zeal and passion
put aside,
memorial markers
of what was very good.

The Word became flesh
and full of

grace

and

truth

lived among us.

His name now
used as a curse
on unloving tongues.

Words lie dormant
until we stir them
again in our hearts.

Take these petrified words
and break them
out of that which
hinders freedom.

The Word became

flesh

and

lived

among us.
He still does.

Let His words live again in you.

Kiwi Ball

Sequins sparkle,
fairy lights shine strung in streamers of iridescent light,
bright turquoise table cloths scattered with glistening glass,
reflecting tea light glow.

Young men almost unrecognizable
scrubbed up
and standing awkwardly
in their imprisoning suits.

Necks have ties,
and smart trousers
replace shorts and jandals.
Dress shoes foreign to the feet that wear them
make their annual appearance.

They stand in clumps
secretly glad
that they blend seamlessly with their peers,
not overdressed or under
for that would be disastrous.

Suspended lanterns float above the dance floor
still pools of tranquility above the noise.
Meters of taffeta and silk
sway to the music,
colors through the beauty palette
shimmer in the half light.

Hair curled, twisted and set to perfection,
nail polish and make up applied
with professional precision,
ready for the photos
and admiration of others.

The young ladies want to stand out,
each individual dress pleasingly admired.
High heel shoes paraded in,
are later cast aside.

Familiar music
brings murmurs of appreciation.
Everyone knows the lyrics
to their generation's songs.

The supper
presented with style,
is set upon
gratefully.

Parents flock
late in the evening,
to retrieve their loved ones
safely to their homes.

This world is full of wonder and beauty,
joy and excitement,
the harder things of life
completely forgotten
for these few precious hours.

Letter to a terrorist

I do not know
what you hope to achieve
by what you do.

How can you create anything
except more sadness, loss, grieving and despair.

I do not understand
what fruit can grow on trees
so laden with pain and hate.

I cannot see the merit
in laying down your life,
not for others
but to take as many as you can
with you into the terrible jaws of death;
to be swallowed up
on the evening news,
and then forgotten about in a few weeks time
by all but the loved ones of those lost.

I cannot grasp
your short term goals,
your long term goals,
your hopes for the future
when they seem darkly shrouded
even from your sight.

I see the figure
of a elderly French priest
kneeling in his church
whispering Father forgive them
for they know not what they do.

I do not fathom
how acts of horror and destruction
can seem by rapid repetition
commonplace and familiar.

It is beyond me
to comprehend your actions.
I see another person
made in the image of God
intended to live life in all its fullness.

A fellow human being
somehow fractured,
striving by any means
to bring death on earth.

Grace in the time of train strikes

Very nice Nice
should have been
instead sadness
shrouded by mourning
lives lost
to mad tragedy.
Grief's solemn stretch
scattered with so much remembrance.

French Nice to Italian Genoa
should of been simple
instead adventure
of a national rail strike.
No trains into Italy
except one leaving shortly.

Emergency plan ensued
fastest pack ever
hotel to station
a furious run
luggage flying
out of any thieves reach.

First train grasped
gasping for breath.
Chaos in Genoa.
Confused travelers
snaked seeking information.
Departure boards
signaled wide spread disruption.
A cheery recording repeating
sorry for the inconvenience.

A patient official
seemed genuinely surprised
our next train
was scheduled still
floating alone
in a cancellation sea.

Our time by the glorious coast
beckoned us
as we traveled onward
into night fall
by the grace of God.

Provence

Out of the palest of mid summer skies
the sun strikes on unyielding limestone.
Powder white dust
coats my black sandals.

Iconic lavender tumbles from every corner,
baking gloriously,
it's fragrance generous and hopeful.

Hill clung villages
on bleached crags,
perch above
chorus patchworks
of vineyard and olive groves.

Shimmering beauty
dares you to look from
precarious castle towers
to the dizzying depths
of vast plateau.

Crafted collectable treasures
beckon from tightly woven shops
along jostled streets.

