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.