Where Stars Still Shine At Night

Poetry:

literary work
in which the
expression
of feelings and ideas
is given intensity
by the use of distinctive
style and rhythm

Progress:

Restlessness

On my sleeping land darkness poaches,
A merchant journeying the realms.
A restless mood crosses, cool and listless,
Sketching thoughts onto my pages.
Stealthy indifference encroaches
And sweet grey sorrow overwhelms.
But this feeling will pass fist less
And I shall wait when loneliness rages,
As a hard worker earns his waves.
Quietly given, gratefully received,
Gently portrayed, patiently perceived,
I’ll listen and, gracefully granted,
Rest in this silence, eternally enchanted.
Grave as life’s death, I fold my hands
And watch darkness poach these lands.

New Birth

My kingdom is not of this world here below,
My life is not the mortality you know.
No longer is my heart tied to this earth,
For I am a soul presented new birth;
No more to the shadow of flesh allured,
My hope is secured, my fate is assured.
I will work in the world and watch the skies,
For soon they will fall and I will rise.
No more for the light I am searching, blind,
Grace and fulfilment and peace I find;
Love to carry the world on my back –
In prayer, what strength can I lack?
Borne not in my arms, which quiver and quail,
But One whose hands can never tremble or fail.
No power refused, no virtue denied,
All trials and fears I can endure and abide,
For though all the forces of hell should attempt
My paint to increase and my weakness to tempt;
Should oppression of man and circumstance try
To crumble my faith and my spirit defy,
I will not be shaken or fall to defeat
For Christ is my victor, His work is complete:
Safe in salvation, new life exists in me;
I am a soul unvanquished and free.

Dawn On The Plains

Soft sheets of lavender clouds
meet pastel-pink dyed skies;
bursting onto dawn-washed plains,
golden wings of the sun rise,
sweeping across sheep-dotted fields,
calling the shadows away,
morning marks the world again
and heralds a beautiful day.

24th January 2014

Truth

Truth is not relative to what we make it
But stands alone.
Fact is fact, in itself, not what you will
Or what you won’t.
Don’t try to paint it in a different light,
Don’t try to fight.
Accept it or ally with its enemy, the lie,
Truth is not trite.

25th January 2014

The Phone Call

She’s talking on the phone,
crying in a mess;
she’s found out something bad,
worse than I could guess.

I’m trying to understand,
comfort my best friend,
but there’s something she can’t tell,
she says I’ll know what in the end.

It’s late and I’m tired
but I can’t get to sleep;
she’s holding tight that secret,
says it isn’t hers to keep.

I’m asking questions,
but I know she won’t speak.
I’ll hear about it soon,
in less than a week.

Is it a scandal, I ask, or wrong?
No, it isn’t a crime.
She has to go now, hang up the phone,
give it some time.

My mind is turning over
like a wheel under gravity
all the possibilities,
all human depravity.

It will change our lives, she says;
it will pass, I explain.
But I’m eating my words
and drinking her pain.

Whatever it is will be over soon;
this moment might seem dark
but we can make it through
Even if it leaves its mark.

We’re playing charades
and guessing games,
hinting at people silently
but naming no names.

I know how she feels
but I don’t know what to say.
She needs someone to lean on,
take the burden away.

I wither when she hurts
but we’ve closed our lips.
I feel us feel together,
strengthening friendships.

I don’t want to think about it
but I can’t get it out of my head.
I pray to God she’s okay,
wish I was her instead.

I’d carry all her pain,
lie awake at night,
exchange my ignorance,
those little worries trite.

When I go back to bed
and lie down I realise
I won’t see what she sees
when she closes her eyes.

I’ll stay up all night,
waiting for the morning.
I’ll try to prepare myself
for the wake of her warning.

God, I’m praying for her,
is this some kind of test?
Please be close to her,
give her soul rest.

I’m staring at the moon,
it’s quiet and still:
“Hush,” I hear a whisper,
“soon end it will.”

Midnight Inspiration

Inspired by the depth and stillness of the midnight hour,
With heavy eyes I realise the poet’s power.

I wring from my mind these tortured lines
Which heart produces and my pen refines.

They crave attention, full and free, and demand release
Before they will allow my weary body its rest and peace.

And so my aching hand writes out these words to keep
And that active muse reluctantly lets me go to sleep.

26th January 2014

Hay Biffing

Amber fields roll smooth beneath the sun,
Browned like bread fresh from the oven heat.
Great tractors rumble through the ranks
Of summer’s grass grown tall as wheat.

With effortless efficiency they churn out bales
Behind them, neatly tied with string.
The workers come with trucks and trailers,
Ready to begin their task of hay biffing.

One drives while two others toss the bales
Up to the person standing on the back.
Sweat soon sticks checkered shirt to skin,
The day gets hotter and harder up the stack.

Muscles settle into the routine – aches come later;
Fingers hurt and hay scratches arms.
Stay on your feet, keep up and don’t get left behind;
It’s just another day out on the farm.

Eventually both truck and trailer are stacked up
With the biggest load that they can take.
Heading back to the sheds where the hales are stored –
Time enough for a swig of water and a break.

Reverse the trailer carefully, begin tossing bales,
Bundled like summer snowballs falling to the ground.
Jokes are flying back and forth like the dust in the air,
Cheerful banter, warm like sunshine, all around.

Dust gets up your nose and turns its contents black,
Dust gets in your throat and makes it hoarse;
Dust gets through your clothes and down your pants and boots,
Dust is everywhere, in ruthlessness and force.

*Unfinished

27th January 2014

Adultery

He thinks he can’t make that same mistake.
She longs, lonely and grieving, for love to wake.
Both know it’s wrong, their thoughts revolt,
But these feelings come softly, not like a jolt.
He has a wife and seven kids, a home and farm,
He works to protect them from outside harm;
She is a widow with five children of her own,
Struggling to look after them and raise them all alone.
She moves her family to his farm, friendships begin,
Trust follows, lust and guilt creep in.
Avoid the subject neither thinks about
But it consumes them in hesitant doubt,
Loneliness driving wandering souls into a dead end.
He becomes her family’s father-figure and friend,
She comes to lean on him and share her feelings.
The relief and rapidity leaves them both reeling.
One thing leads to the next, perhaps a word, a touch,
And soon they have gone too far and too much.
Deeper and darker the secret becomes; they can’t turn back.
It hurts to hold such a secret, the pleasure is brief and black;
They know now that it would be worse to confess,
So they bury it further and hope no one will guess.
Time smooths out the road, their caution decreases,
Before discovery explodes, leaving them to pick up the pieces,
Or guilt and confession draw it out some tearful day.
Then it all comes out, a flood that washes all away;
Families left stunned, stripped of their foundation,
The moral degradation, reputation defamation;
The safety and security from outside he tried to provide,
But it was he who brought that harm inside.
Friends in shock, a church torn open, a community’s disgust,
More people hurt and more things broken than trust.
We don’t understand; we try to forgive while we ache –
We think we can’t make the same mistake.

28th January 2014

Gossip

Gossip spreads like bad air,
Rumours culminate
In false reports.
Truth retorts,
But now it’s too late;
The damage is beyond repair.