Brenda

I watch the rise and fall of her chest,
listen intently for her breath,
part fearful, part hopeful,
waiting for the king to come and take her home,
knowing that life can be lived for far too long.
Where is she now?
With her much-loved mother?
Hearing the little girl at piano practice?
Smelling the rich warmth of the milking shed?
Seeing her brothers walking across the near paddock?
Living evenings full of girl-song, laughter and love?
Let her be anywhere but this
faded, diminished and difficult present
where vitality is gone,
where each day she seems to fade a little more.

She wakes.
There is a little smile,
as if sweetness cannot be washed away,
no, not even by the relentless grip
that sweeps her inexorably along.
Suddenly, seeing that smile,
I think of what she was,
how she walked through this world of selfishness and self obsession
in quiet anonymity,
a creative spirit in whom virtues dwelt,
deeply gentle, beautiful in character,
a will calm and self controlled,
a mind flexible, open and inquisitive,
her thinking free of prejudice about race or creed,
her heart tempered in love
with faith made strong through adversity-
and thinking of this quiet gentle spirit
passing almost unnoticed into the night

I say that if God exists,
if there is a great unseen world,
if there is a judgment day,
if He raises to resurrection life those who are His,
if He weighs in his balances
the heart and spirit of those
who live out brief moments in the sun,
then surely He can say of her
"this kind of person I am seeking,
this surely is one of my chosen ones",

and bending to kiss her, perhaps for the final time,
walking from that place,
past the repetitive muttering
of the vacant ghosts in their wheel chairs,
this sad, last abiding place,
my heart is strangely swelling
with a sense of privilege and gift;
yes, sad that life can come to this
but proud and elated that I have known her,
been nurtured by her,
loved her and been loved by her,
marvelling that my also anonymous life
could be so rich, so full of blessing,
so beautifully filled in its entirety
with the wonderful love of women,
and raising my eyes heavenwards
in silent, sad, complex thankfulness
I ask that I can carry her gentleness with me,
passing it on to those that I love,
yes, setting free her unknown greatness
to ripple and wash through and over
the countless generations yet to come.

 




 

Awake!

Wrap your arm around that rope
and sound that bell.
Make it peal, make it echo, let it ring
across this harbour,
down the dark and sleeping coast,
over these low, blue mountains,
across the dry, brown continent,
over land rippled by some vast tide,
over glistening dry salt lakes,
past castle clouds and distant high-rise metropolises,
beyond glittering complacency,
smug, self-satisfied, too-comfortable, insularity
and into the entire vast world beyond.

Let it ring out
"Awake! Awake!
The enemy is near.
Awake! Awake!
The fire-storm rages.
Awake! Awake!
Feel its gathering heat!
Awake! Awake!
Sense the surging tide!
Awake! Awake!
See the descending night.
Awake! Awake!
They are at the gate.
Awake! Awake!
For your children's sake."

Some do rouse and set forth the cry.
Many roll over in their beds and snore.
"Today and tomorrow", they say,
"Will be just as it was before,"
Accepting the easy lies they have been told,
Ignoring the great echoing of bells,
Unwilling to stir from their comfortable bed,
Content to let whatever will be unfold.

Kyle.

"I punched me Mum so I had to bolt.
I 'id all day in a tree. I could 'ear 'em callin' me.
No way I wuz comin' down.
I wuz scared me step-dad 'ud bash me.
Then I got on a bus and come down 'ere,
to me Ma and Pa's.They're awright.
Better than 'ome anyway."

Probably his story was only half true
but he told it with such direct simple power
that momentarily the whole room went dead quiet
and through my mind washed
waves of sorrow and compassion,
a wish that over sad, complex, humanity
at least childhood could be simply joyous.
He'd come from North Queensland,
big for his age, raw-boned,
a guileless, strange kind of innocent
always in conflict with older boys.
He was only twelve.

Some years later I passed him in the street.
For a moment I didn't recognise him.
All that child's health had disappeared.
He was thin, very thin.
His head was studded and shaven.
His cheeks were drawn.
His eyes had that hollow, empty desolation
you sometimes see in those
who have seen too much or known too much of human misery
and who have sought momentary respite
in a powerfully destructive vortex.
He was, I would guess, fifteen.

Finally, I read about him in the local paper.
A tide passed over me,
anguish for loss and waste,
for the misery of some children's lives,
for the blight that perpetuates abuse,
for those trapped in their individual torment,
He'd killed a man, a paedophile, his dealer.
Late one night he knocked on the door of a house
in a quiet sleeping street.
When the door opened he pulled the trigger
and fled into the night
whilst those in nearby houses slept peacefully on.
He was only eighteen.

I thought then of that quiet street,
of separate lives, of sleeping comfortably
in our separate houses and our separate beds
whilst young lives in agony of abandonment
flee headlong into the dark
and I heard the tolling of bells,
deep, sad notes ringing out
for every young and damaged life,
for every abused, abandoned and neglected child,
ringing out loss, waste, heartache, sorrow and pain
all through this dark and too often
sleeping land.

