Let that be me.

Better is one day,

Better is one day,

Better is one day,

Better is one day.

I meditate on how little I know,

And face the vastness of God.

Worship follows awe, and silence;

I am humbled and overjoyed.

Let me be good soil,

Let me be good earth.

Or, let me be seeds,

Honest and plentiful. 

Plants grow from soil,

Water and Sunlight.

They spring up from seed,

Let that be me.

Whatever seed you plant,
Will only ever be that tree.
Love, Faith, Hope:
Let that be me.

Stalks.

The stalks have wanted to come up for ages,

But I protected them with soil.

I could sense their need for nourishment, so I fed them.

More earth, more fertile coverage. 

I watered them too, 

And took keen note of their spot. 

I believed in the plant,

But I was afraid it would come up. 

With water, and food and the promise of light, 

Maybe one day, maybe. 

Fright. 

Just a little longer, under the earth. 

Earth is for roots, and sun is for branches. 

A Small request

I'm asking to avoid a fight, today,

Fights exist, and I'm aware of them,

But in this moment I'm seeking some foray

Of air, motion, colour, beauty and love,

Gobbling goodness

May I?

These hands

I have to do something with these hands. 

The fire burns me less when they are moving:

I could be broken, or I could be primed.

This could be a condition, or it could be time. 

Remember: Mill, not Monument.

No memorial of a past life

No statues, no stillness: there is still time.

Work is left to be done.

Barrage

Belittled are the sparks,

Arranged, and ignited in me.

Reassured of my misplacement,

Referenced casually.

All too disillusioned am I.

Gross hours, gross days

Each silence an eraser.

Belittled are the sparks,

All too disillusioned am I

Reference me, reference me.

Reassured of my misplacement,

Anyway, I voice the spark.

Grappling with the lack of fire,

Each attempt a testament.

Canvas

I sat at the canvas for a year,

I've been waiting here for ever.

I stared at the blank page for a long time,

Insistent that there was something there.

There are pails of colours around me, 

I finally dip my fingers in. 

Each bucket's colours stain me, 

And streak my page. 

She told me that once finished,

She needed the paintings to run free.

The longer they stayed with her, 

The more strained she'd feel.

I find myself pinning my work to string,

Like developed photographs

Freshly out of solution. 

The poised images of my altered heart.

Corves.

Hope has been known to humiliate,

When silence has a lot of breath.

Silence can be ridiculing,

And hope, hateful.

Whose force is larger?

The seen and heard silence,

Or the un-sensed notion?

I fight for one.

For a long time, I forgot.

I forgot that realised hope intoxicates.

I forgot the misery of silence,

When I'm moved by hopefulness.

I gather the hopes in a corf,

Optimism is my container.

The silence I respect.

Even as I acknowledge the presence of fire.