Peter’s Latest Poems
To a regular member of the choir.
Over the years this his contribution
Became far more distinguished and special.
He’d lighten up the solomn Communion
With “Happy Birthday” tunes for one and all.
Sad to say, our choir has now fizzled out
No more anthems and no more vocal leads.
For some that’s what each Sunday was about
To each and everyone their special needs.
Geoff’s lost chord quest finds him searching for peace:
This trembling silence which may never cease.
Made while wading through hymns, sermons and prayers.
After communion’s done and people blessed,
Children and teachers explain their upper room.
Our failures and successes all confessed
Resurrected new from old fashioned tomb
Holy Spirit flocks round our minds as birds
Through images or playing Christian games
Wisdom imerges from these youngsters’ words
Like those of Jesus Christ heard by St James
“There is no entry into God’s Kingdom
Except throuugh the place these children come from”.
Still known today by most folk who saw her.
Staccato phrases from her new abode
Just down the 646 in Mytholmroyd
Serve old folks’ souls in a different way;
Wafer and wine cure many an aching void.
Events need careful organisation;.
New folk need noticing and welcoming;
Troubles shared and joys need celebration,
Sorrows comforted, and birthdays informed.
Little things in life seem more important
When the Christian caring is heaven sent.
To Bach and Bark
Would Bach use wooden words just to construct
Instruments for this double concerto?
Would not such sentences merely disrupt
Notes flowing through violin strings and bow?
Fine counterpoint may be destroyed by them,
Interjecting shallow imperfections:
Flaw his precious melodic sonic gem,
In spite of the best poetic intentions.
Do these images need extra texture?
Will words improve the composition?
Are trees leaved with verbal diarrhoea?
Does rhyme and rhythm improve the vision?
As sounds vibrate in perfect harmony,
Unspoken words complete integrity.
“Burning Bush? That’s odd!
No! Go cover it with snow!
Dead-like Me”, said God
Richard
Every member of our congregation
Has to have their image portrayed by Richard.
It has now become an obligation,
For those who dare to stay on afterward.
His tripod will ensure that nothing’s blurred;
The flash gives everyone a harsh black rim.
In Richard’s snaps occurs that thousandth word,
Spoken out loud, but only heard by him.
His emotive motive is heaven sent;
Just trying to capture his essential;
So this image returns the complement,
For Richard’s temperament is beautiful.
His Album always remains undefiled:
None get in except as a little child.
Wing Mirror
Winging South/West to Capel Curig
The new view is backward through the mirror
Sometimes things seem far too small or much to big
To fit the frame of where we are – or were.
Most things are either blurred or blur elsewhere
Motion prevents clear image retention
Precise definition cannot occur
Once the local space and time have passed on
The dream continues moving right outside
The car on reaching this destination.
Maybe we see the invisible hide
Radiation beyond normal vision.
Today I ‘see through the glass darkly’
As empty space comes ‘face to face’ with me.
Having a quiet drink at the White Swan,
Well in t’garden at the back by Bill’s tree
When all of a sudden our quiet’s gone
As guns fire off across t’road quite loudly.
What’s it all for, this re-created war?
Why’s our packhorse bridge invaded so?
It’s what the hudreds of folks’ cameras saw,
Whilst capturing three hudred years ago.
Our Local History Society
Of Hebden Bridge arranged for this event
As the brave Pickets lost initially
But won as t’war was up the Buttress sent.
We never trust what our eyes have not seen
Sometimes our minds prefer what might have been
John Tolley
He joins us every year from Canada
For four whole months from Aoril to August.
Every week to comes to where we gather
In St James creating future from past.
It seems now a decade John’s been with us;
He used to return to Sowerby Bridge,
To Bolton Brow and to church at King Cross;
To forsake us no would seem sacrelidge.
Before each service and afterwards too,
He lights his pipe beside the artichoke;
Home’s not a place but much more what you do,
Where yearerdays can all go up in smoke.
Life is not about where you are but who:
It’s never where you’re from but who are you?
Battle for The Bridge
Posted: September 5th, 2009 under .
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