Cool vaulted churches
with garishly painted saints
and votive candles
flickering their coin paid intercession.

Trunks of tangled olive trees
force their way through hard earth,
quiet observers of rich history.

Blessed Provence,
treasured place
of God and man's creation.

Historic Stately Houses

Hot Ham stone
centuries weathered,
pale colonies of miniature lichen,
bruised edges and chipped walls.
Towering chimneys like twisted marshmallows
preside over countless windows
staring at history past.

Lovingly reconstructed gardens
burst with measured English beauty,
wild nature captivated
by orderly minds.
Flower beds, vegetable gardens and old orchards
weighing generously with harvest expectation.

The cool interiors
and ancient oak staircases,
climbing upwards with so
many silent stories to tell.

Servants and masters
intrigue and passion
love and brokenness
moved in these majestic rooms.

Dusty rich tapestries
muffle footstep sounds
on thick planked floors.
Uneven flagstones
near the gaping hearths,
smooth and familiar.

May all be blessed
who seek to preserve the precious past
for future joy,
so we can glimpse
back in time
to those who were not so very different,
staring out at us
caught in heavy gilded frames.

The Great British Summer

I was asked to bring
some sunshine from New Zealand
because of the blessed abundance
of that fair land.

I found myself
unable to persuade
the Sun to leave
the Long White Cloud
and customs would have proved difficult.

The cold caught me by surprise
coming from a mild and bright midwinter.
I crashed headlong into the biting chill
of a British summer,
borrowing jumpers and jackets
and considering gloves.

Wishing the Sun would remember
where this fine spread of land lies
underneath the clouds and gloom.

The wind whips around
flattening the fragrant flowers,
trying to put on a brave show
in this inclemency.

The supermarket banners proclaiming
the Great British Summer
laced with unintentional heavy irony.

Central heating heaves
into unseasonable action
and we scan the sky for blue.
Next time I will pack some sunshine
and go through customs "Something to declare".

Find your voice

The thought police
have struck again.
Intimidation wraps
its suffocating bands
around those who
would consider
something
different
from the
forced philosophies
expressed at every turn
during a total fire ban
on free speech.

Moderate, conservative,
family friendly, upstanding.
Words of former generations
respected now reviled
and increasingly linked
with hate crimes.

Biblical world views
once the revered bedrock
of Western Civilisation
have been more than discarded.
They are attacked, shredded,
as intolerant and unacceptable.

How has what was known as good
become so vilified?
How has what was known as evil
become so praised?

Am I guilty of remaining silent
when I should be speaking?
Is there still time to speak?

Do I need at this late hour
to clear my throat
and begin to say what I believe
rather than being silenced by fear
of what might happen to me?

I cannot go into all the world
and make disciples
if I do not speak.

God give me courage to find my voice.

In Flight

Apple juice
and sore knees,
drifting sleep
and mild turbulence,
plastic wrapped food
on slippery trays.

Delays on the tarmac,
waiting in queues,
snatched conversations,
and a little girl Ava
hugging my leg.

Icy blasts of
cruel air conditioning
tempered by lurid blankets,
and miniature pillows.

Complimentary papers
and bland magazines,
movies to be watched,
willing time to be stolen,
day and night chasing
us right around the globe.

Genuine time travel
and body clock confusion,
desperately willing the destination to arrive.

Joy and thanksgiving
at every safe touchdown.
Understanding the privilege of
God's revelation and
miracle engineering,
may I never take for granted
this long distance flight.

Fire Fall

Holy Spirit incendiary
flame tongued
wind ripped
structure shaking
life changing
outpouring.

Extraordinary manifesting
in ordinary people.
Not intoxication
but liberation
into Spirit language
and power.

Minds blown.
Gospel sown.
Radical boldness.
Huge harvest.

Willing souls
drawn towards
personal salvation granted,
eternal life gifted,
and joy enabled for evermore.

