AV Peter

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.

Gone

Gone

but not

forgotten

The era

is now past

These images of me were

never meant to last.

Of course the vehicles were

the latest of their year.

But we always knew

that their design would be

superceded

too.

All things are evolving.

We change with time’s passing.

Gone!

Quicker than a minute,

to be replaced

by fashions of tomorrow’s

latest good intentions:

today’s inventions.

And yet

our creations do remain

within

what we call memory;

for etched in my mind

I find this

fond remininscence

frequently recurrs

reminding my mind

of these precious former years.

Gone!

Yes! Gone!

Gone, but not forgotten;

I find, now,

within

my own eliminating mind, I’m

enhanced somehow

by passing time.

Peter Coles 12.30 am 18 11 09

Halloween

At Halloween,

At Halloween,

Some things seem real

And some unreal;

But some seem

Somewhere in between.

As “in between”

Becomes more real,

With some surprise

We realise

That what we feel,

Rather than just what we

Seem to sense and see;

That “somewhere in between”

Becomes more real

Than mere reality;

At Halloween,

At Halloween.

At Halloween,

At Halloween,

We realise that what we really feel

Is actually just what we are:

Our

Feelings are reality.

Bosch

Hieronymous Bosch was born in Aachen

But spent all his life with other artists

In The Netherlands till 1516,

Then idolised predicting surrealists.

Centuries before Salvador Dali

Became the more famous Spanish painter

Bosch paved the way for most artists to see

Visions beyond mere reality here.

He painted all of his nightmares and dreams

From heaven and hell’s imagination;

Becoming really obsesessed, so it seems,

Predicting eventual destination.

All images on one canvas highlights

His genious: “Garden of Earthly Delights”

This canvas, “Garden of Earthly Delights”

Shows one scene, but with a thousand insights.

St. James

St. James, it seems, is John’s older brother;

Mark describes them as sons of Zebedee.

Peter and Andrew are the two other

Brothers, who meet Jesus in Galilee.

Much later on they know him as God’s son,

Through signs and wonders shown by him to them.

Salome, James mom, sees them getting on,

So asks for privilege for them in Heaven.

James drinks equally – life and martyrdom,

And, it seems, took God’s Good News to Spain;

But then back, to be seized in Jerusalem,

By Herod Agrippa The First, then slain.

James witnesses Christ’s transfiguration,

Then sees this trinity’s resurrection.

Vicky’s Peace

We used to get the cup from Vicky Lush

But now the “Swine Flue” tells God what to do.

For Vicky doesn’t Pass the Peace to us,

As now we can’t shake hands along each pew!

Yet we sometimes share coffee afterwards

Or the occasional birthday glass of wine.

It’s a better way to pass virusses,

And thus avoids the Bishop’s pantomime.

AsVicky snuffs the alter candles out,

She recalls the lesson read earlier:

Not taking too much anxious thought, about

Tomorrow’s problems, which could bother her.

Communion is sharing things with Church friends;

Bishops regulations may have other ends.

Our Vera

She is just down the road from where I live

Along the six-four-six, nearer St James;

And Harvey often drops us off to give

Us both lifts home after the services.

What do I recall about our Vera

Apart from her tuneful soprano voice?

I know that she and her cricketer are

In a different Parish from us by choice.

We live in Blackshaw; they in Errinden

Where residents are outnumbered by sheep;

So she’s often Parish Council Chair when

Her turn returns each year for her to keep.

Some verse found in Book of Wisdom says

Good things often come in small packages

Peter’s Lines

If this is an autobiography,

Seventy-five into fourteen won’t go.

This surely can’t be enough space for me

To describe my life to folk I don’t know.

If I read much more, I might have the right

To scribble vain lines about my image,

And polish it off, well, maybe not quite

Like all the rest, left exposed on this page.

How do poets collect and then select?

They observe the goings-on around them,

Then discard things others may not reject,

Pretending what remains is just the same.

