and still

and still truth eludes me.

looking, I will never see:
the dark of night
my only hope of light

stumbling block

trying to justify my being by doing,
pay my way, and earn my life.

this penetrates so deep
can I ever really be free of it?

the pharisee in me
shakes his head at the gift of life
and refuses to believe.

this door is locked from the other side

st paul

like confucius,
too much of the how
not enough of the why

five times a day

if the christians prayed five times a day
like the moslems do
would there have been a credit crunch?

choral evensong

the inebriating sweetness of sound
fills the ears with deafening piles of glory,
stinging the eyes with tears
and concealing the face of God

but look!

(peter prendergast)

the singing canvas
is transparent, quiet, real
so you show through

prison

you bar my way, block my retreat,
and plunge me into darkness.
I am reduced to silly, tearful rage.

earlier, as I was climbing the hill in the cold rain
you said something:
the meaning flashed by me and was gone.
I know it was important.
what was it you said?

it's there somewhere:
hidden for ever in my own words
like a cryptic clue

around me, the hills close in

denominations

baptists celebrate Responsibility;
anglicans celebrate the Word;
catholics celebrate Constancy;
but none of us can celebrate Unity.

while st paul turns in his grave
the spirit of God flies free

memory

homeward bound from school:
swishing joyfully through crisp brown leaves;
in bulging pockets priceless treasure:
conkers the colour of cabinets

come monday:
a sad dull brown,
shrivelled and cracked.
in the bin they go

friendly streaks of sunlight diagonal across a faded carpet.

ancient memory illumines the present

abraham

jew, christian, moslem
his uncouth offspring

three warlike tribes camped on the plain

could it be that each community only finds it's identity
over and against the identity of the other?

like a wigwam

sleepless nights

revising 'then' in the light of 'now'; despairing in the knowledge that any such revision casts me in the central role. [the absurd selfishness of me!]
so must I then become a guildenstern in my own story?
(I am more a don quixote . . . .
. . . . . . or pierrot with his gloomy face . . . hahaha!!)

john donne writes 'no man is an island'.
usually I think 'yeah yeah I know':
and don't.
much more rarely, you flick the switch:
'aha, I see!'

this blog: too important for its own good.
top heavy with cargo

oneness

moslems and jews are, of course, quite right about the oneness of God.
the problem is: where do we come in?

blogging

by blogging I have carved my way
through another rocky day

jerusalem

christian, moslem, jew
higgledy-piggledy:
divine irony

title

I should call this blog:
'between me and you'
or
'between you and me'

how twee
that would bee

the nhs

I expect too much

tintern

(peter prendergast, welsh artist)

that day,

when his name echoed joyfully amongst the ruins,

and went eternal: how we smiled!

months later, through bitter tears and hobs,

I recalled . . . . and understood.

patience

I don't have nearly enough.

you tie me down and stuff a sock in my mouth

friends

in alphabetical order:
andrew
agnar
george
hobs
john
valdi
loved still
secretly
my stepping stones to you

the psalms

my walking stick.
my compass.
my food.
my drink.

all you will need! I thought you said

hermitage

my house is my hermitage.

'I live alone'
I moaned
'I should have a partner'
I groaned
'I am become selfish,weird and quite unloveable'
I grumbled
'if I was a good man I would be living in a community'
I complained

all of this is true

but then, gripping me by the arm, you told me:
I am a hermit
I live with the hermits
and my family are all in you.

as I discovered you through my friends.
so I discovered my friends through you.

sheep and goats

why do I always end up with the goats?

because you are one, silly

a good man

colin powell

danger

if I cannot leave landmarks behind
how can I move on?
travelling is easy: just one foot in front of the other.
and don't look back!

but, without a landmark, how do I get my bearings?
you said, follow me, yet I see no footprints!

does the swallow fly north in autumn?
and at the next landmark
do not be tempted to steer by it

I know I know: the swallow . . .

1 samuel

such a confusion of stories!
samuel's here,
jonathan's there,
and a plethora of other accounts too.
all cut, pasted,
and heaped with contradiction.
[but did david or saul have a say?]

'here's all the evidence', says the patient scribe
'you decide!'

and while we're about it,
2 samuel should be called
the book of david.

nothing for it

in some despair, but
there is still only you.

outside, the sun is shining
and beethoven is an angelic distraction
the music ends:
'that's your lot,' says beethoven.

st paul

no longer foreigners,
not even just fellow citizens,
but family
ephesians 2

inaction

I need a project! I cry, casting around.
you stay my hand.
'this blog is bad enough'

for a brief moment I understood


do not expect to feel
or to know
or to see.
but be assured!
you will feel, know and see enough.

yeah,yeah

iconoclast

every idea of Him we form, He must, in mercy, shatter.

