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A time, in London, around Notting Hill
I walked, and served to my second life
One of. One. That time. That time one
The photography. Captures, fix moments
A man asked. English. Old gentleman
What is interesting? Why the photos here?
The lines. Old English terraced houses
Can you see the lines? Shadows, lights?
Yes. This is a difference. Between us
He is English, and I come from Europe
This happened years ago. He took my
view. Other world, life, not the same kind
I am lucky. I can live in two. At the same time
But this is painful. Tension. Two hearts.
This gentleman was
A puritan
A puritan English
I understand his
Line
My respect
Flies
You cast your gaze, sharp and cold/
A relic of Salem, a story retold/
Convictions weigh heavy, though truth stands clear/
Yet you brand me alarming, fueled by fear/
Your judgement looms, a shadowed stake/
Bound by laws, yet the fire you'd make/
If time unshackled your hands today/
Would I see the embers of history's fray/
Puritan echoes, they linger still/
Through whispers low and sharpened will/
Not robes and hats, nor torches bright/
Yet still you strike with veiled delight/
I am a person with rights to defend/
My faith, my freedom, no need to amend/
No shame, no guilt, no crime in sight/
Yet you twist belief into blinding fright/
You see the world in black and white/
A rigid mind, afraid of light/
Yet truth will stand where flames may fall/
And justice calls beyond your wall/
Let laws restrain what hands would do/
But laws can't cleanse the thoughts in you/
Puritan thinking, aged yet bold/
Still walks among us, shrouded in gold/
Dressed in white christening gown
Creaky snow break mountain melt
Dissolves rigid in simmering spring
Ached ankles pummel, putrid pond
Ancient decompose steams surface
Sulphur syphons Winter hestitance
Grabs goblins soup bowl grotesque
Monster murky rub manic massage
Active agitate upsets puritan sculpt
Boiling bubbles bump aside burden
Besieged by beast belly, slimy spa
Crystallises chartreuse, past spent
Dunk of disgusting salve, hot spew
Baptises black ducks in inky erupt
Aotearoa flow, now zeal spills over
Rejuvenating Rotarua
- two lakes -
5th January
It’s Christmas day
Hip hip hooray
With festive cheer
And our family here
The feast begins
Amidst all our grins
Crackers pulled, mottos read
Fancy hats upon each head
With turkey eaten
We’ll not be beaten
Enter the flaming pud
Which looks so good
But whence it came?
This pudding of fame
‘Twas a Roman cook
Where first we look
Making pottage of meat and veg
Placing in readiness on a window ledge
By the fourteenth century frumenty it became
Meat with fruit, wine and spices, it was not the same
This soupy dish was a fasting meal
A preparation for Christmas was the deal
With added eggs, breadcrumbs and fruit it changed once more
Plum pudding lasted until banned under Puritan law
The arrival of King George, the ‘Pudding King’
Got the outlawed pud back in the swing
For his royal feast he did declare
Plum pudding would be the dessert fayre
By Victorian days the meat had gone
Enter the Christmas pud known by everyone
Merry Christmas!
Every life is a death sentence
It always ends with departure.
That end can be sudden or slow
Unexpected or predicted
Which camp do you belong to?
The Puritan with its memento mori
Or the Cavalier with its carpe diem
The former looking to eternity
The latter to every moment
As if it were the last.
Forgive me if I have wronged you
The task before me
Is beyond marital blues
You claimed I come home late
You claimed I drink spirits a lot
You claimed I snored every night
You claimed I took you for granted
You claimed I forgot our wedding date
You claimed I was too Puritan …
Incapable of love
And being loved
Please and please my angry woman
Let’s push your trainload of anger aside
While I invite the holy Muse of poetry
To refresh my soul
With lines I will submit
In our poetry soup anthology
This is my continent, our complement
We are soil without component
This are our roots, a superstition
And sky blue cinematic religion
I am you and you are me
So we are his only being
We are him, him Africa
The father of black sleep, a flicker
This is my stay, our state
The fruits of our plate
On his table we assemble
Forever stoned kings of our resemble
We are never our have
But our within, a sacred grave
Of a puritan hidden in our language
For scars normed without a bandage.