Identity Thief

Am I a boy or a girl?
My school says I can somehow choose,
although it does look plain to me.

I wonder why the adults are talking so.
It seems as if they should be joking
when they say such things,
but their faces are straight and serious.

I wonder if they will
let me choose next year
which animal I would like to become.
Surely now I can choose anything
and everyone will have to agree.

I think I would like to be a cat.
I will move around on all fours,
dress all in black,
and lick cream from a saucer.

I will still be able to sleep on my bed
(my parents will be pleased),
but curled up at the bottom
as do the rest of my kind.

Perhaps when I am older
I will choose to become some other animal.
Maybe a horse because they are strong
and can gallop quickly away
from things that trouble them.

My teacher has given me a form to tick.
Do I feel like I am a boy or a girl?
I shall not tick either.
I will write I think I am a cat
and see what she does next.

New Age

A new age is here,
a madness epidemic
sweeping the sphere
seemingly unstoppable.

Illogical lies
are neatly wrapped
in double think,
and sold as brave new truth
around the globe.

Ancient falsehoods
hewn from the pits of hell,
repackaged as enlightened scientific fact
about our origins.

Higher education
forces focused young minds
to submit to the extreme corruption
of intelligent thought,
and willful rebellion against the Creator.

Male and female(as obvious reality)
no longer exists,
the plain truth
ripped and scattered
as fragments in the wind,
able only to be gathered
by the most determined souls.

Practitioners peddle their particular healing,
promising by pressing your head
to unlock up to 10,000 years of pain.

The world has left its senses by the door
and has gone into a particularly nasty storm,
of buffeting winds of nonsense,
and thick darkness that fuels despair.

God do not leave us in this place.
In your great love
bring your light
and your truth
back into
this bad new age.

Doppelganger

It is a strange equilibrium
and universal continuum
that you and I
are each unique.

It would be a curious improbability
if a doppelganger existed,
a double walker,
a living counterpart of ourselves.

Someone with whom you could trade places
without anyone else being aware.

What if you could leave your life
in the hands of another,
depart your present space
with no one missing you?

A curiosity indeed,
but fraught with the difficulty
that is humanity.
What if my double
pretending to be me,
were not willing
to hand back the reins
at the appointed time?

What if they thought they were
doing a better job at being me,
and were not content to walk away from my life?

It is foolishness to wish away our life to someone else,
for no other can fully master the quintessence that is you.

We should not abdicate
but embrace our own life,
be faithful to the calling
that is ours alone.

We are unique in this universe.
There is no one like us.
Rejoice in it,
for God has made it so.

Dreams of Phoenix

Twelve weeks old
I hold you in my arms
and wonder on your dreams,
almost everything as yet undone,
the very early moments of your life.

What do you dream about little man
that causes your face to look so,
your arms to fling out
your body to stretch
as if preparing for a race?

Do you run over sand
or over meadows?
Does the moon or sunlight guide your way?
Do extraordinary animals or winged creatures
inhabit your dreamscape,
inhabitants of this world or the next?

Do you talk in your dreams
when your perfect forehead furrows,
and your mouth moves in whispered thoughts?

Are your dreams full of others,
or do you explore your wondrous world alone?

I can only imagine
the answers,
for when you are old enough
to tell me in words I comprehend,
the dreams of your first beginning days
will be forever lost to mystery and wonder
for those who hold you
with safe and cradled arms
while you sleep.

Choral Masterpieces

Burnished wood of violin,
cello and paler double bass,
reflect the spot light beams.
Gentleman and ladies stand
dressed in black and white,
with crisp pressed shirts,
and polished shoes.

We spend the evening
with five fine men,
long gone but not forgotten.
Handel, Mozart, Dubois,
Faure and Puccini.
Their gifted legacies
of deep talent and harder work.

One piece by Mozart at thirteen
spilling forth complex symphony
as if singing childhood rhymes.

The singers fix in concentration,
flick pages and form perfect oval
mouths as joyous words
flow out in strength.

