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.

Lift your eyes and look, who made these stars.
If not who drills them like an army.
Bright Venus, ringed Saturn, red Mars.
Look up all is eternal and quiet whilst here all is ephemeral and stormy.

Here in the city I am blinded by light pollution.
But in the Wolds I can see thousands of stars and galaxies.
Here is all present, there I look back to creation.
Here is reality, there I can indulge in fantasies.

Am I looking at random chance.
Or just immutable laws of physics.
This I believe at first glance.
Are we not now all cynics.

But a voice calls, who was the first mover.
It is his will that is eternal, the rest is just left over.

Before the world was made.
He chose us to be holy and spotless and live with love in his presence.
Innumerable ages ago our own individual future was laid.
We always were and always will be, that is our essence.

But is there one born spotless.
With no vestige of original sin.
I wonder about the ancient doctrine of our goddess.
But proclaimed only in 1853, is this really faith’s lynchpin.

Happy those who do not doubt.
Weary are we who do.
Our scepticism is a last redoubt.
We do not, we will not, we never knew.

But consider this, would God come to a womb.
That was not immaculate from conception to empty tom .

Let the wasteland rejoice and bloom.
Let it bring forth flowers like the jonquil.
Joy comes forth even out of the tomb.
Even in this life we can be tranquil.

St Ambrose just wanted to resolve disputes with the Arian heresy.
Not yet baptised, he never wanted to be a priest let alone Bishop or saviour.
But forced by the people, he spoke with clarity and never carelessly.
He gave all his money to the poor.

Unafraid of power.
He forced the Emperor to do public penance.
He was not prepared to cower.
He thought nothing of his own convenience.

Before St Augustine met him he was unimpressed with Catholicism.
Perhaps we too should be more open to criticism.

Let every valley be filled in.
Every mountain and hill laid low.
To try and fail and fall into the depths is no sin.
We may own few seeds but still we can sow.

I dreamt I had left undone something vital.
My mobile was broken, I was desperate, there was something to prove.
I could just have walked a few steps and done it myself and earned requital.
But I would or could not move.

That deep valley is in our hearts, fear.
That mountain we cannot climb is within us.
This wilderness is here.
Yet we can still win.

We can emerge from this desolate plain.
We can with his help wipe away every stain.

He will be gracious to you when he hears your cry.
When he hears he will answer.
He hears us, we hope, we sigh.
Yet we do not try to listen, we are the dancer.

I dreamt that there was great excitement for a game.
I was setting up, I hoped a popular cricket match.
But only one child and one other came.
And there was only one stump, there was no one even to a catch.

The bowling was underarm, I woke with a dread feeling of disappointment.
So many ventures in my life.
So many failures, never being content.
So many projects that just splutter, ending up short is rife.

But I read in Isaiah that on every high mountain there will be streams and watercourses.
And somehow with every new dream and every new day comes new resources.

The deaf that day will hear the words of a book.
And after shadow and darkness the eyes of the blind will see.
The book is open, we only have to look.
From our doubts we need only flee.

I was reading St Benedict’s rule.
Speak the truth with heart and tongue.
Do I view speaking the entire truth as argument’s only tool.
Or for that am I too high strung.

In that poem yesterday.
I said I dreamt of the rain.
But I only said that to rhyme with plain on that sad day.
I should have said in a good rhyme too that the traffic forced me into a choked lane.

So I am like everyone else , subject to passing emotion.
Truth is, I fear, a multifaceted notion.

We have a strong city.
To guard us he has set around us wall and rampart.
Above all we need pity.
Faithfulness will be a start.

I dreamt that I was driving in a city in the rain.
Suddenly I turned aside to avoid a jam , now I could see far.
But I was now in an empty, flat featureless blasted plain.
And as I drove all power left my car.

And all seemed hopeless and I ground to a halt.
And then suddenly I was in a happy crowded wedding banquet in a church.
All doubt vanished , with nothing could I find fault.
I was free now , while before I had been left in the lurch.

It was as if the gates had been opened.
And the righteous had been allowed in, happy if chastened.

On this mountain he will remove the morning veil.
Covering all peoples.
I will follow Isaiah’s tale.
His voice sings from the steeples.

I dreamt last night that I saw a boat.
It was right at the end of an endless pier, moored.
The sea was jet black, the boat barely afloat.
As I sat on I felt lonely and tired.

I remembered these words, the lord will wipe away.
The tears from every cheek.
So hope can hold sway.
I can continue to seek.

It is too soon to exult and rejoice.
But soon enough to listen to his voice.

Integrity is the loincloth around his waist.
Faithfulness the belt around his hips.
The poetry of Isaiah during Advent is sweet to the taste.
The cup comes easily to the lips.

This voice from the eighth century BC.
We who walk in darkness can see his great light.
In the light we stand in his shadow’s lea.
After nearly three thousand years his verse glows bright.

The wolf lies down with the lamb.
The panther lies down with the kid.
When we read these his words how can we say we don’t give a damn.
He inspires, does not forbid.

So we return to that word integrity.
What do we personally want to leave to posterity.

Follow me.
And I will make you fishers of men.
My fishing line was on the boat’s lea.
I hoped to catch something, but the question was when.