C. S. Lewis

rain

rain taps at the windows.
on the mountain, mists surge amongst the pines.

the book of judges:
iron age newspaper cuttings:
more 'times' than 'sun' perhaps

quagmire

see what happens when you dawdle!
to fetch myself out will need some effort


isn't it time that I accepted I am too short to see over the parapet?
my jumps are ridiculous.

st augustine

(partly quoting scripture)

no eye has seen it; it has no colour
no ear has heard it; it has no sound.
it has not entered man's heart;
man's heart must enter into it.

the last two lines ring such a strange note

democracy

is the primary role of a king to uphold his own power or to protect his subjects?
and is the primary role of a priest to uphold the church or to guide his flock?

there is an argument to be made that by concentrating upon the first, one achieves the second;
but the temptation for king and priest alike is that he concentrates so much upon the first that he loses sight of the second.

this, I suppose, is the crucible in which democracy, in all its messy absurdity, is born.

on this subject God is clear: that he stands always beside the poor, the weak and the orphan.

those who would wield power wisely should do so with reluctance and a sense of foreboding and, when the time comes, should lay it down with a sigh of relief.
those who rejoice in power have had their reward.
these are the ones who cling to it like lichen to a rock, knowing that, once they are deposed, nothing remains for them but emptiness.

kingship still baffles me;
priesthood less so.
that there is a link is indisputable.

didn't samuel say that God was angry when the israelites cried out for a king instead of a priest?
I guess he thought: 'pandora's box'.

God

my beginning
my end

I am less sure about the bit in between

abbot victor

I went to abbot victor.
'I cannot stay,' I told him.

'but you will only be going off on your own!'
his arm traced my journey

we sat for a while in silence
'I still have to go' I said.

but he was right of course

squirrel

we all gathered hazelnuts.
when they were gone, we gathered acorns.
these were soon gone too but I still had my secret supply
- hidden away in a lonely tree.

I led you there
and we gazed together on my beautiful hoard.

but you wouldnt keep my secret!

today

I am a psalm-machine
droning on

even as my lips move I am planning my escape

foolishness

building my little nest
state-of-the-art
I forget that we cannot stay.


the child builds his sandcastle.
as the sea swallows his work
he is exultant . . . . .
such wisdom!

idolatry

not so much a trap that we fall into as the safe, familiar land you are begging us to leave.
'nothing matters so much as this! nothing at all!'
[goodness, how you nag]

I glance back wistfully.
you bang me on the back of the head.
[ouch]

I take your hand.

here

in clouds of uncertainty again
I grope for the key:
your gift to me - all I will ever need.

I hang it around my neck

meaning

I scoured, desperate, for meaning, and you threw me into darkness.
when blind and cold I sat with my head in hands
you lifted my chin and turned me towards a rising sun

slow learner

I'm a very slow learner.
it took me fifty years to figure out why female birds tend to be brown.

you

and your people

but me as well?

you pass me a drink

retrospective

dark and blank, speckled with ME,
but there!
a glimpse of YOU in the rear view mirror . . .

the memory lingers like the subtlest fragrance
and is gone

dogma

dogma backwards spells
am god

perhaps

holiness is
'that which really is true'
'that which really is'.

you said: I AM.
therein lies your holiness.

but I am too! so together
WE ARE?

how can your holiness not rub off?

but holiness has no colour,
making it difficult to spot

words

floods of these
so few of them true.
and none of them true in the sense that you are true.

words are words: assemblies of letters
martialled into groups designed to point toward meaning

and on my journey
these are the constellations by which I navigate.

but a cloudy sky can be no excuse for laying about.
so hurry on!
calmly,
remembering.

when meaning is hidden,
'going through the motions'
sounds such a bad thing to do
but the alternative can only be
'not going through the motions'.
how is that better?

I fell over

so I must get back up. . .
impossible without you. . . .

a tortoise on its back

yesterday those words were jewels:
TREASURE!

today they are an encrypted cacophony.

with a sigh, you hand me the key

beech tree

reds, yellows, browns and greens

my journey

somewhere along the way, I have forgotten how to navigate.
no matter

in the garden

decaying leaves

the key

here, in the uncertain midnight darkness,
my key of faith.

perhaps, later, I can explain

autumn sunshine

story.
but not just one.
millions;
"more than the grains of sand . . . . ."
stories then.

but perhaps only really one after all
because so interwoven:
threads make fabric.

so yes: story
or, perhaps,Story (big s)

could this be another name for God?
(as if you didn't have enough of those already)

here, under the mountain, the sun sets early

cul de sac

cul de sac: but new beginning
no way back and none needed
dark, so eyes must adjust

the inevitable slide into silence: puzzling this.
perhaps God placing his hand over my mouth.
'no need no need!' he says.
we create together