In pricipio erat verbum et verbum erat apud deum.
Et deus erat verbum.
This voice will never be dumb.
Maranatha, come lord, come.

Last night I had three dreams on being subject to control.
I was in a medieval village, which I could not leave without the lord’s blessing.
I was in a queue of MPs waiting to vote, stockpiled like sheep on parole.
And I was on a lonely island seeing a rescue ship arrive yet being happy remaining.

It is better to stick to the basics and have this lightning rod.
In the beginning was the word.
And the word was with God and the word was God.
Really everything else is faintly absurd.

Obseculta O fili praecepta magistri et incline aurem cordis tui.
Listen son and turn the ear of your heart to the precepts of your master, all else is hooey.

Haiku

In principio
Erat verbum et verbum
Erat apud God

Sing a new song to the Lord for he has worked wonders.
His right hand and his holy arm have brought salvation.
We hope and pray he will resolve all our blunders.
His voice will carry to every nation.

I was dreaming something virtuous, a true industrious worker bee.
Then my thoughts descended into pain.
I pictured our mental gaze as a many branched tree.
Thoughts can wander off into regret wherever they can find some stain.

Or our initial benign thought is like our wrist.
In a moment it can travel down any of our five fingers in any direction.
But as pain engulfs us we can order it to desist.
Wrenching it back to benign love despite our dark side’s objection.

Did the saints have to struggle so.
Did they like us start every day anew rising then laid low.

Haiku

Did saints struggle so
Start every day anew rise
Then laid low again

Today a light will shine upon us.
For the Lord is born for us.
We may endlessly probe, question and discuss.
But in reality it is, will be and always has been thus.

Last night at the dying of the year I watched a candle burn down to the wick.
Once so strong, so straight, now the flame wavered and died.
And the new candles burned bright, oblivious to their colleague being so sick.
But one day that fate will befall them too despite their pride.

But in that last brief splutter.
I took the flame still bright.
And passed it on easily and without even a stutter.
And so it continued reborn, that light.

Thus our life and light will fade and die with scarcely a sigh.
But our flame will live on to the new year and for ever, our end really is not nigh.

John 1 1-18

All that came to be had life in him.
And this life was the light of men.
Through the East window I seemed to see the sun rise over the earth’s rim.
The light changed from grey to iridescent orange in the count of ten.

At mass today my heart awakened during the reading of John One.
In the beginning was the word and this was belief’s beginning.
For me this spiritual light came from this word and shone more fiercely than the Sun.
Slowly, imperceptibly conviction grew during the reading.

This physical light is dimming.
But the spiritual light stays.
One is fitful passing.
But for the other, eternal are it’s rays.

No darkness can ever overpower it.
Give us strength to witness it.

I am writing to you father who has come to know the one from the beginning.
I am writing to you young men who have already overcome the evil one.
With age soon comes the reckoning.
Fast fades the sun.

I pray that one day I will believe totally.
For the present I just try.
I can follow loyally.
Yet, I cannot yet accept, I cry.

What did St Hippolytus say, our faith was not founded on an empty word.
Nor are we carried away by mere caprice or beguiled by specious argument.
God was hungry and thirsty, his vision in passion blurred.
Tried and executed yet innocent.

Only when we know this true God will our souls become immortal.
Yet how long will I have to search before I know that celestial portal.

In the presence of Kings, O Lord, I will declare your will.
For your commands have been my delight.
We search for truth as through a shuttered grille.
But one thing is certain might is not right.

Two Thomases, One Archbishop in his cathedral.
One Chancellor.
The first beloved of his people.
The second wise counsellor.

Where today are those prepared to stand up to secular power.
Where now can we find a martyr.
A light in a distant tower.
Is conformity or principle smarter.

The martyrs now are in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.
We in Europe for the most part, care not the least.

The innocents were slaughtered as innocents for Christ.
Spotless they follow the lamb and sing for ever.
No life however small can ever be priced.
Only can God life sever.

Imagine a world where all life is held precious.
The enemies, the criminals.
The tiny unwanted unborn, the old costly and frail.
Where to all we can be gracious.
They are all imperfect yet originals.

Treasure living.
Reject killing.
Protect from suffering.
Renounce abandoning.

Easy words but how readily we fall short.
How easy it is to follow convenience and abort.

Now master let your servant go in peace, because my eyes have seen your salvation.
Which you have prepared for all the nations to see, a light, the glory of Israel.
The sign gives hope but cannot remove temptation.
Not the smallest part of our life is immaterial.

What is the difference between meditation and contemplation.
Meditation is something we have to work out.
As gentle as dew falling on a summer morning is contemplation.
Enlightenment is always there, we do not need to seek it out.

I was dreaming now, rain spattered on the roof, the harsh wind blew.
Worries, regrets surfaced as always and came and went.
Then I saw as if for real, there fell a heavenly soothing dew.
This was no longer a gusting winter storm outside, summer, its warmth had sent.

There was no need to water faith’s garden.
I had only need to ask for pardon.

