I checked the nails, three straight, one spare. ·
The hammer. The helmet. The spear. ·
Eased the hasp to allow jab and stab. ·
Stiffened like steel in the early morning starch.
Six men straining to carry you to rest, Jim, ·
on a day when the trees are heavy with December mist ·
and the vicar’s words are beaten down ·
by the weather and the sea.
Exaudi Domine is my cry;
Mid-quest, the dustlands cake my lips.
I know the what but not the why.
Daily Practice by Melanie Barbato: ·
Her leftovers ·
In my begging bowl
Jesus of King’s Cross by Harry Gallagher ·
This morning I saw Jesus. ·
He was crumpled on concrete
This poem does not have a sign above it
And though I know that priests
have been known sometimes
to read modern poetry
Some believe, those who go through this door do not return. ·
Some say they cannot. ·
Some unsure ones, sensing it from a corridor of light, drift back ·
to the puffed faces at the bedside, ·
abide for a time.
Questions The new moon is a comma. But what, O God, is the sentence Whose comma marks a pause? The gibbous moon is a rugby ball. What game, O God, are you playing with us On the tractless field of night? The full moon is a silver coin. What treasure, O God, lies hidden In […]Continue reading →
I came here first with my mother,
took a day off school, travelled out
of the gutted belly of war-torn London,
under cold steel skies.
Outside the doors thump
People are leaving church
hurrying through the rain
= = =
Ganesh, Jehovah, Satnam,
My pew’s a blue bench looking out
on ancient woodland. The arched ceiling
glows, spinning with the seasons: