Groans

Sometimes I can fly.
The spirit gives me wings and I soar.
The truth on my lips,
a transcendent joy.
And I sing.
But not with my voice.
It is my soul.
A glorious symphony;
the harmony weaving a tapistry with the melody.
The notes lift me higher and higher.
There is no fear.

Sometimes I cry;
Wallowing in the pit.
A world full of lies,
a temporal despair.
I weep.
But not with tears.
It is my soul.
A potion of rejection, brokeness,
loneliness, failure and loss.
The cup that I cannot bear.
There is only fear.

What is this life?
Must I come down if I go up?
Reaching the mountaintop
only to fall down... down.
When will I run and not grow tired?
When will these wings carry me to rest?
When will I stand in the Son and know only happiness?
Please. I want to go home.

Death

Death comes;
it's dark spectre rising
swooping, diving
creeping, writhing.
The end is near.
We wait in fear.
A fog
closes in around us.
Final breaths.
3...2......1........
Silence screams.

Deep Water

Deep water
soothes;
it cools.
I float effortlessly.
The current moves me where it wills,
and I wait.
Depth disarms,
and can alarm.
What lies beneath?
Unknowable,
untameable,
deep water.

up your nose

When one blows one's nose,
no one knows
What one holds
In one's hands.
Can one plan
what comes out,
when one blows one's snout?
When one sees
what has grown
in the depth of one's nose,
Can one fathom what is there?
Does one dare
choose to share?
Together, might we become aware?

As I ponder these my queries,
and develop an obscure theory,
within my nose there is an itch,
feel my face begin to twitch,
and I reach towards my pocket,
for my hanky, to quell this rocket,
that is ready for the launch,
300km up my......
AAAAAAAAAAAAAchew!!!

Is it meant to be green?

Anatomy

Anatomy is a strange thing;
how all I fit within my skin,
I do not know and cannot tell.
Each organ with its own supply,
of nerves and blood...
each organ with its own personal waste removal system.
Like little people working as a team,
to keep a bigger person running.
Come spleen, come sigmoid colon,
come interventricular branch of the left coronary artery.
Each bit placed expertly,
but with seemingly so little logic, or method.
Like a child with half a puzzle
I sit here endlessly trying to make a full picture...
but left only to stare hopelessly,
as the pieces lie unmatched on the floor of my...
occipital cortex (.... brain.)

A Craving

I crave...
something...
what ?
I can taste it, feel it on in my mouth.
But can I name it ?

Fruit... no, too healthy.
Doughnuts... no, too sweet.
A coffee... no, to arty.
cake, pizza, pie, curry...
Frantically I scan, as saliva oozes through the mucosa of my mouth.

Then... a revelation, an inspiration, more salivation.
Hot Chips!!!
They're hot, they're chips...
The combination was irresistable.

And where better to find this kingly fare than...
Earlwood chicken shop!

That first chip, hot, salty, what's more chicken salty.
Ahhhhhh.
A blessing!
The taste, the feel, the vibe.
Thankyou God for the humble $1:50 hot chips.

the bowel

Whilst upon the throne,
in a world of my own,
I contemplated the human bowel.

Several metres of plumbing,
from stomach to rectum running,
the subject of much fascination and study.
Each cell characterized,
each movement examined,
by the scientist in their laboratories.

The source of much humour,
when it decides to speak,
and voice an opinion or two.
Often unappreciated are its thoughts;
infact in pleasant society,
it is known to be downright rude.

And how to clean up,
all the leftover muck,
when it chooses to pass on its product.
To fold or to scrunch,
how will it be done ?
Each method defended by some.

Everyone must deal with their own twisting tube,
and each has their own special way
of relating to this enigma within.
But I must admit,
my interest is but this,
that it removes all the excess bits.

Polarity

despair... hope
judgement... mercy
condemnation... grace
darkness... light
sin... righteousness
defiled... holy
isolation... community
meaninglessness... purpose
rejected... received
powerless... mighty
slave... child
terror... love
death... life

without God... In Christ.

underarm hair

What is it about underarm hair,
such that it matters if it's there?

Without it a boy is not a man,
with it a girl is like a... well you know what I mean.

Are we culturally limited by this hair within our pits?
Does it cause us to reject those without such limits?

I don't know, you don't care.
But still, what is it about underarm hair?

blue sky

I have been known to put pen to paper in verse over the years. I will share some of this poetry under a series called 'The incomplete works'. Some are not so good, but here is one of my better ones, I think.


Blue Sky, Why?
Muttered Hermann to himself, in a moment of profound reflection
...or was it introspection.
Light scatters,
whether wave or matter,
at right angles to itself.
(Hermann paused to consider whether light was schizophrenic or just multi-talented)
The shorter waves,
create the blue haze,
projected i/onto the occipital lobe.
...
Blue Sky, Why?
Shrugged Hermann, unsatisfied with such de(con)struction.