Shadows

The shadows are lengthening.
Soon night will descend.
and with unwanted haste
this blaze of light will end.

The shadows are lengthening,
old friends no longer here.
I say goodbye in resignation
more than in sad tears.

The shadows are lengthening.
There's hatred in the air,
the violent, base and wicked
lusting for power everywhere.

The shadows are lengthening.
Old certainties seem to fade.
Is it that sight is improving
or diminishing with age?

But with the growing shadows
there is perfume in the air
and in the developing darkness
there is beauty everywhere.

Clouds are now backlit,
there is glory in the sky,
a beauty made more intense
because it cannot abide.

Much is not diminished
but in the shadow glows.
Thus the gift and joy of love
lengthening shadow grows.

Lengthening shadows highlight
one walking long ago,
the Son of Man, the Nazarene,
bathed in deep, bright glow

and every morning I see enacted
a joyously wonderful sight,
thick darkness being defeated
by morning's rising light.

Earth.

I would that all eyes open to this
cloud-tumbling, wind-waving, pink-hued, scarlet-blazed, sun-sparkled,
gurgling, tumbling, surging, pounding, mirror-reflecting,
tendril-gripping, needle-leafed, tree-towering, cacti-flowering,
rose-scented, daisy-drenched, nectar-dripping, bee-buzzing,
bird-filled, insect-littered, mammal-cluttered, fish-crowded,
spinning, revolving, space-floating, voyaging
uniqueness,
the planet earth,
shared home of all life,
living our brief moments in peace as caretakers,
tending, beautifying, sustaining,
handing it to the future
so that they too, in their brief moments,
can live in, gaze on, be inspired by, sing praise about
or wonder in awe upon
its great, complex and diverse magnificence.

Quest.

Some build their ships of death
and load them with their precious things,
others sail towards a golden realm,
a world of art they call "Byzantium",
all searching for some distant shore,
setting their minds on realms invisible,
choosing to chart a mysterious sea,
the unknown vastness of the spiritual.

That self-same spirit has set me to wander,
throw my heavy pack upon my back,
and set out for some unseen place
along an undulating, winding track,
making foolish turnings, carrying weights
which impede or render willingly blind,
but adding delights found along the way,
in essence searching for truths of the mind

and in so doing, seek transformation,
for though the journey's end inspires,
this road is more about a personal quest
to shed the mind of selfish desires,
low things like hatred, strife and envy,
replacing them with the pure spirits of love,
joy, compassion, mercy and gentleness,
qualities not of earth but from above-

a quest towards a state of becoming,
sadly so wretchedly incomplete
that the mind could easily in despair
stop, give up, concede defeat
were it not for the end of the road,
the sustaining goal for which I search
includes a future of glory, joy and peace,
created not in heavens but here on earth.

And if this modern world of discovery,
in its quest for knowledge and the physical,
scoffs at such dreaming as foolishness
and seeks satisfaction in realms material,
I still turn my head to those ancient hills
in grand, ambitious spiritual yearning,
and in this beautiful earth continue to walk
as if life is a momentary sojourning

where there is no abiding place,
not when there are torrents of grief,
where sorrow mourns, mortality reigns
and humans cruelly inflict arrogant beliefs.
I then will walk, will continue to wander,
on paths which in challenging undulations wind,
searching for peace, truth and transformation,
desiring the journey's end to be a state of mind.

The Narrow Gate.

"Enter by the narrow gate....For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few." Matthew 7:13-14

The beautiful gate swung open,
all I had to do was ask,
then entering through its narrow way,
embrace its wonder, accept the task

and set my feet steadfastly upon
a path made deep and smooth,
where much love and care ensured
all impediments were removed;

a beautiful, deeply polished way
from many walkers gone before,
come from nations over all the earth,
from near-at-hand or distant shore,

all walking towards that shining grace
that I'll call it the light of dawn,
where multitudes of angels dwell
with the assembly of the firstborn,

where the King of Glory reigns,
in joy, love, hope and peace,
a place beyond all pain and tears,
a place where praise will never cease,

a place made open by the man
who walked alone long, long before
with such strength, love and self-denial
it fills my mind with love and awe.

I've seen Him set His face to walk,
lift up the shame-filled harlot's head,
touch a leper, heal the sick,
raise a widow's son from the dead;

I've come to know He is the door,
come to see He is the road,
come to understand as well
it was He who bore my heavy load,

because the pack that I do bear
is weighty with objects that retard-
vanities, pride, selfish desires.
These I have longed to discard

and replace them with the fruit
so freely strewn along the track-
love, joy, peace and patience-
a sustaining lightness in my pack,

and I have come in hope to know
that citizenship in that beautiful place,
the promised city, the journey's end,
is granted freely through faith and grace.

O yes, the journey's end that I desire
though not within my strength to fulfil,
is Yours to give in love and grace,
so help me to surrender to Your will,

and leading, guiding, help me to walk,
directing my steps along the way.
O take my hand like a little child's.
Let Your grace transcend my clay.