Praise of God goes forth
joining with seraphim and cherubim
and those whose sang
these same words of truth
throughout the ages.

Violin bows dance and swing
across the strings,
fingers flying over frets,
forming perfect sounds by gifting honed.

The skilful rise and fall
of the Conductor's hands,
full of intricate command
to those who understand.

I close my eyes,
and memories flood
of places I have heard these sounds before.
Hot scented French summer days,
and cool aired towering cathedrals
where organ music flies.

Applause brings me back
to where I am;
seat I14 mid row
among these choral masterpieces.

Word Received 10.5.2016

Look and see My salvation
that is coming across the earth.
Do not be unbelieving
but believe all things are possible
in and through Me.
Lift up your eyes and do not
be burdened by your own issues
but look to Me for the answer to them.
There is not time to be tangled
up with things that do not matter in eternity.
Look to Me and see My salvation
come to those who are around you.
I am able and I am willing
to save all in these days.

Who looks after Mothers?

Who looks after Mothers
when they fall and scrape their knee,
when life is hard,
and friends unkind.
When the project they
are working on
doesn't go well,
and the jigsaw pieces
refuse to behave.

Who looks after Mothers
when they need a warm hug
and a friendly kiss.
A blessing softly spoken,
and today's troubles
eased by listening ears.

Who looks after Mothers
when all the world is against them,
and they need a faithful ally
who will listen
to their version of events,
and choose to believe
it wasn't all their fault.
Who wraps protective arms,
and calls forth encouragement
and purposed destiny
in the quivering heart.

Who looks after Mothers
when they just need to be held,
and told as many times as it takes
that all will be well.
Until the heaving sobs
settle with the peace of reassurance,
and a new stride
can be measured forth.

Who looks after Mothers
when all is lost,
and grief is too much to bear.
When a beloved is laid to rest
under stones and fading flowers.
When no words should be spoken,
but only hands held,
and eyes locked with understanding
that this terrible pain too will pass.

Who looks after Mothers?
They are all around you
needing to be loved,
cherished, understood,
and comforted.

So
please
look
after
Mothers.

Truth

Truth is beaten down
by naysayers and die hard critics.
Cynicism is the new cool,
cursing it's language.

Truth is sidelined
as unimportant and irrelevant,
too old fashioned for words,
laughable even.

Truth is how you see it,
and you and I see it
so very differently.
We can all be right
in this age
of conformity to nonsensical logic.

Truth is changing.
Of course it is.
All good things mutate over time
as the precise facts of the evolution theory
put it.

We will create a new truth
that will last forever,
with a few parts of the old
for the sake of continuity.

Truth is guarded
by a fanatical few
with a Book revered
and stories told
of a Man who said he was Truth.

Truth has been silenced,
all in allegiance killed.
It will not be bothering us anymore.

Truth can never be destroyed.
One day He will return
and put an end to lies
forever.

Wedding

Sunlight shafts glimpse through
canopied Puriri,
long lived trees witnesses in that
fine missionary tamed plot of ripe earth.

Tangled deep green growth is crushed by
three generations of expectant feet
awaiting the holy solemnity
of new covenant
forged with full lipped vows and dearest declaration.

An ivy twisted, flower pinned archway
waits to behold the beauty
ushered in with bagpipe shrill.

The wild green church
encompasses the beckoned bridal throng,
blushing deeply with the first glimpsed view.

Words sung softly
wrap around the living columns,
woodland stilled by the One who is praised.

Gentle words and bold kisses
mingle on the lips
of the couple beheld.
Their hearts a whirl with
fulfillment and anticipation
of together life.

Applause rings the proclamation
of husband and wife,
sealed before God and man
underneath these ancient trees.

Bad Religion

I don't want
bad religion
that binds me up
in fear and guilt,
herding me into
a suffocating small space
unable to be free
to laugh
to dance
to sing
to be the myself
God has created me to be,
and not the one of
someone else's tiny imagination.

