Preaching
Under the billowing heat of the white
tarpaulin church tent, my mother lowered
her worshipping hands and leaned into me.
“You’re running away from your calling.
Your gift for words is meant for church
and not for that skeptical head of yours.”
The night air was thick with the scent
of Charlie perfume, earth, and sweat,
with a chorus of handheld fans fluttering.
My doubts doubled due to the shouting
pastor fleecing his flock for small bills
to shop for planes and limousines.
“Even broken men,” she said, “could channel
God’s will. Despite their flaws, in the midst
of their damage, a light can shine divine.”
But all my life I’d remain a questioning man,
choosing debate over faith, sparring
with mystery, claiming logic over belief.
But in the funeral parlor, the grief
of seeing the shell of my mother’s body
bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic,
with her words, my god, my god,
being stuck in my throat as I stood
there, her broken son, preaching.
A Portable Paradise,
And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
turn its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.
Home Is Not A Place
for suffering. Be it house, hut or tent
turn down the volume of the outside
world and rest. Replenish.
Home a refuge, the room you return to
and if there’s no return, home the dream.
Home a blessed space, a glowing heath
from which seraphim hold in their hand
offerings of bright orange embers.
Home a space of solace
for the bones in your skin to relax.
Perhaps there’ll be space to grow,
where weary minds can bloom.
And the spirit of a room? The spirit
of all rooms are degrees of warmth,
and people, and talk; so too the spirit
of a home, love.
The Cliff’s Edge
These white cliffs
a screen to the churning sea;
how the salt-crested waves
are intent on washing its feet.
How the scything birds float
past trying to nest in its sheer surface.
How the green grass only goes so far
to the edge, dizzied by the distance down.
And men in boards newly arriving
project on the white cliffs letters
they must soon write home,
in their looped and crossed script
announcing their safe arrival.
But the White Cliffs of Dover
keep looking out to the sea,
with their blank expression,
with their chest pushed out.
Giving not welcome.
Giving no quarter.
‘Sleep’
It becomes clear to you
the night your father asks you
to wake him up to see
his favourite film on TV,
and despite cups of coffee
bright lights and company
he is asleep
with his dark rimmed glasses
tilted on his face
before the opening credits.
And there
hearing the drag of his snore
and watching the uncomfortably
crooked angle of his neck,
you see him at nineteen,
taking care of his four brothers
and one sister and studying
for a scholarship while working
nights pushing dead bodies
at the local morgue, and he’s tired
but he can’t stop because he’ll
be the first in their family
to go to university and he can’t let them down.
At twenty-one
he’s in class at Stirling University
wondering if he can afford the batteries
for his warehouseman’s torch
so he can study on the job tonight.
Nobody told him Scotland
would be this cold, and it’s
so lonely sometimes but he
has to pass these exams
or he’ll be out.
At twenty-two you’re born.
Your mother works the night shift
at the hospital, and he tries to read
between your two a.m. squeals
and he picks you up
in the hand not holding the book
and smiles and rocks you to sleep.
Twenty-five now,
and working late five nights a week
trying to snatch a few promotions,
and somehow he thought
it might be a bit easier with his degree,
and he really needs
to move his wife and kids
into a place of their own.
And for the next twenty years
he battles on his job every day
just so you could be comfortable
and have the space to be what you want.
And then you know
that he’s never had much time for this
for rest, for sleep.
You prop his head with a pillow,
gingerly pull off his glasses
and stare at him
snoring, loudly,
beautifully.
