ENDERBY ISLAND

 

The shag flies low across the pewter sea,

The gallant penguins stand their guard right there,

Kelp stretches out its silent floating plea,

The striped cliffs rise up and the rocks are bare.

 

Even the seagulls’ cry is muted here

In misty caverns where the cold waves play.

And, in this constant movement, all is still.

In this pale light these southern seas are grey.

 

This is a place where restless dreams find rest

In the chill silence, where the rains have been.

This needs no human touch, no human hand,

The fragile strength of brown and slate and green.

From the Doorway

 

In the doorway looking outward

On a world so bleak and grim

I can feel my heartbeats falter

As it ever grows more dim.

 

All the cries of hate and anguish

They are mounting to the sky;

And the naked truth is cringing

Underneath the mighty lie.

 

And annals of despair are writ

Across the coming night.

And I shudder and I tremble

For I cannot bear the sight.

 

But then I turn around and see --

This is my Father’s place.

The walls are made of angel hordes,

The floors we tread are grace.

 

And stumbling saints are climbing up

The wondrous stairs of light;

And faith is finding footholds

That are hid from human sight.

 

How measureless the love that flows

From here out to the dark.

So many wanderers may find

Their way lit by a spark.

 

And forth they go with bowls of light,

The faithful and the true,

That so the broken sons of men

May rise up whole and new.

 

And like a crowd they shall come in

And who shall bar their way?

For they have heard the homeward call,

And weary feet obey.

And mercy shall dry all their tears,

And love shall lead them in

And wash them very tenderly

From every staining sin.

 

And home at last, at last they heal,

At last they are made well,

And they shall know such joy, such peace,

Within his light to dwell.

Master of the Dance

 

You are the Master of the dancing;

You are the Master of the Dance:

And how our feet and arms would follow,

We only ask you for the chance.

 

You are the zeitgeist and the trendy.

Oh how we try your every stance,

And curse our feet that keep on tripping.

You are the Master of the Dance.

 

We are so blinded by your strobe lights.

Degeneration seems advance.

We do not see the growing shadows.

You are the Master of the Dance.

 

Yes, it was Bosch who limned your portrait

And we can see it at a glance,

But can we dare confess he nailed it?

You are the Master of the Dance.

 

You jerk these puppets, limp and helpless,

You have them moving in a trance.

For them there is no vision splendid.

You are the Master of the Dance.

YOUR LOVE REMAINS

 

The flames are low. The embers smell of ash.

A sullen coldness creeps within my veins.

The darkness darkens, but I truly know

When all is gone, your perfect love remains.

 

The winds roar rough. The sharpened raindrops sting.

And all seems effort and a weariness.

Yet this I know, when strength’s a distant tale,

Your love remains, and you will always bless.

 

The night draws in, yet I am unafraid.

This world’s bright sparkling joy may come and go

I cannot grasp it in these fumbling hands.

Your love remains – this truth I surely know.

 

Death steals our breath and wrecks our dearest dreams.

Our every pang besmirched by bitter loss.

Yet this I know, tears rainbow in your light.

Your love remains, and it has borne the cost.

WILD MERCY

 

Mercy is not mild, but wild:

Untrammelled grace that no law can contain,

Nor any make deserving.

 

How it flows!

Vaster than Amazon, flowing unhindered,

Higher than Angel Falls, swifter than cheetahs,

Gliding on eagle’s wings, riding the storm track,

This is the wildfire that does not consume.

 

This is wild mercy –come and taste and see!

Drink deep, its springs will never, ever fail.

There is enough for all, for everyone,

And more besides, and more and more and more.

 

Mercy is wild, you cannot capture it

And trot it out on Sundays just for show.

Not to be tamed, nor doled in careful thimbles:

The angels’ laughter surged through time and space,

The joy of rainbows dancing with the moon,

And tears transmute from agony to wonder,

And saint and sinner waltzing through the air.

 

Saddle your wide-winged horses and go forth

Into that Day that conquers endless night,

Into that morning miracled with joy,

Lift up your candle and the sun will shine,

Run without fear for here you cannot fall

Save into deeper mercy than before.

 

And all the saints and angels say “amen!”

And welcome you; for now, at last, you know.

 

Unto us a Son is Given

 

Unto us a son is given:

In a home birth, far away from home,

Birthweight unknown,

Apgar score unchecked,

and Love speaks in a weak, thin newborn cry.

 

Unto us a son is given,

And they came.

Not the respectable townsfolk, reputation-wrapped,

But the rough guys from the sheep pens

Knives in belts,

And accents thick as grease,

Clomping their way into the Holy Place,

Tongue tied and awkward

Muttering of angels,

Seeing something there

That overwhelmed strong men.

 

Unto us a son is given:

In the deeps of the night

Cutting the starlit silence

While men slept their banal sleep

And only angels watched

 

Unto us a son is given.

When he came

We did not know what to do with him.

Indifference, doubt,

Rejection, torture, death.

Only a few

Shaken from sleep,

Saw the whole thing through

Amazed with much amazement.  

 

Unto us a son is given

Given still

That we might come

Come see what God has done

What God is doing

And what God will do

Through the most ordinary

Love breaks through

And we are born anew.

 

For the Nerdy Girls

 

This one is for the nerdy girls

With their heads in books, and books inside their heads,

Bored with the tea-time chatter about things of no concern,

Their minds dancing with questions,

Their hearts dancing with wonder,

At a world too big for words.

 

This is for the girls whose tongues trip over words

Read but not heard;

Who try hard not to laugh

At accidental puns,

Who get lost because they were thinking

Of something else entirely.

Who, when warned “men don’t like brains”

Can’t imagine why they’d care.

 

This is for the girls who cannot flirt

Because saying something you don’t mean

Is a paralysing confusion;         

People and feelings matter

And they don’t understand the game,

Girls who feel their awkwardness

As deep as a disgrace

But still choose to be themselves

At any price.

 

This is for the girls who can forget

One hundred “supposed to’s” in the grips

Of a great idea that sweeps them off the earth

Into the rarefied realms.

Girls whose hearts

Turn cartwheels while they trip over their feet.

 

And this is for the girls who learned to live

Through books,

The girls who had no other teachers,

Who grew and left their early angst behind,

Who found their feet, and found their hearts and smiled,

And never, ever, ever ceased to learn.