I don't want
bad religion
where those who are in
look down on the out,
bolstering their fragile egos
in the light of other
less fortunate failures.
One look condemns,
the verdict next,
the sentence carried
before a word from the accused.

I don't want
bad religion
where no one cares
if I live or die,
as long as it doesn't
take up a moment
of their busy schedules
or inconvenience them in any way.
The volume turned down
on the cries of the desperate,
and off if it becomes too irritating.

I don't want
bad religion.
God doesn't either.
That's not why Jesus came to earth
and died
so we can be tangled up
and downward dragged
by confusing legalese
and man-made print.

God
so misrepresented
by willful muddle
and downright lies.
Humanity wants nothing to do
with the One
who created,
who loves,
who cares,
and deeply longs for
relationship
sin broken, cross restored.

He's waiting for us
to say no to
bad religion
and yes and yes and yes
to His kingdom and to Him.  

The Hollow Men (My version of T.S.Eliot's poem of 1925)

We are the hollow men.
I know T.S.Eliot said it first,
but it bears repeating.

We are the stuffed men,
seemingly resplendent on the outside
in all our social finery,
but lost and broken inside
hoping no one will glimpse
our shame.

We are the hollow men
born without hearts
for feeling,
without minds
for thinking,
without souls
for touching one another.

So we voice our shallow platitudes
and we hope no one will ask us
a truly difficult question,
such as what does love look like
in this battered and bruised life.

We smile and nod
hoping no one will
notice our faces
flushed from crying
in the desolate wilderness
of our own untidy sanctuary.

Those who have broken through
to the other life
do not understand our downcast faces,
the despair of unknowing
and being unknown.

Faces I cannot meet again
of those in the future kingdom
look with kindness
and cheer us on to this better place,
where pain is left
as doorstep shoes
for the rain to dampen
and thieves to reject.

This is the dying land in which we live
as we look for the living One
to come and turn this death kingdom on it's head,
and flood resuscitating life into every soul
that accepts the new breath.

Here we go around the same garden path
that our first parents so carelessly wandered in.

Can it be the same
in the future
present and past,
of a world between
it's beginning and end,
surely nearer the end
although it's inhabitants
do not behave as if it were so.

We gather on the shore of this decision
to go forward
or to turn again to our personal Egypt,
that place of pleasure and pain
so muddled we cannot divide them.

Between the commencement
and the finale
comes the awkward
moment of silence
when the audience
is unsure of the
timing of their applause.

Between the passion                               For yours is the kingdom
and the regret
is something far
more confusing
and impossible
to quantify.

Between the creation                                the power and the glory
and the judgement
there is salvation
if we will have it.
A freely given gift
scorned by so many
in this darkness hungry life.

This is the way each one's world ends.       forever and ever. Amen
This is the way your world ends.
There is an end.
May it be with the power of a prayer
and not with a whimper.

Word Received 9.4.2016

Draw near to Me
and I will lead you in My purposes.
Listen to My voice,
and shut out the other voices
that would try to distract you
or lead you onto other paths.
Listen to Me and respond to My Word
not in the future but now when you hear it.
Do not fear,
for nothing will be impossible for you
if you walk in obedience.
It is not about your righteousness or your worthiness,
but it is because of My righteousness
and My worth that these things will come to pass.

Don't lose hope

Don't lose hope.
It is more vital
to you
than your daily bread.

It sustains you,
nourishes you,
cleanses you,
and refreshes you.

Don't lose hope.
You can't buy it,
borrow, beg, or steal it.
It does not come
in convenient multi-packs,
half filled to avoid waste.

Don't lose hope.
You can't quantify it, define it,
measure it with metric or imperial.
But you will be truly lost without it,
unable to move one space
forward in your beckoning life.

Don't lose hope.
We take it for granted
when we have it in abundance.
That invincibility of youth,
untainted by disappointment,
who know they can do anything.

Don't lose hope.
When disaster or tragedy
visits with unwelcome abhorrence,
and leaves you with a disgust
that life can be so.

