You to me

Admiral of the Humber hotel room, Hull, 04/11/18

You to me are like cheese and pickle sandwiches

Like strawberry yogurt

Like battenburg cake

Like builder’s tea or strong coffee made in my Tony Benn mug

You to me are like pints in a pub

Like a single decker bus

Like music that’s acoustic

Like sitting by a fire pit and watching the flames spit

You to me are like a bright summer’s day

Like a walk along a causeway

Like a giggle in a park

Like breaking into dance in the middle of town for no reason whatsoever

You to me are like double rainbows

Like cycling past hedgerows

Like church bells ringing

Like suddenly singing random lyrics sparked by an innocent word

You to me are like a flock of geese calling

Like waves rising and falling

Like clouds wandering

Like a canal boat in its mooring having meandered most of the day

You to me are like all the things I’ve discovered and never got bored of

The things recovered and been restored by God

The things I love and make me feel known

You to me are home

Pilgrim Clouds

Beverley, Mon 23^rd July 2018

Clouds travel the sky

Like floating pilgrims,

Not pushy or driven

Or having something to prove.

They just move, effortlessly,

Serenely free

And full of grace.

The shapes they make can be

Whatever they want to be:

Sharp moments of majesty

Or muddles of mist,

They never insist

On being any one thing.

They dance and then they sing

And then they scatter

And it doesn’t matter.

Their’s is the whole wealth of the sky

An endless playground

To discover

One day after the other,

After the other, after the other,

After the other, after the other….

I am lovestruck

Hull, 15/07/18

I am lovestruck, dumbstruck

Stuck to find the words

To really say all I’m feeling,

All that’s reeling inside.

For years part of me has lived life

Like a frightened wild animal

But lately there’s been a feeling

Of safety.

And of love.

The unexpected presence

Of another wild animal

Protective and strong.

The one for whom

My heart has longed.

A warrior among creatures

His features are kind and rugged

And fierce.

Just one look

Pierces my heart.

Battered by battles

He wears his scars

Shamelessly

Without blame or stain.

So much courage

Held in his mighty frame.

The effect of just resting

On his neck

Is like a homecoming.

And all the soul numbing,

The playing things down

The needing to be careful,

The wariness

And the weariness

Come tumbling down.

It’s alright.

There’s no need to hide

Beside him.

And all the brave things,

The beautiful things.

The brilliant things

Inside, rise.

In the gaze of his eyes

I am free.

Free to love

Free to be

Free to give

All of me.

The Perfect Storm

Matt's House, Boulevard, Hull, June 2018

I thought I’d done this.

I thought I’d already done this,

Twenty years ago, ten years, four,

I’ve been here before.

I thought those times

Of ground giving way

And all the falling

Had been enough.

Would be enough by now.

All the brave work had been done.

The walking into the fury

And letting it do its thing.

But still it persists.

This crashing down

All this crying, crying, crying.

These griefs still making themselves known,

Crawling out of crevasses

And suddenly looming large,

Taking up space.

These weird jack-in-the-box moments

When the least likely thing

Triggers a memory

And then PING! out it all comes,

Displacing time as if it’s now,

As if it’s all happening now.

And all those locked-up feelings

Are screaming.

I can feel the strain of it all

When I touch my arm

Like the blood underneath is fizzing

Like there’s an electrical current

Quietly whizzing round me.

I’m walking around raw

Wanting nothing more

Than to ignore what’s happening

And just do what I’ve always done,

Get on.

Side-step it all by spinning into activity

Or lying low til I can gather

Enough strength and guile

To get out there again

And grit it out.

Always this feeling of exposure

Of not being protected

Of having to stand alone

Not knowing, really, where’s home.

So easier to keep moving,

Safer not to keep still.

Less painful by far

To remain unsettled

To not stop

Not let the guard drop

To stay on top

And just let the smiley me be seen

The likeable, laughable

Lovely to be around, me.

But the perfect storm has hit, it seems

And there’s no way out of it.

All I can do is weather the waves

And just walk straight into it.

Straight into the fury and the fears,

All the unwept tears

And revel in it.

Why not?

Why not rail at it spectacularly?

Why not just abandon myself to it

And let it do its thing.

To be continued………….

Crawling out the wreckage

Matt’s House, June 2018

I’m crawling out of the wreckage

Of all the lies and put-downs,

The heavy expectations

All the plans thwarted

And dreams exploited

All the disappointments

The romantic non-starters

The complete disasters.