In the shadow of a family, not mine by design,
Was born a soul with a vision, its brilliance confined.
Yet, within the crib, a light began to shine,
Yearning for a world to know that he was born divine.
Unseen, yet undeterred, it fuelled his inner flame,
For greatness, he believed, was a birthright to claim.
Misplaced trust puritan in work and sweat,
Left his family destitute in slavish regret.
The burden was great, and greater still was the gift,
His radiance would inspire dreams and their spirits lift,
Through trials and time, the world would know the name,
Of the family that was once mired in shame.
He was born to lift the fortunes of those to be,
A beacon of hope, under his radiance they would see.
To inspire greatness was his ancestral sum,
Their star in the darkness, their beating drum.
Awake, he stood, ready for the world to know,
The brilliance within, the wonders to bestow,
No longer unseen, his light breaking free,
A change for the family, by creating a legacy.
Puritan poet John Milton
a scrivenor's son from London
He made a mark with Paradise Lost
going blind was an early cost
John Dryden son of a country squire
as a puritan poet was not for hire
A virtuoso saturist quite a lot
losing the laureateship when his religion did stop
Please let me speak about the heart
indeed the heart of all our aches
where our problems are to be found
so important to know for our sakes
God clearly wants us to know self-control
with His wisdom to exercise His will
for without self-control, one's left broken
helpless and hopeless just being still
Imagine a man with no self-control
like a city broken without any wall
open to every wind of teaching
allowing sin to have the last call
Learn well the words of John Owen
the great English puritan in the past
'be killing sin' for its a poison
to damage your soul to the last
So deal with your sin
or, 'sin will be killing you'
wise words that need obeyed
coming to God saying I do
('Be killing sin or sin will be killing you' - John Owen, English puritan minister (1616-1683)
"A man without self-control
is like a city broken into and left without walls")
Proverbs 25: 28 (ESV).
Whither thou goest?
Thy wither showest.
Ruddy in pigment,
but a wee figment.
In bas relief,
exceedingly brief.
----------
H/T to Maurice Rigoler's Our Puritan Mentality
Pomposity
Arrogance and ego are hazards that lead us astray.
Jealousy will tarnish your blessings when allowed to stay.
Center your pain, adapt and overcome for relief.
Passing judgement is deplorable, that’s just my belief.
A smug puritan will point their finger and berate.
We should never blame others for the reality we create.
Discretion is for all, understand and learn.
When frolicking in the flame, beware of the burn.
We can write whatever we choose, ramifications abound.
Sanctions, however, can be bequeathed when blasphemy is found.
Some will praise God, seeking attention for their glass shelves.
Unfortunately, the self-righteous just seek praise for themselves.
I think every poet on this site has talent with their words that glisten.
Insults and palsied stones are understood by many, just read and listen.
Embitterment will ensue when foul scents become thick.
Karma can strike with a vengeance, it’s time to put down the stick.
It’s Christmas day
Hip hip hooray
With festive cheer
And our family here
The feast begins
Amidst all our grins
Crackers pulled, mottos read
Fancy hats upon each head
With turkey eaten
We’ll not be beaten
Enter the flaming pud
Which looks so good
But whence it came?
This pudding of fame
‘Twas a Roman cook
Where first we look
Making pottage of meat and veg
Placing in readiness on a window ledge
By the fourteenth century frumenty it became
Meat with fruit, wine and spices, it was not the same
This soupy dish was a fasting meal
A preparation for Christmas was the deal
With added eggs, breadcrumbs and fruit it changed once more
Plum pudding lasted until banned under Puritan law
The arrival of King George, the ‘Pudding King’
Got the outlawed pud back in the swing
For his royal feast he did declare
Plum pudding would be the dessert fayre
By Victorian days the meat had gone
Enter the Christmas pud known by everyone
Merry Christmas!
~~~
A seasonal frame of mind led to this!
Puritan sins flame
beautiful imperfections
we all-ter faulter
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