I can see heaven thrown open.
And the son of man standing at the right hand of God.
Hope and open means hopen.
Out of tragedy comes hope’s fleeting nod.

I lay awake disappointed in what I had achieved.
And then I thought, why worry, soon all this will be at an end.
Why worry, the soul has different wants it wants received.
It’s not what the body wants that we must tend.

So why not look after what will last.
The soul will, the body won’t.
Perhaps we should stick to our last.
Certainly you will always be unhappy if you don’t.

So what will let the soul rise to life eternal like a dove.
It is love.

In the beginning was the word.
And the word was with God and the word was God.
Let this simple timeless truth be our watchword.
Let this be the path through life which we have trod.

On these holy mountains.
Has our mind if not our feet walked.
Here we have heard good news pouring forth in limitless spiritual foundations.
Here I wonder, is our heart locked.

Can the whole universe really pause.
In wonder at one small baby’s coming.
Are whole galaxies sustained by his command, bound to his cause.
Is all time to this moment rushing.

Yes, for all creation must have a point.
This is all creation’s universal joint.

For He has visited His people, He has come to their rescue.
And He has raised up for us a power for salvation.
Every winter solstice salvation comes on cue.
Freeing us from doubt’s questioning temptation.

In my dream I saw a horrible structure built in the valley.
I wanted this to be a dream so that this ugliness would be a mirage.
Now the little stream was a mighty river, the dream was merely a sally.
Thankfully a fantasy at large.

Fear is but a dream.
Doubt but a chimera.
It really is as it might seem.
This is real, fantasy is for the cinema.

The truth is not some ancient legend.
It is coming now, on hand is God’s errand.

O Emmanuel Rex et legifer noster.
Exspectatio gentium et Salvator earum veni et Salvandum nos, dominus deus noster.
O Immanuel, you are our king and our judge, our father.
The one whom the peoples await and their saviour, O come and save us, our God, brother.

The ‘O’ antiphons, the first letter of each of the titles given to Jesus from last to first spell.
O.C.R.A.S., Ero Cras, I will be tomorrow.
They ask us to ring out a hymn to tell.
O come Emmanuel, they prefigure the end to sorrow.

I was dreaming a dark depression.
All seem afflicted, cut off, a dead end.
Then in my dream I imagined this rising sun, symbol of body and soul’s reunion.
This scarcely perceived glow in the winter lightening room, was this a message to send.

You may be our David’s key.
Pray that I may see.

O Rex gentium et desideratus earum lapisque angularis.
Qui facis utraque unum veni et salve hominem quem de limo formasti.
O king of the peoples whom they long for the cornerstone; such bliss.
Who make the two into one, come and save man, whom you made from clay; ever so nasty.

I dreamt I was walking where I grew up, happiness my brother.
I was walking along the high street.
I knew this was a dream, if only I could stay asleep, I would see once again my mother.
What disappointment to wake up just as I reached our old front door, now no more to meet.

Every day and night there is disappointment.
But there is an immutable cornerstone.
We are the clay, he the moulder coming with love from his tent.
With him we can always atone.

One day I will make two into one.
One day with my mother and father I will be one.

O oriens, splendor lucis aeterne et sol iustitie.
Veni et illumina sedentes in tenebris et umbra mortis.
O rising sun , you are the splendour of eternal light and the son of justice and always will be.
Come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, that was and is.

I lay awake during the longest night.
I dreamt I had an appointment with my old chief.
There she was clear and bright.
But my mind went dumb, my words taken by a thief.

And then I recalled the prayer, O God come to my assistance.
O Lord make haste to help me.
I realised there was another more hopeful country, I let go all resistance.
Now I could see.

The prayer worked.
The dream was a chimera well corked.

O Clavis David et sceptrum dumus Israel.
Qui aperis et nemo Claudit Claudis st nemo aperit.
O key of David and sceptre of Israel.
You who open and nobody then can close, who close and nobody then can open our spirit.

Veni te educ vinctum de domo carceris.
Sedentem in tenebris et umbra mortis.
Come and lead the captive from prison, thus it is.
Free those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, we know this.

According to orthodox tradition, drawing water from the well.
According to Latin tradition, in her home.
No matter where, for universally she said yes, this we can tell.
For the glorious tale of Annunciation is told in every time and home.

Come, I beg, free me from the prison of doubt.
You alone have the key to water my mind’s drought.

O Radix Iesse.
Qui stas in signum populorum super quem continebunt Reges os suum.
O stock of Jessie.
Who stand as a sign for the nations, before whom kings fall silent as the tomb.

Quem gentes deprecabuntur.
Veni ad liberandum nos iam noli tadare.
Whom the peoples acclaim to their core.
Come come to deliver us, do not delay any more, determined they are.

Last night I dreamt I had been having a row.
I was walking in the Oratory following a priest carrying a candle.
Immediately I felt quieter, it was back to the plough.
There was hope of gripping calm’s candle.