The hopes deferred and then deferred

And then deferred.

All the times when I’ve not been heard.

And I’m crawling out of the wreckage,

Free as a bird.

Falling from the sky

Selby St, Hull, 8^th June 2018

Before this there was a falling of sorts.

An awareness of things unravelling

But it was slow, most of the time,

And manageable.

Occasionally there’d be sudden plummets,

Times when the pace and stress of life

Would knock me out of the sky

But usually I’d lay low for a while,

Not let on, write, sleep,

Wait for it to pass,

And then rise again.

Glad to feel the wind against my skin

And be swooping once more with the flock.

This time there’s nothing manageable about it

No easy method to wait it out

No staying power in the sky

Nothing that seems to be holding me

Or energy to hold myself.

I said to God the other day

Matt's House, Boulevard, Hull, May 2018

I said to God the other day:

“You’re not enough.”

And He said

“Good!”

And I could feel His heavenly relief,

Sense His smile spreading,

its gentle joy tickling me forward,

tickling me out of a stuck space –

the “me and God against the world” space,

the hidden habitat of a fear-based holiness.

I said to God the other day:

“You’re not enough.”

And She said

“Good!”

And then She took my hand

and started dancing.

And soon it was Mother, Son, Spirit and me -

me and this rowdy Trinity,

unrestrained, impolite, fearless, free.

I said to God the other day:

“You’re not enough.”

And They said

“Good!”

And then slapped my back, raised a glass,

threw bread like confetti,

flung open the door of that still small space

and we tumbled out

into the land of the living

Like wild things among wild things.

Writing regrets

Upton Cottage, Loftus, 09/09/16

I wait for the gift that will lift

this pen to write.

I wait restlessly

thinking of times when words flowed

effortlessly

in my head.

I’ve written this next line

twice already

and each time

scribbled it out;

a crumpled page beside me.

So again, I wait,

regretfully

sad for not taking hold

of those fleeting,

now fleshless poems.

Knowing I didn’t care enough

to embrace them

and make them known.

Ode to Ground

Ground ArtSpace, Hull, Feb 2018

Ground, I’ve found,

Is a forest-y thing.

Sometimes I’ve taken a deep breath

Before going in,

Not knowing who’ll be there

Or what’s happening.

But each time, every time,

There’s been a welcoming,

A friendly cup of tea,

Sit and be,

Join in, or not, it’s alright;

A gentle generosity.

In this odd, old building

Like it’s standing at an angle

With bits of beams stuck together

And the walls almost curving round

Holding everything, tenderly.

This nest of a place

Where ideas and wranglings

Can wrestle and grow.

The funny noises,

The Ground sounds.

The bellows and the belly roars,

The giggles, the gaggles

Of mammaly creatures

Whooping and cajooping.

The bang ker-ching ting ting

Of music-ing

And drumming-ing

And feet walloping

The paint-stained floor.

The spaces in between,

The times to draw breath

To flop on a sofa

Or take up a pen

And slowly, slowly scrawl

Something or nothing

To mebbe go on the wall

Or to give as a gift

Just to make someone smile 😊

This place is a grace place

An ace place,

Where every face has beauty,

Every age has worth,

Every quirk is cuddled.

In this damaged, dented building

We all belong.

Whether we feel strong

Or stranded or not quite landed,

Where our souls,

Like wild little animals

Can cease to be scared

But just run around and play.

This peeling, healing, feeling place.

This Ground.

Where it’s safe to tread

And be found.

Look at the berries

Upton Cottage, Loftus, 12/09/16

Lately I’ve been fretful and regretful
of all the poems I’ve not written
all the words that came at stupid times
when I was unprepared and too tetchy
to pick up a pen and pin them down.
It’s brought a heaviness and a weariness
that’s not helped to write anything new.
Like a clinging unresolved grief
stuck in what could have been.

Only on long walks thoughts have come flying
Passing hedgerows of heavy fruit
and fields of flagging corn
the words buzz and bumble
And I urge my brain to retain them.
But when I’m home with pen in hand
I see that what I’ve caught
is just a tame reflection
of the wildness that once was,
not that long ago.

Today though, it occurs
That all those words
Are not a waste.
Nature isn’t bothered
If her flowers aren’t all seen
And that most of the berries
Will go to seed….

Forest Church

Upton Cottage, Loftus,10/09/16  

More and more I’m finding

that going into a church

is like going into a tomb.