There are few things more pleasurable than fishing at sea when the shrouds sing.
The line runs, the time passes, I watch the boat’s way.
I don’t need to catch anything.
All that I catch I throw back anyway.

I will never catch any men.
First I should catch myself, I am forsook.
My line is laid out in yards of ten.
But after a lifetime not one pull on the hook.

I will try again and again.
One day I may succeed, one day the sun may shine again after these showers of rain.

Advent. Adventus. Parousia. Coming.

You do not know when the master of the house is coming.
If he comes unexpectedly he must not find you asleep.
Last night I was dreaming.
I was ill, it was a doctors appointment I would or could not keep.

In these dreams I never seem to be ready, always through preparedness sinned.
Always distracted, always late.
I am like a leaf blown by the wind.
Stability laid low by life’s heavy weight.

I was enriched in so many ways.
Yet have I kept steady.
The mist on this winter’s morn comes low, I cannot see the sun’s rays.
I was born into hope but am still not ready.

But hope is like a flickering candle shining in a dark place.
To the last in hope, I shall stay awake and I, I shall run this race.

Sitting with my granddaughter staring at the English winter I gave a sigh.
All was damp, muted, sleeping shadowed grey.
Leafing through old photos I remembered a walk along the footpath at Cap d’Ail.
Then all was fierce light and shades of blue saturated.

And I recalled that Summer over fifty years ago.
Wanting that harpoon gun I could not afford to buy.
Diving deep into the bay with youth aglow.
And other eyes were blue too, I remembered with a sigh.

Ghosts of the great inhabit that footpath.
Here in opposition Churchill set up his easel for joy of painting.
The deep reds of the rocks, the lapping waves, healing all wrath.
Villas, gleaming white balconies, champagne beckoning.

So now my granddaughter and I attempted together our own daub.
Such happiness on that grey day, for a moment I was totally absorbed.

Stay awake.
Praying at all times for the strength to survive.
I dream I am swimming in a lake.
I cannot reach my children stranded on an island, hard as I strive.

I had no idea how I could ever get back to my house.
Then the tide turned again and I was home with children in an instant.
Such is the dream world , one moment as fast as a stag the next as slow as a louse.
Home is gained in a moment though so far distant.

Maybe the dream world is more real than reality.
If you have faith you can swim like an Olympian.
Life may be gritty.
Happy or dystopian.

I awoke from my slumber.
And all again is slow and difficult, weighed down with life’s faithless slumber.

The sparrow herself finds a home.
And the swallow a nest for her brood.
For wisdom where can we find a tome.
Are we really all that shrewd.

The dream was clear, the sky blue, the sun out.
I wanted to go down to the sea.
It was not possible, I was working, it was ruled out.
It was only these narrow walls that I could see.

And later in the night in my dream.
I saw my soul separate and free.
Flying out, liberated it would seem.
And now in my mind’s eye I really was physically by that sea.

I seemed to know that my soul was not a figment of my imagination.
It was actual, real and not just a mental foil for irritation.

I, John, saw an angel come down from Heaven with great authority given to him.
The earth was lit up with his glory.
Sadly we never hear or see angels except in a hymn.
But they are always there in our own story.

The awaking dream at dawn was real in plain sight.
I saw my soul outside my body, it’s reality secure.
It was not a corny view with rays of light.
The point was that it existed, of that I was sure.

I cannot describe it.
I just knew with certainty that it was.
My soul’s fire is lit.
It is and was for all time with no why or because.

Before I had always doubted it’s existence.
Now I was sure, I could finish happily this life sentence.

What I John saw in Heaven was a great and wonderful sign.
Seven angels bringing the seven plagues that are the last of all.
We wonder too if we live in a strange time line.
Are these signs chance or a call.

I was lying awake worrying about disease and troubles beyond all reason and rhyme.
Then I thought why worry about the me, it is all so ephemeral.
It is here but a short time.
What does the soul care for any memorial.

Then I seemed outside of me to see.
My soul entirely whole and real.
I absolutely knew then there is an everlasting I in other form but not me.
It is a soul that I can almost feel.

And the soul does not lie with the body under the sod.
I knew then absolutely it is reunited with God.

O death I will be your death.
Baptism was the cleansing water that healed us from strife.
I began to defeat you with my very first breath.
And death is only a gateway to life.

We are baptised in his death.
And raised to newness of life.
This we know more and more with every passing breath.
This thought through our lifetime is is ever more closely joined like husband and wife.

Life is in the power of the mind.
Resurrection is ours to take now.
This road is easy to find.
It is ours if we allow.

Give me, I pray, freedom from doubt.
Let pain and mental and actual death, I put to rout.

Saint Clement

These have all contributed money they had over.
But she from the little she had has put in all she had to live on.
Faith in three in one is like a clover.
Mysterious yet it is an everlasting new dawn.

I was given so much.
Do I really return so little.
That small pound coin in my pocket comes to touch.
Is that really my long account enough to settle.

Is money so important.
Surely not.
Forget the cant.
Isn’t just love worth quite a lot.

Yes, we do give so little.
Yet we demand so much, our generosity is so brittle.