Sacred Sunrise

The candles burned brightly in the temple,

repaired the curtains and ordered the day,

while down in the fields a body, dead lay.


Relieved they slept through a golden dawn

and missed the signs that God was about,

missed the glory of dying being bested.


The sun burnished creation that morning

and made the tomb full of light, and angels

tell the good news and the temple was dim.


The earth produced its brightest flowers

to welcome him and everywhere creation

sang with joy that life was now the future.


Sweet incense curled its way in the dark,

and psalms intoned and sacrifices made,

as they made God in their own grave image.


Hands stretched and hearts groaned as

the God torn hanging stitched and sown

was hung, separated the empty sanctuary.


They missed the angel and the shaking,

as in poverty and powerless Jesus rose,

naked walked grounding in the green, garden.


They missed the angels and the gardener.

The Christ came to reveal himself to those

they scorned, will scourge and lock away.


God watched them make their obeisance

self congratulatory, seeking in God’s grace

reward for their grievous attempt to silence –

God’s only word to the world with brutality.

God’s word to the world of justice, mercy

of grace and the guardianship of the earth.

While down in the city loins were girded,

people were happy and life was changed,

for death has lost its sting, hope restored.


God would always be there with the poor 

the sick would always find compassion,

and a broken earth always has the truth,

The Kingdom in the Vineyard

  Holy Tuesday

The purple fruits hung in bulging clusters,

their juice running down the sampler’s chin,

Beautiful to see and wonderful to pick and

mouthwatering, tartness and sweetness as

the grapes burst, giving up their fruitfulness.

The vines, like people have roots deep down

in the soil of their youth, but there are those

who choose to rule by cruelty, might and fear

they grow tall and strongly, overshadowing

the poorer, weaker plants absorbing their life.


Love has a vineyard,  worked for the good,

To grow fruits of peace and hope and joy we

need manure and compost of spiritual growth,

but they grew their fruit rotten with greed and

their souls as empty as their vacated hearts.


It is not a place of power and control but open

to welcome the lame and the sick, old and young

so that equality reigns and all share the goodness.

A place and time where timid children are safe,

and women free to be completely themselves.

We all live in vineyards where the pauper reigns,

for it’s the kingdom of God celebrating diversity,

a world loved and graced by his woundedness,

working, growing, diligently aspiring to be just,

like the son who was killed for caring too much.

A Sacred Moment

The cloud had darkened, and the lane lengthened,

as my dragging feet walked the dusty way home.

My fears were growing and the worry charging

me with the cost of my acuity. The news was bad.


Travelling slowly, saddened and searching, I heard

nearby in a green, thorny thicket a few grams of

feathers, bones and flesh rustled and fluffed, then

interrupted my daydream with a loud, clear call.


A wren, with his hoisted tail, blew my sad and 

gloomy thoughts away as he swelled and music

trebled from his tiny throstle, thrilling me and

retuning me to life in that sacred hopeful place.


Somewhere else a bird sang to his love with

zees and another performed an aria, atop a tree.

They are bastions of creation, holding in their

prayerful songs of praise the glory of their God.

A Cracked Pot

The pottery wheel brings the writhing clay to life,

its whirring pulses through the hands, moulding 

the sticky gooey mess, growing its potential and

finding its nature through touching, loving and

caressing the dirty lump until it reveals 

its hidden glory.

Steadily the rhythm grows and a shape is formed,

a vessel glad to be created, as the potter boldly

pulls and pursues the pleasure of sensing their

own power flowing into the clay, carefully seeing

beauty materialising with a sense of pride in 

its inner glory.

Decorated and fired the fluted vase stands, and

accepts admiration and the echoes of desire

to fulfil its purpose. But, the proud purchaser will 

decide.  Will it live out its lifeless life overflowing 

with tulips, lilies, lupins or empty as Art revealing

its outer glory?

What am I? 

The vase on show?

The cup to carry water to the thirsty?

The vase overflowing with beautiful flowers?

The squat pot full of plants that poison or pollute?

I know I am cracked broken by the pitfalls of living?

Did I resist the creator as divine love shaped my calling?

Or, will that passion of re-generation in the welcomed Spirit 

reveal through my cracks love’s amazing light, glory and grace?

A Rainbow of Grace

Deep in sorrow I walked the walk of grief,

Feeling in my hurting heart the pain of loss.

Each beat a reminder of them and their sweet

faces now facing an enemy grown by greed.


The rainbows arched across the sky, spilling

their palette of colours as it stretched until

it sank into the seething sea, and shared its 

delight in the writhing waves of the sea water.


I reached for a brush and paper wanting to

replicate the delicate hues, and share my own

pleasure in a prism given to us signifying that

God’s creation is a gift that cannot be compared.


I lay and watched and thoughts flowed through a

third eye to another place. There, there is water

and a dome of coloured rocks and everywhere

dancing painted arcs that ripple and flow with


every combination and complication forming

and reforming red, gold, fern green, palest pink,

prime colours and even those we cannot see,

as if a paint chart is playing its own concerto.


I opened my eyes and the sky was going grey,

the loss of the grace of that moment grieved

by the heart, yet still in my mind’s eye it lived,

and over the horizon a growing darkness filled


the skies and brought me back to the gloom

of dying children and forest fires breaking

the chain of life and deepening the crush of 

a changing climate that will cause a cataclysm. 


From a grateful gift of grace I walked on 

with a rainbow of hope pulsing with the

rays of refracted sunlight, a lighthouse 

of hope in a dark and troubled moment.