A place that feels cold and restricted.

And the only way to endure it

is to layer up

and imagine the joy inside me

dancing like a small child.

Instead of stone walls

I long for trees

and a cloud splattered sky

instead of a painted ceiling.

I want to lie

in a leaf-floored forest

And watch the screech owls

take flight.

See the red squirrels acrobat.

Stay long enough

to glimpse

the shy roe deer…..

On writing

Upton Cottage, Loftus,10/09/16  

Strong, fierce thoughts keep coming at me.

Great upswells of ideas and inspirations.

Swarms of words, racing and rising.

I love the moments when they come

and carry me along.

Love the heady thought

of capturing them, completely,

and dropping them, ready-made, on the page.

But they come too fast

and I feel ill-equipped to catch them.

My pen too slow, my mind too wired.

If only they would settle

and form an orderly queue,

prioritise themselves rationally

and wait their turn.

But like the wastefulness of sperm,

I wonder if I should just let them go

and enjoy the ride.

And perhaps not be too surprised

if one lingers long enough

to bed in and fertilise.

Tribute to Siobhan

Summer, 2016

If I could sum you up

And the way you lived your life

It would be these three words:

Beautiful, defiant and fierce.

Beautiful, like a burst of colour

Breaking out in blues and pinks

And showers of yellow and orange.

Rainbowing desolate places and people.

The rarest of butterflies.

Defiant in faith and conviction.

Not bending or cow-towing.

Knowing the rules well enough to break them

When they were weighted the wrong side

Of truth and justice.

Fierce in your love for the poor.

In solidarity, suffering betrayals, trauma, broken health.

Relentlessly hoping for a better world.

Your legacy of love now tattooed the world over,

Boldly and brilliantly.

For Sarah

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, July 2014

To know your worth,

Sarah,

would blind you,

dazzle you,

send you flying.

Send you loop the loop.

Send you hurtling

through space and time.

To really know your worth

would floor you,

cardiac arrest you,

launch you to heaven

and back.

Consume you with liquid light.

Your worth, Sarah,

My Sarah,

wise Sarah,

wild Sarah,

brave, brave Sarah,

your worth is not wasted,

not bitter tasting,

not lacking,

not lost.

Not waiting to be revealed.

not sealed

and hidden away.

Not squashed

or squandered

or laid waste.

Your worth, Sarah,

is a roar that ricochets,

a riot in My heart

that will not stop,

that will not be still,

that will not be contained.

Your worth, Sarah,

rips Me wide open,

renders me undone,

weak with just the thought of you.

Your worth, Sarah,

has wrung me out of words,

has wrestled out the fight in Me,

has left me spent.

I’m sorry. Sarah,

for all the worth-beaters,

the blame-seekers,

the shame-teachers.

The let downs,

the lies,

the spit in your eyes.

The meanness

masked as mercy,

the sting

of mocking smiles.

Sarah, my love,

My cherished one,

My wanted,

My favoured child,

My rose.

Your worth astounds Me

and is beyond compare.

Words will never touch it,

grasp it,

lay hold of it.

Words will never do enough

for what I see in you

and who you are to Me.

My Sarah, my rose.

Walk like Jacob

Wales, 26/06/14

It’s time to shift posture.

No longer a time of wrestling,

Of raging, of resisting,

Of boxing like a hare.

The fight is over.

Time now to let it go

And walk on.

Even if it is with a limp

And a weakness

That leans into Me.

Living in the liminal

Siem Reap, Cambodia, Sept 2013

Not about waiting for things to pass
Not about being restless and bored
Not about running ahead too soon
Not about filling it with stuff

The liminal is a place of safety
Even though it's where things are exposed.

The liminal is a place of peace
Even though nothing is certain.

The liminal is a place of connection
Even though it hangs in inbetween-ness.

The liminal is a place of life
Even though much is put to death there.

The liminal is a place of rest
Even though it feels precarious.

The thief on the cross

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 11/11/12

Luke 23:39-43

“Jesus remember me,

When you come into your Kingdom.”

Words uttered by a man

Whose crimes had finally pinned him down.

His wasn’t a worthy life.

He didn’t walk a righteous path.

Maybe out of circumstance,

Maybe out of choice,

But whose wrong turns

In the eyes of the law

Had spun him to this place,

Wasted and ruined,

Car-crashed on a cross.

And yet this man,

With nothing to show for himself,

Was the greatest comfort

To Jesus, King of the Jews,

Covered in spit and blood and gore

Hanging just beside him.