A shoot springs from the stock of Jesse, a scion thrusts from his roots.
That day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples from these roots.

The Virgin will conceive and give birth to a son.
And they shall call him Emmanuel.
Hope I shall not shun.
He is a life’s work manual.

I really does mean God is with us.
It was not just then but now.
It has always been thus.
This despite every doubt I will not disavow.

I dreamt last night that I aimed too high.
And I came tumbling down in ignominy.
Be true to yourself, do not lie.
This is the only true testimony.

Like Joseph accept fate.
Listen before it is too late.

A genealogy of Jesus Christ son of David, son of Abraham.
Abraham was the father of Isaac.
Not all in this genealogy acted like a lamb.
Of virtue in some there was certainly a lack.

Is faith taught.
Does it come through wisdom.
Or is faith caught.
A gift undeserved of his kingdom.

How lucky those to whom faith comes naturally.
With me it is a never ending struggle.
I try, I fail dismally.
But I do not resent the trouble.

I will keep trying.
And not perpetually to be resisting.

Apart from me all is nothing.
I am the Lord unrivalled.
But we often think the World we see is everything.
For many God has been cancelled.

What forms the light.
Who creates the dark.
Is it the Lord’s might.
Or that immutable unseeing laws have merely left their mark.

What if a prime mover is reality.
And what we see is utterly dependent.
What if the unseen is reality, the seen unreality.
What if all this is not a machine but cast in his light resplendent.

Help me to believe in a saviour’s will.
Not fear chaos in a grinding conscienceless mill.

From beyond the banks of the rivers of Ethiopia my supplicants.
Will bring me offerings.
We are surely recipients.
Of joy and hope’s renderings.

Despite present tiered tribulations.
Comes joy in the Lord.
Nothing in this life brings true security, only tribulations.
But hope comes with the promise of the adored.

I like to remember the forgotten ones.
Last night I prayed to Richard blessed and I hope future saint.
Perhaps in five hundred years very few have remembered this one of his sons.
His echo like so many is real if very faint.

What shame it is to leave so small a footprint.
For everyone is etched in eternity’s blueprint.

Then Balaam declaimed his poem again.
The oracle of the man with far seeing eyes.
How doggedly we wish to wipe away the stain.
How wearily we stumble from our lies.

My dream last night was terrifyingly dark.
To survive I had to lose all attaining.
But out of this pain rose hope like a lark.
At dawn a new dream came, losing is and was and will be actually gaining.

I do not know your ways.
I stumble from your path.
I cannot see the sun’s fitful rays.
I fear your wrath.

But so often a new dream comes.
Dimly drawn from receding memory, an echo of hope like distant drums.

As a garden makes seeds grow up so will the Lord make both integrity and praise.
Spring up in the sight of the nations.
Our eyes look up, our hands we raise.
Giving gladly our oblations.

In the socially distanced Cathedral today, in praise of the one and only.
How sad to see people for the most part on their own.
So many people are lonely.
They need these services, it’s not enough to live stream phone.

But the nations remain blind from the start.
Intent on rules.
Driving people apart.
Making us into fools.

But if just two or three are gathered together.
From life’s cares we can for a moment cut the tether.

Happy shall be they who see you.
And those who have fallen asleep in love.
I dose in front of the winter fire, the wood burning through and through.
There is only a memory now of Summer’s bell shaped flowered foxglove.

I was trying to moor the boat.
I could not lift the anchor buoy, it’s chain under water I could not see.
It tangled in the propeller, disaster, at least I was still afloat.
All life it seemed is wasted effort to me.

My heart, with the effort, hurt.
Perhaps the digitalis in that foxglove might have helped.
Can I ever hope with hope to be less curt.
But how I inwardly cursed and yelped.

I recall now those words of Isaiah, fall asleep in love.
And rest like the peaceful dove.

If only you had been alert to my commandments.
Your happiness would have been like a river.
It’s not alertness that is my problem, it’s my contrary sentiments.
It’s because my faith is the merest sliver.

I look at Sickert’s painting, L’Ennui.
Two figures not looking at each other.
It’s boredom and apathy that I see.
Effort, communication and love, all too much of a bother.

How often do I sit in my comfortable armchair.
Musing on the present, turning my back on eternity.
When really everything is so clear.
Through that window casting its light on me is God’s city.

But deep down I know this me is not really I.
The real me is somewhere else, I just have to look with an inner eye.

I will make rivers well up on barren heights.
And fountains in the midst of valleys.
Today after mass in my mind’s eye I seemed to see distant sights.
There was no need for verbal sallies.

The priest sat quietly for a time, all was still and silent.
I love this moment.
A great well of joy wells up in the atmosphere of content.
Even quiet merriment.

In Bonnard’s painting the Bowl of Milk.
All is still, Mediterranean light streams in.
Meligny stands alone unmoving, her dress as restful as silk.
The cat waits, perhaps for his milk, with a little grin.

The priest’s meditation was a moment in service time.
The painting is just such a moment of quiet after wartime.