Echoes in Faith

It is in the silence that he is usually there,

in the angel music he will ordinarily speak,

but like many who wander and wonder

there is an emptiness and disconnection.


Shadows of shapes where he used to be

and a faint echo that which led to stability,

a heavy heart hangs low, he held it once

and led me by my own frail hand.


A desertification of my spiritual journey,

sand dunes and landscapes of coloured

hues of a sun set, strange birds and sighs

as the wonder that is around me -waits


by my side and some times I can feel

that he’s been there, walked this way

and in my dreams I am trying to run

and reach him before he is truly gone.


Then the crying of tortured people,

the homeless refugees, raped women,

and hungry children call me to pray

and in praying I kneel and beseech


and ever doing it in a vacuum I trust.

I will not stop even though he is silent.

I will not put down the calls for prayer.

I will never stop saying God is Love.


For Jesus walked this world and wept,

and so I will continue to cry in hope,

and proclaim that God is good ’til –

my wounds and his are bound together,


It was on the sandy quay, rusting amongst

the lobster pots and shells and tangled nets.

It lay


and I tried its weight, iron heavy, covering

my sandy hands with golden, rust dust,

and I wondered how it felt to have them

tightly wound around my wrists and how

I would struggle, fumble and crumble.


I thought of him who was chained, as

the lashes rained down on his tender

flesh. Goodness dies when we stand by 

and do nothing, consenting to its death.


Is it me or the chain that is anchored to 

to a grounded fisherman’s boat, with a

place for a sail, named Haelwen in paling

gold paint, pealing a little from its travails?


The sand shifted ‘neath the gulls’ lament,

as the tide turned and made its charge, 

turning the stones and scouring the shore,

and climbing the pilings of the ancient pier.


I stood back and waited until its power

lifted up the boats, pulled the chain to life.

Links clanked and grated as the ride began,

the boat trying to escape but held by might.


Rusty smells were washed into the turmoil,

sweet salty air bringing an uncertain peace.

The untenanted vessel rode the waters well,

rocking and bobbling, thinking itself freed.


I thought of him, broken and bloody, bowed,

as he broke the grave chains that threaten, 

and bind our hearts tightly to lucre and fear,

looking for a key that will open the lock.


I watched the tide as it turned and fussed

striving against the taut chains and ropes,

and I was left wondering the mystery, alone, 

as he must’ve done in the darkened garden.


Humility they say is nature’s way,

and the converse a despotic state,

with xenophobic policies and warring

natures, creating a climate of fear.

Is God humble? Arrogant? Cruel?

Was the fruit a test or a taunt?

The haloed angels a health warning?

The violence and retribution His?


‘If you have seen me you have seen 

the Father.” said the man without guile

as he listened and healed and wept.

Fostering love and always selflessly.


The scars dig deeply into the earth,

the burning flesh and bloody wood.

hit the stone in the cool closed tomb,

the decomposing Son of God.


In the dark and cold the whisper 

is heard from a heart broken Abba,

for his son, reaching through death’s

wall that hides our eyes from hope.


He moves in the morning mists

at one with the garden, sees Mary,

tear streaked, brings sudden joy

and a sweetness from bitterness.

Grace in the Waiting

Dissolving margins take me deeper into the desolation of the soul,

with each moment long, I find my life weariness increasing the hole

in my thinking. 


Tears thicken in my eyes where the sight is strained by searching,

my heart is like a rock as if the spirit’s flown leaving me lurching

on its journey.


I wait in silence, for your response and hear only wait, hold, wait,

I can’t I think wishing the tears to fall, the shame and hurt to abate

so I’m staying.


I am like a tree bowed in the wind with no hope of rain or sun,

my leaves fallen, my branches, like sprouting bones web spun

for my company.


The wind blows where it will, and tosses me as I hold so tight

to the ground where I was formed and there my roots will fight

to stay my hope.


There was another, who was torn, his battered arms stretched, 

strangled on a tree, who spoke my name and in my wretched

state he loved me.


As nails bit deep into his healing hands and feet, he screams

and I think of his desolation, his dear tears flowing in streams

through my grief.


His tender eyes searched my unseeing eyes, turned in on myself, 

he quietly listened to my muddled mind, my closed ears listening

only to my grief.


Rising, I stumble through the day and search for fruitless solace.

Like a wounded bird seeking healing for a broken wing in a place

unfound, alone.


Silence slips into a hush, my resistance gone his heart and mine press

and beat together and my grief flows into his, dissolving brittleness

while I weep.


Too soo, a shrill call from the others entangled in the grief ridden pain,

and still burdened I move towards them feeling that he’s gone again

but left his dear





The Tory Diet

I’m on a Tory diet, counting out the beans,

the smallest cheapest loaf, a slice for the 

weans, biscuits to crunch, fill the tummy.

Now there’ll be no more, worst of fears,

they’ve shut the Food Bank, Oh! my dears,

they’ve served us for years, dried our tears.


I’m on a Tory diet. Caviar and melba toast,

steak, potatoes, tomatoes, pork roast

choice of vegetables, an apple or pear,

washed down with wine from our cellar.

