Archives for category: God and theology

Today is Holy Thursday. A reflection of mine from 2009:

The Thursday Moss

These rocks that I nurture
ramble indolently
from the bent-over One
to the bent-under three
and if messages could
pass along my dull green,
oh! It would change
this weak human scene.
On my eastmost rock
see, I bear elbows
that are shaking, trembling
like minor death-throes.
My leaves are absorbing
muttered words of prayer.
They cry soundlessly
to show that I care.
My stalks are channelling
these heavy tears,
absorbing the shivering
release of his fears.
And all of this drama
is making me frown,
for what a contrast
from my west, further down,
for here I’m a pillow
for sleepyheads, three,
who haven’t discerned
the One’s urgency.
He told them to wait
and I’m waiting too,
but doing much better;
they nodded on cue
and now they’re dead to it
and I’m left awake,
a witness, He’ll die
for theirs, and my, sake.
Also, for some more good Easter poetry, see


One day the sun rose in the West.
Nobody blinked.
Well, one or two marvelled at the phenomenon.
A couple, just like you or I,
checked their memory-banks for where the sun should rise
and, having confirmed the East,
permitted themselves to be startled,
at least.
But the rest,
perhaps unable to pinpoint the strange sensation
of the rising sun in the West,
went about their daily business:
checking the camels,
baking the bread,
mending the nets,
tending the pets,
spinning the wool,
spinning tales of the sun
rising on every horizon,
but never in the West.
And we, too, go about our daily business:
checking the cheques,
buying the bread,
spending the bets,
fending off debts,
telling the tills,
telling the tales two thousand years later.
One day the Son rose in the West.
Well, West of here, but perhaps for you
North or South or East
at least
as one or two professed.
That Son who’d died
came up where least expected:
His light had resurrected.


I don’t pretend to know your thoughts
as you rocked on the edge of the precipice,
arms flung out,
waiting to fall
and not knowing how to fly.
I heard that your words were lost
in acres of vast silence
and you cried,
but your tears
turned to salt just like the rest of us.
I suppose the guilt laid on you needed an outlet,
a fall to match our fall
and in the pain
of forgiveness
you promised to keep gathering our trash.
I wish I had the innocence to be shocked
that you not only fell but you flew
and we have life
and could fly
if we too could fling our arms out for love.


Have been pondering on the meaning of the complex word we use ‘Trinity’. I wrote these three poems in 2010, expressing some of the questions, thoughts and ideas I am still considering.




Ah! My scribe.
Of course, you
must see that none
of this is real.
I do not talk.
I have no lips,
no tongue,
no throat.
I don’t even think.
No, how could I?
A brain, have I?
Or nerves?
Or blood?
In fact, all your
thinking beats me.
You have your reasons
for everything.
I just am.
Or am not.

Do you mind?
I do not have one.
Nor do I have wants.
Not like you. You think you
know. I have no knowledge.


What is greater than one and smaller than the infinite?
A hole is torn in space.
How can all of eternity fit into a minute?
The unembodied’s face.

Though fraught through and through with divine impersonality,
a character appears,
evading comprehension yet clutching reality,
all that humanness fears.

One doubts if sign-language was never not misunderstood,
truth, love, paradise lost.
But if, then, a cast is moulded for our concept of good
and, prepared for the cost,

that one might expose the inconceivable, invisible,
true magic, under-priced,
and then splitting the atom once thought indivisible,
arrives present the Christ.


Spirit is a subtle theme
we grow with.
At first a crisp history,
it blurs into mystery;
and life, myth.

In the end does it matter,
all these words?
We can know love through a kiss;
melodiousness, is this
not in birds?

Particular, today’s beauty
in the sun.
Here in this heart is a pain;
here, God revealed, and/or slain
in the Son.


Of course, a trilogy
can’t be split into four.
No – all estimation,
vague imagination:
a void to the core.



If you, God, are relationship,
then why am I so scared?
Why does my heart recoil from love,
why is my giving spared?

If you, my God, need each of three,
then why am I alone?
Why is my heart still in one piece,
why is my soul unknown?

If you, my God, are truly one,
then why do I hold back?
Why do I label ‘better’,
why do I presume lack?

If you, my God, invite me in,
then why do I still see
a Trinity of love in you,
but not one within me?


Word Limit

Love in three dimensions,
Father, Son
and Spirit mystery tensions
in the One.

Maker, Liberator,
Parent, Child.
Sustainer and Creator,
wild and mild.

Eternal Wisdom knowing,
Mother, Daughter.
Fountain, ever-flowing,
Living Water.

Source of all that will be,
Only Wise.
Yet an earthling, still He
lives and dies.

Image, truly showing,
Holy Birth.
Air and water flowing,
fire and earth.

Holy Unbegotten,
not forgot.
Never unforgotten,
but Begot.

Lover and Beloved
and their Love:
once, in form discovered
as a dove.

Spirating or proceeding,
Voice Unheard.
Logos here is bleeding,
Living Word.

Presence and the Power,
Alpha and Omega,
near and far.

Beyond our limitations,
good or bad.
Persons in relations,
Abba, Dad.

Feminine Sophia,
Caring Womb.
Holy Prophet, seer,
crib and tomb.

Truthful Sea.
Riot, celebration,

Perichōrētic heaving,
round about.
Encompassing and weaving
in and out.

Family in reunion,
agapē of friends.
Mutual communion
never ends.

Words can play a game,
a Trinity too few.
And God, by any other name,
is not untrue.

A drumroll, please, for the holiest week in the Christian church’s year! Coming up to Easter, my Roman Catholic sensibilities were moved yesterday at Mass, at the breaking of the bread. And this emerged…

Mass in Holy Week

A crack. And it is done.
Two hunks of bread
or living tissue,
this Love is broken.
Henceforth the issue:
a death has spoken.
And you have spoken out our pain,
what once was whole, and one,
now is Life, is slain.
This piece, this shred of heart
has seen too many failures,
armies, wars and hates,
it is the smallest part
that’s left
when pride abates
and fears expose
and lose debates
with tyrants, with our peers.
With errors forced, obliged, chosen.
And years
And life untasted
plays injustice in chords,
a march away from fullness,
in you, in me, in hordes
of cheaply pasted glue unstuck.
Cleaning out this muck,
you knew
the pain, the fear, each year
and time to break.
And break you did.
With lifeblood oozing
from your cup and side,
this thirst to slake
of what we block or hide.
You speak, you spoke,
the speech was won
and lost, and losing was the aim
for, unless the pain
was real and you were lame
and dumb and broken,
we could not be healed
and spoken
into speech. And the gift,
the bread,
was ever to be said:
reminder of the dead
in you and us.
But if
that word was last
we would lay our hope
on graves of Life,
once shared, but passed.
No, another word was said,
and, rising from the dead,
you made reply,
what ended need not die
and our broken parts
may be reborn
even now,
even past death’s dawn,
another morn,
another patcher-up of hearts
has felt the crack,
what you have begun.
And it is done.