Don't lose hope.
The disciples lost it
as they saw Jesus on the cross,
but found it afresh
on the third day
with gripping intensity.

Jesus said,"I go to My Father
to prepare a place for you."

Don't lose hope.

Easter Sunday Morning

I can't see his face
through the tears.
It's blood stained, broken
I know.
I don't recognize my Lord and my friend.

I have no more tears.
I am spent, numb.
There is nothing left
of his life, or mine
except this ragged cloth
with which he wiped his face.

The blood has hardened,
the dirt dried
but it has become my most precious treasure.

I hold it
and breathe in the memory
of the good times,
the healings,
and outrageous outpourings
of miraculous grace
that flowed out of him
those three full years.

Full of so much promise,
excitement, power, wonder,
compassion, love.

Love.
That is what I'm left with.
His love.

It made me complete,
healed, restored.
No longer judged and dirty,
a social leper, a society outcast.

He gave me dignity, purpose.
He restored my name to me,
who I really am.

I will go to the tomb today
to anoint his body.
My last act of love
given in return.

I will ask the gardener to help me
roll away the stone.
There he is.

Word received 3.3.2016

Arise My people
and stand firm on My Word
for the winds are beginning to blow
of false doctrine and false teaching
in a manner not seen before.
People will completely abandon
what My word says
and replace it with their opinions
like shifting sands
that are ever changing.
My Word does not change.
It remains the same and ever will be.
Do not listen to those who
dispute it or change it according
to their own desires
but listen to My words and do them.
There will be a great divide
between those who believe My Word is true
and those who do not.
My power shall prove those who are right.
Do not grow weak
but feed on My Word
Says the Lord.

Oncology Ward (and Revelation 21:4)

Medicating cocktails seep through circling tubes
dulling the suffocating pain.
Oxygen saturation shows steady.
Expensive equipment signals
discouraging statistics.

The industrial white sheets
and meager hospital blanket
defies any sense of homeliness.
Impersonal clinical uniformity
adds weight to despair.

So she watches the last few days of her life,
not yet nearly half way through,
time out
to a blistering crescendo
of familial grief
and personal anguish.

She will not see her daughter wed,
or her sons in the strength of their adult years.
Robbed of life by the curse that is cancer,
that hateful disease that shows no mercy,
in whatever form it comes.

The doctors and nurses have done their best
and they grieve in their own quiet way,
apart from the patients
with whom they must remain strong and all knowing.

Her family is allowed space and time
to say goodbye

before she is wheeled from the ward
to make room for another.

And God will wipe away
every tear from their eyes;
there shall be no more death,
nor sorrow, nor crying.
There shall be no more pain,
for the former things have passed away.

Thankful

I am thankful
that I wake every morning
through the year's turning,
grateful for another day
laden with God's grace
towards me.

I am thankful
that I can speak
words of blessing
to my family and others.
I can breathe in
the new day deeply
and breathe out praise
to My Creator.

I am thankful
that I can walk
and run
and dance
if I want to,
work hard co-laboring amidst Creation,
and feel the pleasure
of accomplishment satisfied.

I am thankful
that I can hear
love and care
from others speech,
words chosen to bring life.
I can know the joy and
comfort in friendship shared.

I am thankful
that I can see
God's wonders
pressing in
causing me delight.
Sun, stars and moon
illuminating His Glory.

I am thankful
that I can know God.
Not just know about Him,
but know Him in the intimacy of silence
and the communion of worship.

I can speak with Him,
walk with Him, hear His voice,
see His works.
wake each day knowing
He is always there.

I am thankful.

Stars through the trees

I thought about you
and what might have been,
if different choices had been made,
different paths walked.

If we had met
earlier,
later,
in a different place,
in a different era.

We might have been close friends,
more than acquaintances
hanging out around a camp fire
listening to a testimony of faith.

We walked through the forest
speaking of eternal truths,
and questions that needed to be answered,
glimpsing the stars through the trees
before they overtook us.