My children full and warm and dry.

Share with the poor? Not my pie.


I’m on a Tory health plan, its mean,

I can’t afford soap to keep me clean,

I can’t afford shampoo or deodorant 

so I’ll smell and feel that I’m unclean.

My old clothes looser; now in mode,

walked head down in our lost road.


I’m on a Tory health plan, and I’m seen,

latest hairdo and expensive creams,

I’ve a wide drawer of Chanel and teams

to wrap me after bathing in sea salt,

oxygen or mud, I shouldn’t ever halt

to avoid the rest who smell to a fault.


I’m on a Tory diet, stay away from shops,

I’ve a pair of holed jeans, worn thin tops

The kids need trainers to go to school,

their coats have come from charity,

I wish the Tory party had honest clarity

cos my two need healthy food and parity.


I’m on a Tory Diet, it’s been good to me.

I am a Tory backer and so glad to be,

they’ve given my money and so with glee,

I can buy what I want and pay no levy

cos I sent it to an island so cleverly.


They took the hymn and cut it, 

it really wasn’t fair

to say the rich man in his castle,

the poor man at his gate

yet that’s the way the Tories want it

but it’s still not our fate.


Jesus said we must change things

and see the poor are fed

but the Tory diet,

feeds their friends

while its the law it bends;

and blow the poor, the sick, the lame.

They can’t have a crumb 

they’re not the same.

How did we sink to this shame?

Resurrection and Reconciliation 


Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my lambs.

do you love me, Peter?

Lead my sheep.

Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my sheep.


He lifted up his hands and the nail holes showed clear,

the scars on his forehead from the scorn of thorns,

and he blessed the denial and dread in Peter,

and will bless ours too.


We need never fear the judgment of Christ,

He gave his all,

We need never fear our own sins,

We are worth his life.


As we stand in the shadow of the cross,

where love chose goodness,

we are reconciled, forgiven and free to become


Fraught Fishing

Jesus is Resurrected and appears to the fishermen.


The net stretched deep into the lake,

the stars glistened and somewhere an owl hooted,

still they worked and searched,

no fish came.


The net still hung in the water, 

as it tinted pink with the waking world,

a fire on the beach, nothing strange,

no fish to grill.


They mistook the stranger 

with wood in his hands, a wave and suggestion to try

on the right side of the boat.

Only a man?


Scents of bread and grilled fish,

a welcome and so he serves them again, kneeling, 

red from the heat of the fire,

love smiling.

The Hidden Christ.

Easter Sunday

He wound his hands around the tree

and watched Mary come by,

He saw the others and waited.

His heart broke with the tears she shed,

and he stepped forward to help.

She sees a gardener and he his child,

and says her name. Mair. 


As a child hears the love in her parents’ voice,

she opened like a flower. Changed by love.


He gave her the message that lasts thousands of years,

Love dies for love of you.

Love has overcome death.

Love is now eternal.

John 6:66

After this many disciples quit following him and did not accompany him any longer.

To stay or go

He stands bewildered by their unfurling, hurled unbelief.

He sees in their smouldering embered eyes

A return to earthly vows,

Narrowed estuaries of thought

How could they not?

Why believe in a man

With only his flesh to offer.

No better than others.


She stands shaded and affronted.

After all he had offered

Given, mended the broken, 

Surely it would be just

Not to doubt but stay 

To understand 

the question.


Another, not yet decided

looks down at his sandal shod feet

Questions, doubts.

Drags his feet.

To go from him? 

Like a child snatched from its mother’s breast

and wander, or cast away his beliefs,

Against all his life’s learning.

To stay with the fount of all being

the word of life. 

Christmas, what’s the point?

The lonely are lonelier,

the poor – even poorer,

the weak are slowly weaker,

the spoiled are so spoiled.

And there is a place

where you are either

outside or in. And no-

one asks you to enter.


The sad are even sadder,

the glad somewhat gladder,

the fearful – more fearing.

The workers – hard working

and there is a place

where feet are on the rest,

food is served to the best,

And joy is an Offshore Bank account.


Bastard! they called him,

born in squalor they said,

cuckolded his father she did,

and then he ditched them and

rebelled against their traditions,

Legalism and tyranny.     Instead,

He loved the sick into health,

gave sight to the blind,

restored the dead to life,

and hatred heartened them.


Captured him, killed him quick,

denied him a future. Just to stop

the rot.   Tortured by lash.

Crucified,  Christ on a tree,

They tried to rub him from 

history but love rebounds,

restores and reconciles.


Love gives the weak strength,

Love will feed the hungry,

Love befriends the lonely.

Love cares with the fearful,

Weeps with the tearful, and

Somewhere He is celebrated

still.  His sacrificial love 

flows and received heartens

and always a reason for joy.


Nadolig Llawen, Happy Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel Frohe Weihnachten, 圣诞快乐, חג מולד שמח, Gëzuar Krishtlindjet, Ikrisimusi emyoli, ハッピークリスマス, Счастливого Рождества, Καλά Χριστούγεννα