Love is:

He takes my hand so lovingly,

curling his fingers around mine,

as if t’were a treasure of great

price, and I hold his in mine

while memories of that first

fragile touch of nervousness.


Love can be worn thin like ice,

a place that snaps easily and

falling far through the fracture

often floundering and failing,

bitterly, unforgiving broken to

never surface in that place again.


Love can grow and be a place

of strength, and yet, struggles 

strain. But, shared as – we work

this out together  -can sprout

wonderlands of sweet moments,

forgiveness and grace grow love.


This is his love.

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.

Public Humiliation of the Innocent.

Good Friday

All through the night he was moved and tried,

no one stood by him and not one dared stay,

Peter denied knowing him and a cock crowed,

people yelled, ‘Crucify!’ when Pilate was unsure.

Washing his hands, wipes away innocent blood,

scans the grown ugly mob and turns to Jesus,

and hands the love of God over to his fate.

Whipped til his skin reveals the bones, forced

to walk humiliated and shamed, struggling

bearing the sign of a murderer, wearing

a crown, meant as a taunt, which pierced 

his head, blood pools in those loving eyes.

Blood lost left him weak and faint. he fell,

His already blood smeared cross, it falls,

Simon was called to carry it to the skull,

There, on the cruel mount he laid it down.


Nearby, hIs faithful followers stood stunned,

flinching and vomiting at each hammer blow,

unbelieving, as he was raised up above them,

watching him gasp, he was hardly breathing.


Proud of their feat the jealous elders shuddered,

Feet ran swiftly. Tells -The temple curtain is torn.

Jesus called out in terror, abandoned, alone,

calling on God to forgive their ignorant wrongs.

Then a collective sigh as he breathed his last,

the healing, loving man was gone from their grasp.


Truly dead declared the sword in his watery side.

Violated, abused, his spirit was freed.

They brought him down, lowering his broken body,

gently they wiped away flies, blood and smears,

then carrying him, awkward in death, to a tomb

hidden in a garden, where Spring flowers bloom.


Mary his mother, tear stained shock showing 

in her face lined with grief, pain and living,

stumbles over stones and Joanna holds her

while Mary of Magdala holds onto his feet.


The cold blast from the whitened sepulchre

welcomes the already stinking, oozing corpse.

Death always come with grim decomposition 

and the loss of a person we will dreadfully miss.


The stone in place and the group drift away,

numbed by the traumas of the recent day,

each tree a reminder of his stertorous breath,

each nail etched into their tortured memory.

No one can speak stretching the silence,

sick with himself, Peter goes off alone,

his manly pride battered by his denial

of a man he loved, worshipped, adored.


All over the world they humiliate the fallen,

the innocent and callously condemn them

each to a whip, public execution and so 

he, in them, feels their heart and weeps

in desolation of our vile inhumanity.

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.

My Valentine

The snowdrops split the Earth and bravely shone against the wintry grey. 

Hiding below where the secret darkness of the soil gives life,

two fruits gradually split and new birth begins. 

Separately they grew entwining the bare branches of the beleaguered hawthorn 

ruled by frost and snow, hail and gales. 

But still they grew on opposing sides of the same bulwark, 

building alone strengthening against spring showers until 

burgeoning  in May. 

Still growing tall they meet in the tangled heart of the graceful bush 

and there kissed. 

           And then entwining together 

their flowers unfurled and the dusky pink petals shone brightly amidst fresh green leaves, brightening in this season. 

Spreading and sprawling they murmured and

With the growing warm summer breeze, humming bees flirted with their pollen laden flowers. 

Grasping each other tightly they stood against the wind storms of early summer, rejoicing  when one by one the fruit emerged green and growing,  

seed hearted with new love, 

And together seeking further staying enmeshed in each other’s arms 

when new branches of the Blackberry came and lurking tried to divide, snarl and spoil, encroaching upon their liberty and freedom but together stronger they held tightly, 

snuggly fitting their strengthened stems 

And as the summer Sun is called and the autumn leaves fall,  

slowly  the Wild Rose loosens ripened fruits that will slip into the dark through gold leafed branches.  

There, felled by roaring wind, in silence they pass through the waves of frosts and incoming winds of winter. 

Time holds us like a vital vice, til, letting go we enter into sleep, 

a quiet time away, and rest from our labours. 

There in the garden are the quiet hopes. 

Year on year out the rose flowers blossom, their leaves grow and petals form blush pink. Love surpasses the seasons and though, my love, we die, our love grows again 

into another generation. 

I’m forever yours my Valentine. 


Those eyes, I look and see myself as he does,

He stares back with leisurely love,

It never wavers,

Each tiny cell speaking peace,

Each lash and brow saying, “Hush.”

Challenged I watch those eyes that watched the children play,

and Blessed them,

turned to the blind and dumb,

and healed them,

looked into the eyes of the broken,

and gave them back a life,

turned the shame of the rejected 

into the warmth of welcome.

greeted the unloved with kindness

and saw them beloved.

I watch and am warmed again.