I am a child again
I know no loss or gain
Oft oblivious of pain
Till I conscious regain.
Do I wake or sleep,
I see the stars weep
As they crackers peep,
Am I awake or asleep?
I giggle and lauugh at the sight
Of rockets of music Fountains bright
Alzmiers benumbs my plight
Yet I have heavenly insight.
No need of ball or satchel
My grandchildren play beetle
Climates hot or cold lethal
Our food comes from hotel.
Thunder lightning and rain
Sounds of toppling towers reign
Sky is filled with smoke and sign
Of corpses and mutilated mein.
Tear glands are dried up
Once I fell to get up
With ease I sat up
Fell me, I'll not get up.
I see my saviour's Rood
Crushing the Serpent's hood
With words of hope does He feed
Breaking not the bent Reed !
I go out in hood
My strength is not good
Wobbles the ground I stood
Is it second childhood ?
M-me S-stranger
M-watt he say
dat vogonese
b-4 he flu away
deep-sea me, deep-sea me
thot dat at lease
i new vogonese
hee-haw-why-yen me
knot no vogonese
under-neat da kokomo tree
thot i lern a thing ore three
S-***hole
M-watt u say
yea wok away
hee-haw-why-yen wee say
d**n dat how-lee bugga
day knot nice slang say
d**g dat how-lee bugga
S-dat is knot a nice thing 2 say
M-watt u say
u no luke how-lee
u luke mo hong-kongnese
S-i am knot hong-kongnese
i am ja-pa-nay
from toe-key-yoyo
M-do u no vogonese
halo halo o how rood
d**n dat ja-pa-naynay bugga
triad day bad
yakuza took my car
butt d**n those how-lee buggas n now ugh
nex time i lern mo betta vogonese
Springtime is more than just flowers and sun.
April is drenched, and bees will have much fun.
Swarming insects frighten with bites and harm.
A staining sludge swamp and stinky silt farm.
Sneeze and hay heat-stinging eyes are a curse.
Lands that loom like orbs, yet deceits are worse.
Yet, we must not squander sight of quaintness
with the rigors that spring brings or faintness.
Berth booms boost pollination burden rood.
Spring is spasmodic, apart from the mood.
White snow morphs into mushy rolling hills.
And sprinkle down verve up till the dale spills,
Flowers rising from snowfall restore hope.
Were we blithe beyond the zenith and slope?
3rd place contest winner
Written: February 05, 2023
Spring Is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner
In church he longed for the rood
Which forced him to act so rude
The crucifix he wants
In his thoughts he flaunts
To escape and not be pursued
Each of us comes with a story
of how we found this community;
a place to turn to
where we are heard and held.
Each of our stories is woven
into the fabric of belonging;
folded together
to ensure safety and peace.
Our story shared is a garment
wrapping us against the storms of life;
covering our hurts
and enfolding us with warmth.
Our stories are woven as one,
all radiant with colour and strong;
holding real hope
in Christ to overcome fear.
For Holy Rood House, Thirsk
http://www.holyroodhouse.org.uk/
One cross
Left side
Silent bore the shame of cursed
Guilt, with scant remorse and no
Small scoff
Unfearful of
Dying breath.
Middle rood
Central one
Focus of the centuries distant yon
Condemned to die for all, Godson
Giving weak
Lost souls
Eternal life.
One cross
Right side
Afraid to pay earned shameful debt
Seeks absolution for crimes of theft
Pleads now
For saving
Unmerited grace.
Written January 2, 2021
For Joseph May's Trinet Contest
Inspired by the Psalms
at Holy Rood House trauma training day.
God in Jesus you suffered alone on the cross,
bearing blame, isolated, alone.
How can we understand this virus that sets asunder
as part of your creation?
What is its purpose?
Is it a punishment?
If so for what? For who?
– Our relationship to other creatures perhaps?
– Our over population maybe?
Where are you in all this to lead and to guide?
I look to the natural cycle of the seasons for stability.
Yet even these are disrupted by our abuse of your creation,
our exploitation of resources.
The innocent, the blameless are hurting, like you.
I trust,
trust that you are present in all,
all the hurting.
I trust that one day you will reveal,
show that you in us have overcome all this loss;
connect us once more,
be in touch and at one with you,
held with one another in Christ,
knowing your peace.
Yikes, all I feel is attitude with zero Christmas mood.
Blessed am I for Jesus’ birth and sacrificial rood,
but Santa and his deer had best just skip our roof
or I might very well rage out on every furry hoof.
All my Christmas feel of unique is long past its peak.