Deserted, ridiculed, scorned,

Abandoned.

Not a good day.

Not a good time.

And yet this man saw in Him, God.

Saw in Him, perfection.

Saw that He had done nothing wrong

And believed in Him.

When all else had cracked and soured,

His plea of faith and sorrow

Was so sweet and so right

It brought healing in a moment

And let loose the words

Of a mutual wild liberation:

 “Assuredly I say to you,

You will be with me in Paradise.”

I am the soul of this tribe

Written at the World Horizons 30th Anniversary event, Aug 2012

I am the soul of this tribe.

Look after me.

I am the heart, steadfast

The rhythm and the pace,

The tenderness, the toughness

The resilience and the grace.

I am the tide turning

The roar, the wildness

The molten lava splitting

The siesmic shift

The fire in the belly.

I am the tears that tip the scales

The heartbreak ache,

The rage, the wondering,

The why is this happening

The dream laid down.

I am the restlessness

The itchy feet

The reaching, the waiting

The sudden release

And running full-pelt.

I am the glee

The freedom,

The wonder,

The giggling child

The wide open space.

I am the shy one,

The wise one

The tentatively

Taking hold

And seeing what happens.

I am the squashed,

The crushed

The misunderstood.

The trying so hard to get it right.

The tired, the tested

The gold in gritted teeth.

I am the longing

The looker ahead

The ever hopeful

The never-letting-go

Until-the-blessing-comes.

I am the righteous worshipper

The justice stomper

The rising warrior

The fighter, the forgiver

The eagle in full flight.

I am the resting place

I am home

I am where you can lay your head

I am where you can be

I am the soul of this tribe

Be careful with me.

The future is full of promise

But please, be full of care, for me. 

Field Of Angels

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 10/04/12   

I stand in the presence of angels,

See them towering high,

Sure-footed, radiant and wild.

Poised with swords

And songs of deliverance,

Undaunted, unafraid.

And I, no longer in Goliath’s shadow,

Reach out to receive

Five jewels from heaven;

And with just one precious stone,

Strike the giant’s head

And watch him crashing down.

Srey Rohm

Cafe Eden, Phnom Penh, Cambodia, Jan 2012

Sitting opposite me in the workshop of a cafe/craft shop in the heart of Phnom Penh is a vibrant young business woman. Surrounded by the necklaces, cards and notebooks she has made, she works quickly and efficiently, tying on price tags and listing items ready for the up and coming Christmas craft fair that has been her focus for weeks. As she works, we talk.

I have known Srey Rohm for a year and have sat with her many times before. In those times I have heard parts of her story and have always been moved by her honesty and courage. For the past 10 years she has lived with the Care for Cambodia family on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, having moved there from her village when she was 16. This year she and her friend, Sokim, have moved further into the city where they now live in and manage the joint business of Cafe Eden.

Today Srey Rohm smiles up at me and grabs my hand. “You sure you want to hear this?” she says and wrinkles her nose. I sit, ready with pen and paper, nodding and ask her how she first got to know Fi and came to be at CFC............

“I first knew Fi when she had a craft business and used to visit my province to buy clay pots. When she came I had no work to do. I could not make the pots but she knew a family who were friends of mine and through them I learnt how to make them. They trained me. Om (“Aunty”) Fi helped by buying clay for us every month. She also taught us about God and I received God through her visits. She used to say that God loves rich people but He really loves the poor people. I never felt love before. My family did not think or care about me. So I believe in God and the first time I receive Him, I really love Him and feel happy. My family were angry with me though and were always complaining. So this made me feel sad too.

I used to go to church every Sunday even though it was very far and difficult for me to go. I used to put my wheelchair on a trailer pulled by a motorbike and travel over very bumpy ground.

My father was the big problem though. I had a step-mother and he would always leave me with her and go to another village to work. One day he came home and was angry with me so he hit me. He used the kind of whip you use on a cow and whipped my back and sides until I was unconscious. I was 15 years old then. Afterwards I did not tell anyone, not my grandmother, not Fi. I wanted to leave but had nothing. I used to think a lot at night, that Dad did not love me or my brothers, just his new wife.