I'm sure you look different now.
We wouldn't recognize each other.
If we met
there would be that moment
where you know you know the person
but you just can't place them.

Any words spoken might
have jumbled meaning,
unclear to either hearer.

A stuttering silence
might follow.
A few staccato phrases
linked for social conformity
and ease of parting.

We might walk away
bemused and indifferent,
missing the moment
of re-connection,

only remembering later
the stars through the trees.

Never mind

Hurt people
hurt people.

World hurting.
Hurting world.

Glass smashed.
Plate broken.
Marriage ended.
Children damaged.

Car crashed.
Lives shattered.
Young man crippled.
Family grieved.

Old lady robbed.
Money taken.
Arm wrenched.
Cheek bruised.

Job lost.
Family bankrupt.
All despaired.
House repossessed.

Biopsy positive.
Cancer returned.
Prognosis worsened.
Life shortened.

Crime committed.
Children removed.
Inmate beaten.
Hope lost.

It doesn't touch my life.

So

Never mind

Unspoken

Words
come so easily to my mind
of what I will say to you.

Then I am with you
and they are gone
deleted in an instant,
irretrievable.

I practice
and tell myself
I will be clear
and precise
and reasonable.
But my precision fades,
my clarity muddles,
and I am quiet,
except for the voice
shouting in my head
that I should have said something.

Perhaps I should write to you,
record my thoughts while still coherent.
Then I won't be swayed by
emotional response,
trying to read your mind,
or fear of rejection.

It is easy to remain silent
on the most important of topics,
filling instead verbal space with trivia.

I want to tell you
that "it is appointed for men to die once,
but after this the judgment."
I don't want you to be under judgment.

You need an advocate.

You need the Savior.

Ode to tabloid love (and 1 Corinthians 13)

Love is a very splendid thing,
except when it is difficult
and painful
and confusing.

Love suffers long and is kind;
love does not envy;love does not parade itself,is not puffed up;

It is so over verbalized in glossy magazines,
dissected photogenically,
until the reader is sick at the stench of it's decay
in following editions.

Love does not behave rudely, does not seek its own,
is not provoked,thinks no evil:

Love is an elusive treasure boasted about by the honey tongued
when it is seemingly found,
only to turn into ash
in the mouths of those betrayed.

Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;

Current ideas of love morph and twist
as they are pulled to and fro
by philosophizing fools,
spitting out inconclusive survey results
to prove their insanity.

Love bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.

She has found true love the front cover screams,
but if my memory serves me correctly
it is indeed the eighth time this has happened.
Where is the truth in the love in that?

Love never fails.

Not everyone can do what feels right without hurting anyone else.
It is as impossible now as it ever was and ever will be.

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

When will we realize we have been given the truth about love?
When will we take it to heart?

Word Received 6.2.2016

Take counsel with Me and see My strategy
for defeating the enemies schemes.
Do not be passive and allow his attack
to overwhelm you, but rise up
in the power of My Spirit
and lay claim to what I have for
you in these days.
These are days of decision
for many people so do not become
consumed by your own battles,
but seek My path of victory
and look outward.
Many distractions will try to cause you
to miss what I have for you as My people
and for others who do not yet know Me.
Walk in step with My Spirit
and you will know victory,
says the Lord.

Memory

I saw your face
in my dream last night,
a half forgotten memory
with enough back story
to ignite fresh emotion.

I had left the past
in the sea of forgetfulness,
yet somehow fragments
bumped against the shoreline,
unwanted flotsam and jetsam
of my former life.

The currents are fickle
in their timing
to resurface unwanted thoughts.
They have floated unseen
for so long.

I had thought them
absorbed by the ocean.

Yet they still retain their form
clearly enough for me to recognize them,
and immediately wish I hadn't.

A fresh path of memory track
laid unwittingly,
another choice to lay aside.

It is not so much
a haunting of the past,
as a flash of a familiar face in the crowd
that causes you to double take.