That’s what I am: your facts become my lies;

Yet between these lines, hidden truth survives.

Judith

Judith lived inside her brown envelope,

Concealing her hidden authority.

She preferred it there, with little hope

Beyond her obvious Christianity.

Gone now, beyond angry humility,

Judith’s body may be found underground,

With a dock leaf I picked from under the tree,

Next to the grave, now with flowers on her mound.

Soon this will level with others nearby

Yet she was so different from all the rest

This independent witness would never comply

With compromises avoiding the best.

Her knowledge was wide and her taste was too

But sealed her flap on this wisdom she knew.

Harvey’s Contribution

Resurrected from the grave, she brings him

Into our small, dwindling community.

We get no Seraphim or Cherubim,

Yet Harvey gives more than we ever see.

He searches and researches church hist’ry,

Cleaning and restoring the things he finds.

His ambition is the Brontes myst’ry

Drawn nearer St James as their tale unwinds.

Real motivation promotes devotion,

And this shines through any alternatives.

The former conflict won, the past is gone:

Lost partner, through new partnership, still lives.

Harvey’s contribution is never done;

He gives his sacrifice to everyone.

Eric’s Persistent Courage

Eric is at his best telling fond tales,

Remembered from familiar occasions.

He‘s memorized his lines and never fails

To impress us with these recitations.

My favourites are words of Robbie Burns,

Churned out on t’ 25th of January.

Pipers call these many happy returns,

Of all that everyone would like to be.

He grills the burgers on his barbeques,

Cremating, thus, all sinuous sins he can,

For church lunchtime celebrations refuse

Low pretensions of any higher man

Eric shows us his persistent courage:

When to act our age and when our outrage.

Harvest Festival

They sort of first met at an odd auction

Of fruit and veg’ from the St. James Harvest

New, so no idea what was going on,

Just to be involved seemed his best request.

Soon introduced in mock formality

By a jovial serious church friend of hers;

Subsequently, they give, for charity,

Everything they brought preferred by others.

Twenty-odd years on and still fond friends,

In contempt of familiarity,

The centre owes existence to both ends,

So circles round in search of symmetry.

Souls could be lost avoiding bidding all

At her Eternal Harvest Festival

Anne

“That last poem hadn’t much to do with me”

She said, striding right onto centre page.

“It was just about the way you met me,

Not about my performance on life’s stage.”

So here is her distinctive appearance:

Her hair, her stance and what she does and how.

This could be no one else, by any chance,

Walking straight out of the play or film show.

Many characteristics distinguish

Her from all the rest, but perhaps her love

For everyone around her is her wish

To achieve all her Geoff would be proud of.

His resting place is constantly refreshed

With fond remembrances of all that’s best.

The Birthday Card

My wife’s Birthday is on Christmas Eve

I always try to make a card for her.

In spite of careful plans I often leave

It far too late to make her card proper.

This year it snowed early and so I thought

It would be nice with a winter picture

On the front with all our grandchildren caught

Inside, each as a mini portraiture

Our home is just along on the Pennine Way

Not far from Hebden Bridge, in West Yorkshire

These covered colours let the snow say

Warm words of love to grace the time of year

Both older now, next to this Christmas morn

Our past is gone and purer future born.

The Way

The flame burns from Alpha to Omega

As the Christ child whispers “I am The Way;

Faith, hope and love is all you really are:

But permanence flows on beyond decay.”

His thirty years are ‘like an evening gone’,

Yet images stay in our foreign minds;

Created differently but seen as one,

Within our art forms of various kinds.

These materialistic gifts we bother with

Have no real worth, for they are all the same.

Philosophies question this Christmas myth;

While Darwen plays his evolution game.

Nicolas and Nicodemus both say,

‘Born Water and Spirit, We Are The Way’.

God’s Haiku

Burning Bush? That’s odd!

No! Go cover it with snow!

‘s only Me said God