So one night I ran away. I took the 4000 riel ($1) my younger brother had been saving in a pot and put it in the back of my wheelchair along with the Bible Fi had given me. I took nothing else. I just left. My plan was to go to a family I knew far from the village but it was hard for me to travel and I had to spend 2000 riel on a moto truck ride.  When I got there and asked the family for help they could not. I knew of another family further away so went to find them. I got so hungry on the way I spent 500 riel on food and then 1000 riel on transport. So I had almost nothing by the time I reached them. When I arrived they asked why I had come and I said just to visit. And thankfully they let me stay with them for 2 days.

After this I went back to my village and decided to tell the truth about my Dad. And so I did not stay at home again but with a family that knew my mother. They were good people but I had to work very hard for them, cleaning, washing, cooking and looking after the children. I had no rest and would get many headaches. One job I did not like was to cook for the monks in the Pagoda. I was afraid this would make God unhappy and would pray each time that I was sorry. The family said I had to do it as I would be blessed in the next life and not come back disabled.

One time I went to church and did not let them know. When they found out they were so angry with me and told me to stop. ‘Jesus is not Khmer’, they said. And if I disagreed I had nowhere to live. So I did not go again.

One good thing I remember though was hearing Christians singing when I got up early in the morning to cook. They met across the road from me and when I heard them I would feel so sad. I wanted to be free to worship like them so I cried out to God and prayed for a whole week. And then I had a dream. I was in a place that was dirty and my body was dirty. There were thorns everywhere too which were ripping into my skin. Then I saw Fi holding me and then taking me somewhere far away.

A week later Fi came to the village and I saw her drive past as I was cleaning outside the house. She was with a man called Bill who looked over and said to Fi, ‘That girl over there has the shine of God on her’. When Fi saw it was me she came over and I cried a lot, telling her what had happened and why I was not with my own family anymore.

Bill was very interested in me because of what he saw in me and asked me my name. ‘Soukhon’, I said, which means “The crippled girl”.  That night I stayed with Fi and she had a dream about me. She saw me dancing with many people, like Miriam singing and worshipping with the people coming out of Egypt. In the morning she called me “Srey Rohm” which means “The girl who dances”.

That day I asked her if she could help me, whether there was an NGO that would help people like me? I wanted to live somewhere else where I could be free to worship God and get to know Him more. But Fi said no, she would not take me to an NGO but would take me home with her instead. ‘Last night’, she said ‘I prayed that if it was right to take you then you would ask me. And because you have, I believe this is from God.’

So that was when I went to stay with Norman and Fi at CFC. I was 16 years old. There I had lots of time to pray but I still hated my Dad and my brothers and sisters. It took time to learn to love. Norman and Fi helped me by showing me the love of God. And after a while, I don’t know when exactly, the hurt in my heart went and I could forgive my family.

Life in CFC has been good. I like the people there and the children. Some years ago I remembered a vision I had back in the village when I was worshipping. It was of many children sitting around me. And that is what it has been like at CFC. I have helped many children and learnt to love them because of what I have learnt from Norman and Fi.

Always on my birthday people ask me what they can pray for me. And always I have said a shop to sell crafts. So God is good! Cafe Eden is a step towards that and one day I hope to have my own shop. The other prayer I have always said is for a parent. And God has been good to me there too.

Two or three years ago I met Leslie and David Schules. When I first saw Leslie I felt an immediate love for her and wanted to give her things so made her necklaces and cross-stitch cards and flowers. She wrote letters to me saying I have a good heart and am precious. One time I wrote to ask if it would be OK if I could call her Mum but for a long time I did not receive a reply. In my heart I felt so sad until one day she came to CFC! She told me she did not want to write a letter but wanted to talk to me. So with Fi translating, she told me that in her heart she felt the same and although the government does not allow her to adopt me, in her heart I am her family.

In both these things I pray a bit and then forget! But God does not forget and He has given me a business and a mother. Recently I prayed (and then forgot!) to learn to make jewelry like in the magazines. I asked Fi about it but she said it was expensive to go to college. And I only got to grade 2 in school so would not be accepted anyway. A few weeks ago, however, a lady from Singapore visited who makes jewelry and she taught me how to make the kind of necklaces I’ve seen in magazines!

Before I used to think that God did not think or even care about me but even when I forget to pray, he remembers and still answers.”

Sreyrohm smiles. She has finished her story, for now. She looks up at me: “Was that OK?” All I can do is put my hand on her arm and say “Achun traan” (Thank you) and smile back. We sit together and talk for a while.  And then we spend the rest of the afternoon in quiet reflection, making bookmarks from bits of leftover leather, resting in a holy moment and forgetting to pray.