It is not them
and never will be.
They have long gone,
but their memory remains.

Forever

I will
forever
be at your side.

At your back
protecting you.
At your front
leading you.

I will surround you
with My grace and goodness.

I will
forever
be the one who counsels you,
encourages you,
guides you,
who shows you
the paths of righteousness
for My name's sake.

I will
forever
be your advocate,
the one who justifies you,
heals you,
delivers you
out of whatever darkness you have walked into,
willingly
or not.

I will
forever
be your comforter,
the one who cherishes you,
nurtures you,
loves you with a fierce and jealous love.

I will
forever
be the one who encircles you,
delights in you,
sings over you
with tears of laughter and joy inexpressible.

I will

forever

be your Savior,

your King,

your Lord,

your God.

Let me know

Let my life count for something.
Let
my
life
count
for
something.

Let it count
in the passage of time,
in the sight of history.

Let someone be sad
at my passing.
Let someone have joy
in my living.

Let someone imagine me
with fondness,
and feel an empty space
when I'm not there.

Let someone think of me
at first light
and close of day.

Let me know
I matter,
that my life
is significant.

That I am not a mistake,
a random act of nature,
a cluster of cells
created to decay,
and disappear
without meaning.

Let me know I am loved
that someone would stand up for me,
protect me from an enemy,
lay down their life for me.

Let me know that I'm worth it,
that I have value
and purpose
and eternal destiny.

Let me know.
Somebody.
Let me know.

Second Coming

Coming to you live
from the Mount of Olives
in Jerusalem.
World Media has gathered
over the last few hours,
after images streamed from
an Israeli news team
showed a bizarre cloud formation
hurling lightening and fire,
destroying camera drones.
Countries continue to log in.
Media saturation
through every available channel.
No one on the planet
is missing this.
Oh my God, light filled beings
hundreds, no thousands
stream through a portal.
Oh my God, I can't believe
what I'm seeing.
Swords, shields,
banners,wings.
Our army,navy,air-force
are all on high alert.
Will human weapons
match this alien invasion?
A figure.
It looks human.
Male.
He's coming
towards the earth.

Oh

my

God.

Bernard

Hirawani, fearless warrior
who promoted good relations
between Maori and European,
stares at me
impassively from behind the glass.
His feathered cloak and mustache
delicately worked in pencil grey.

Captain James Cook hangs on
the other side of the door,
equally serious
understanding the weight of historical responsibility.

Bernard, with his red rimmed clear blue eyes and white mustache,
greets me explaining, with slight apology,
that he is the youngest resident.
Still in his sixties
he served at sea.
They had desperate times
and he treated a fellow sailor's broken leg
by cutting it right off.

He showed me the clock in his room
then a second in the corridor.
"One, two, three, four, five, six.
They are exactly the same,"
he said in hushed tones,
as if personally responsible
for this extraordinary occurrence.

I examined his artwork flanking the door,
and showed him his name
inscribed at the base of the pictures.
"They must have given them to me,"
he replied nodding.

He told me he was sorry
his wife was not able to stay with him.
She had to live somewhere else.
The room was small.
There was only space for one bed.

Bernard.
Polite.
Dignified.
Gentle.
Possibly a sailor.
Definitely an artist.
I will never forget our meeting.

Fifty Two

Fifty two weeks
stretch out in front of me.

Fifty two divinely measured,
units of order and grace,
willing me forward
with a manageable end in sight.

Fifty two opportunities
to make seven days
count for something.
To bless another,
to help create
tangible atmospheres
of goodness and hope.
To lay hold of promises
still unseen in the spirit.

Fifty two carefully
sequenced weeks
first created
by the Creator
as He spoke the world
into existence
and then took time
to appreciate His handiwork.

Fifty two times
to begin afresh
at the start of the week.
To leave the
unfinished
frustrated
disappointment
of the week before
and turn
hope into substance.

I have fifty two weeks.
So do you.