Do color me aloof, uncouth if you choose, or bleak,
but my entire entirety still feels yuletide fatigue
from the Christmas I’m sure we just had last week.
Makes no mind to me if stuffing that gleeful day
stirs relatives into a finger wagging, yapping say.
I’ll show critics red and green done fist proper,
Christmas-awe land them on their tree topper.
I would rather hang with the Grinch and Scrooge
than endure another round of Santa subterfuge.
Aint no way I’m buying, baking, craftily stressing
while wrapping, decorating or glee impressing.
Ho, Ho, Ho can ever so jolly just blow, blow, blow.
I flat out dare Santa to plan to show, show, show.
Wont you carry me through this darkness, Lord,
won't you flood me with your light?
Won't you guide me along this narrow road,
won't you show me what is right?
Won't you scratch my hardened surface,
won't you feel my inner need?
Won't you staunch the flow of my emotional bleed?
Won't you wrap your loving arms around me,
won't you hold me in your embrace?
Won’t you take away your wrath Lord,
Won’t you shower me with grace?
Won’t you shine your face upon me
Won’t you hear my distress call?
Won't you send a host of angels to gently break my fall?
Won’t you see me as I stand here, before your holy rood,
Won’t you justify me, let me be renewed?
Won’t you see my indecision, make for me my choice,
Won’t you hear my prayer dear Father, let my heart rejoice?
Won’t you be the resting place for this my weary load,
Won’t you determine my direction at this crucial crossroad?
A Homophonic Incident of Her Life
It’s knot a ferry tail butt an incident of a pour girl’s life, weather you believe it or knot. Hare goose the tail—
She war a guys and one
ate plane idle witch seam two bee a waist,
so she side and sad inn a week sound
knot two give her those dam idols fore
she wanted a cell phone or a wring or a purl,
may be cheep ass she didn't halve money
two by them on her own, or she will cell those idols
to urn money and make prophet write under there nose.
Hole public stopped , sum laughed
and sum pitied at the made
who sat stationery and waited
for there decision.
She was shore that the sun of the manager was a reel kind sole
and he would bee bowled enough too convince his dad
two change his mind.
But the father was to rood .
He rows from his seat and
blue a whistle too call his buoy
who showed his shoo to the suite little made
who then flue and vanished from their,
knot too bee scene again.
Not: British-English homophones halve bean used..
Dt: 28/04/2015
For the contest: Only Homo's Allowed The word *****is from the Greek word meaning same by Jerry T Curtis
Do not remove the hyphens.
The stars were trekking
on foot.
All that was a mirage.
A hot rood was leading
to a watershed.
The wholeness splatters
on the bank. The water,
takes all the dots and dashes.
The black tree was stark
naked. No leaves, no fruits.
Only the singed wood.
You cannot make the
matchsticks. You will have
to rub your hands to start the fire.
Satish Verma
October ochre sage writhes betwixt winter’s loom and the summers gone astray
Chartreuse spilling out of season’s way to darker afternoons bewitched by greys
Tainted tinge of hints upon newly painted trees and then plumes are plucked and fade away
Ocarina songs of birds once heard in winds becomes ossia as only silence plays
Brood does the bitter frost to traverse across the earth to lay
Evening into stronger shadow, where the lunar clutches hallow skies to longer stay
Reigns the fall in crowns of pumpkins and Indian corn, until the snowflake flood rains upon autumn parades
Blaise Pascal awaits his last call
beneath Saint Etienne-du-Mont's tall
columns and old rood screen. God's nature,
pray, ups the odds on his last wager.
My angry words
Half choked out in the hot mist
Are lost in the torrential downpour.
They hit the rood of iron clouds
I am shut off from all you are.
My soul’s broken pieces scream
Tears leak from my heart
Which was smash between rocks when the
Earth shook
Buildings fell
Sea rose and terrorized your precious ants.
Not on the streets where one would fear for safety.
In a home where nobody is rood.
Not under a bridge in search of a place to sleep.
A bed upon a pedistol for a wonderful night of dreams.
Not digging in a dumpster seeking warm food after a restraunt had closed.
Soaking up gravy with the last bite of a bisket upon a shiny plate.
Alone and lonely not knowing where to go.
Driving home to a family whos waiting to see me.
Clothes dirty and no shower or bath to use.
Bubbles glistening in a tub of delightful essance.
A cold winters night will take ones breath away.
A home with a wood burning stove gives warmth to the lucky ones.
Yet a poor poper am i.?
Words to write and why.
Aww for I am not a poper but one of wealth beyond ones dreams.
For i have been given a gift that no money nor fame shall taketh away.
A poor poper is not me.
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