Is ok
It’s where the learner plays
How the growing toddler says
When leaders make mistakes
And turn them into breaks
The base the designer makes in
Without grey we’re fakes then
Without grey we’re competing
Pretending to be completed
In grey we trial and tweak it
Beauty in tragedy speaks it
Where a searching artists meets
With tension’s blessed leaks
A writer’s made to think
A poet finds a link
Grey is the playwright’s ink
Because life is anything but neat
Drama is made from heat
Music from messy beats

Black is derelict
Of light that is infinite
And white needs be lit
Else it cannot live
But grey
Is what starts as day
And lasts through night
In the moon light
It is reflection
Of heavens complexion
Tinted by the rim of earth
That we can observe
Many colours in one
Black and white in unison
Grey is the human condition
Binar is easy and balanced
But grey is the challenge
It is humanity
Drawn to divinity
For grey is God-given
From an ultraviolet heaven

The gospel is like butter

The gospel is like butter,
Golden produce of heaven’s bossom.
It is costly and common.
All can eat.

The gospel is like butter.
Through churned and beaten
It is made to be eaten,
Not left on a shelf.

The gospel is like butter.
It is meant to be spread.
It sticks to lips,
Makes a meal of bread.

The gospel is like butter.
Greases and eases.
Softens the hardens.
Rebirths flavour.

The gospel is like butter.
Believer, let it not remain a lump.
Church, do not clump.
Let it spread.


Not the time the watershed starts,
Nor time children come home from parks.
It’s not the gifts, nor is it the news,
Or the star player, or time to amuse.
Not hell’s circles, nor friends of the ring,
Or simply six enjoying flipping.
It isn’t square threes, or the muses,
Or the ball with yellow stripes and bruises.
Neither is it the planets numbered right,
Nor all the innings, nor work’s green light.
And certainly isn’t the cat’s tail, or lives,
Or dressed to the full, or a saving stitch in time.

No. Ours is our trips round the sun,
And not complete, there’s more to come.
Ours is the joy that our promise endures,
And that my heart still finds itself in yours.
Ours is the three-stranded cord
When our marriage was entwined round the Lord,
And three strands now stranded three ways:
You and I, with each daughter’s name.
Ours are filled with choice, heavenly fruits,
Ours are like the time our fruits took to produce.
For ours are life, and love our bond,
And just one away from a new diamond.

A Sonnet To Google Wave

3653-3574066008_51c3772fe8_m.jpgI love Lars. I also love Google Wave.

So when I went to sign up for a beta invite, and I was wondering what quirky thing to write to heighten my chances of getting an invite sooner, I saw that “Haikus, sonnets and ASCII art all accepted”… “Wonderful!” Thought I, and after 5 minutes of creativity I had crafted my first piece of internet poetry.

So, here is my sonnet for Google Wave. Note that 1. I am indeed quite sad, and 2. if you watch the (excellent) developer preview video, you’ll actually understand what my sonnet is talking about, otherwise, it really does make no sense at all.

So without further a do, may I introduce you to… Continue…

For Dot

In loving memory of Doreen Gould

How do you sum up a life?
Mark it and give it a measure?
Do you take only the highs,
And judge it by its total pleasure?
Or is there something deeper inside,
That in the everyday, there is treasure?

It is not miles travelled, or distances,
That count for how far you have gone,
It is the day by day sacrifices
That you made so that other’s could go on.
And by these daily instances,
You’ve shown us what is right, and is wrong.

Some choose to live for themselves,
But you chose to live for your family,
And taught us that amongst ourselves
Our name should not be our only commonality,

And you told me to look beyond myself

So that the deeper gold I could see.

Some spend their life on this and that,
But when they look have nothing to see;
You spent every day, minute in fact,
Building this marvelous family.
And as you, with the Lord look back,
There is an eternal legacy.

We will have children and tell them of you,
Each fond and precious memory,
But the greatest memory is this truth,
That I’ll do to mine, as you have done to me,
That all a parent for their child wants to do
Is give them the best, the best it can be.

They say children are as arrows
In the hands of a mighty warrior.
We’re all shooting forth from your bow,
May we do you proud, and go far.
We’re all shooting forth from your bow,
Let us all go far.

In whatever I see

In whatever I see, whatever I hear,
In all I love and hold dear;
With my pulse, in every breath,
In my thoughts upon my death;
By each day’s sullen second,
And in eternity, as in heaven;
Through the night and by the day,
Whatever I know, whatever I say;
Through the motions of my body,
In tears, in joy, in what besets me;
When I wake, or rest my head,
And lie down to sleep in my bed;
By all I feel, I know, I am,
When I cannot, and when I can:
This lasts and stays so true,
O my love, dearly, I love you.

I thought I sought love, and wooed her to me,
And she lets me think so, though the wooer was she,
And that not by man, nor woman, nor thing,
But by our Father, who had destined it to be.

Her Beauty

Looking into your eyes,
I find this to be true:
No one can talk of beauty
Unless they talk of you.

Past poets, with grand verses…
Didn’t have a clue.
They couldn’t talk of beauty:
For they never knew you.

Super models, called pretty,
And beautiful too…
They aren’t. Want to know beauty?
It’s a monopoly owned by you.

Miss City, Country, World…
Some titles will have to undo.
They shouldn’t have bothered
Until the birth of you

The famous, then and now,
All of history through…
All second place, I’m afraid,
To the most beautiful you.

Dictionaries need rewriting
(There’s a slight error there too…)
Next to the word ‘Beauty’
They should’ve really put you.

Poetry IV

Poetry’s Problem (In my case. Not a definitive list.)

One. It’s really hard to write something
That I myself am satisfied with.
Two. It’s really hard to write nothing,
And be content, to just leave it, and live.
Three. No one understands it anyway,
And certainly don’t see the effort I put in.
Four. Words aren’t enough for what I want to say,
And so I throw it all in the bin.
Five. Rhyming can be a pain, and take a while,
But I dislike free verse.
Six. No one today really likes my style,
Because everyone else likes free verse.
Seven. I’m embarrassed about reading my stuff
To other people to listen to.
Eight. Poetry’s too analysed to be loved,
But that’s academics for you.
Nine. There are so many amazing poets,
And my work seems like pre-school.
Ten. I’ve the wrong motive to do this,
But I really hope people study me in school.

Finding Heart

Upon finally telling her.

I’ve always sought to find my heart,
To see it alive, as flesh or art;
But I, after I’ve seen or heard,
Find emotion is all too briefly stirred,
And further, what art can compare
To the suns set in clouds so fair?
Though, the sun’s all too single a sight
‘Gainst stars that sing in darkest night,
And they’re a dream, only till some cloud
Should come veil those eyes as a shroud.

But there are some eyes that I know
That into the night, they do not go;
And I know of hair, and oh a face,
To make the sun set in disgrace.
I know a smile that can’t be written,
And beauty, no artist could quicken;
Whose soul is vaster than the sky:
For whom my love will never die;
And a heart, that inside I find
The fullness of my heart defined.