Tuesday, 30 September 2014

When Love Comes Home

It is easy, by comparison, to love everything else
Here, where love is most needed
It’s often hardest to come by
I (like you) was not taught to love me

Having woken one day to find no love here
I went looking for it out there

When love comes home
You’ll hear the songs of praise around you
You’ll see how loved you’ve always been

When love comes home

Thursday, 25 September 2014

The Things I Thought Were Me

I come to a stop
At first, it's hard to breathe
As wants, needs, fears, ifs and buts
(The things I thought were me)
Implore me to go on
Much like a clamouring, mewling litter

From this silent dwelling-place
I hear their sweet cries
And gently greet them one by one

Shrill though they can be
They never actually wanted to run the show

Sunday, 21 September 2014

I Am Not The Author

I am not the author of this play
Defying all my attempts to rewrite, recast, edit, or expunge
Each scene has remained stubbornly true to itself
Knowing that I, despite my protestations,
Have no idea how the script is written

Neither am I the architect of this house
Its arcs, lines and curves, its walls and doors
None are of my making, whatever my claims
Life's form is entirely its own:
The sweet futility of wanting to make alterations to a design
The intricacies and hues of which leave me open-mouthed
And speechless with gratitude

Sunday, 7 September 2014

As If All There Is Isn't Enough

It’s all already here

It’s in this view of roofs and aerials and sky
It’s in the feel of the bed beneath me, the pillows behind my head
It’s in the tears coming down my face and in the song I’m listening to

Exhausted (from all that frantic attempting to change what was here)
I’m momentarily grief-stricken
Now it’s clear there’s nothing to be done

I thought I had to be somebody

As if all there is isn’t enough
As if there was anything to add or take away
As if the lily needed to be gilded

(And as if I had the slightest idea how to gild)

Monday, 1 September 2014

Not A Hair's Breadth

We’re trying to be what we already are
Striving to mend the unbroken
Now there’s a thankless task...

Yes, yes: I know it feels
As if we’re shattered, flawed, in need of ministration
Yet complete and incomplete have not a hair’s breadth between them

Trust me: you are as miraculous today
As you were on the day you were born