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Poems

A Man of Passion and Peace – Cat Stevens – Yusuf Islam

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Today my husband gave me a Cat Stevens “Best Of” CD…

Spinning me back down the years

Brining me laughter and tears

A man of great passion and peace

Setting me back on my feet.

 

I remember that ride in the spring

Trying my best not to sing

About mornings that broke and my dog

Who I loved, and of Peace Trains and fog.

 

We rode for well over an hour

With people he had on his tour

And he spoke not a word, but above all the roar

His peace could be heard, at the core.

 

We tranquilly rode through the scrub

And we heard all the birdsong above

As the silence became what it should

A feel of peace – that was good.

 

I was just a plain, awkward teen

(at the time I was only fourteen)

And here was my hero in flesh

Showing me a bright world, made afresh

 

Tiny flowers I’d not notice had bloomed

In the scrubby roadsides and festooned

The world with their charm, in that magical calm

And the air with their essence perfumed

 

I felt I had never prior seen

The world but hazily, through a dream

If silence if golden, I know

That truth, through gold silence, can grow.

I was only fourteen, but the things I had seen

More than all of his songs, could not show.

 

After his limo had left

I felt both absurd and bereft

I had wanted to say, on that beautiful day

That he taught me so much

I was blessed.

 

Cat Stevens toured Australia in September 1972 , playing  at Apollo Stadium in Adelaide, SA.
I was 14 at he time and my parents owned a riding school in the Adelaide Hills, so when he decided he wanted a peaceful break to go horse riding, I took him and his entourage on a ride.
He was my greatest hero at the time, but  I never spoke a word to him, and he said nothing audible during the entire visit.  It was obvious that his was a time-out for him and he radiated peace and calm in his silence.

And on and on it goes.
Ride on the peace train.

 

Poems, Thoughts

If You Believe He Walked on Water

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The greatest paradox of all
Is that truth is what you believe.
I believe that,
Therefore it is true.

You may believe in your own capacity
to judge truth objectively.
In which case you will say
That what I say is false.

But is it impossible
we both be right?

Our minds are not designed
to see things just one way,
or for all of us
to see the same things.

Jesus really did
walk upon the water,
– if you believe he did.

But if you don’t believe
he walked upon the water,
– then he didn’t.

And there is a parable
to explain exactly that point.
For Peter sees Jesus
Walking on the water
and he believes
then he disbelieves
then he nearly drowns
then he believes again.

What Peter believes becomes real
but what he cannot believe
causes him to splutter and gasp
as he sinks.

Peter puts his faith in Jesus
and believes
and the world conforms
to Peter’s belief.

Just as Jesus always
promises it will.

Stories, Thoughts

Flammarion waits for Enoch

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“I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago
was caught up to the third heaven. “

2 Corinthians 12:2

Enoch will be along soon.

I’ll wait outside, and look at the sky, and remember what we spoke of last time.

I still have the broken blue egg shell.
I lie on my back and hold it to the sun.

Yes, it is the same flat blue of the  sky on a cloudless day.

Today there are clouds, bringing the sky closer.
Will they come so close that the sky falls, watering the ground?

“Is the sky water?” I asked Enoch.
For it is the colour of the sea and lakes I have seen
and as changeable in its blues and greys.
And water falls from it.

Enoch says this is the first heaven that we see.
Ruled by the sun of light and heat.

Then what of night?
When the sky is drawn back,
revealing sparking treasures,
far above.
And glorious silken folds of crimson
herald their arrival each evening
and announce their departure each morn.

The sun has gone and with it its heat,
so the water in heaven turns to crystals of
ice and twinkles in the light of the solemn moon;
waiting for the sun king to return.

That, says Enoch, is the second heaven.

But there is the third heaven that Enoch knows.
Perhaps only Enoch knows.

He tells me it lies between corruptibility and incorruptibility
That it holds the Tree of Life,
the source of knowledge.

And two springs,
one milk, one honey.
But then two others,
one oil, one wine.
Which is four, not two.
But Enoch says two.

But how does Enoch know?

He says he has been there.
To argue with Azazel
about the way women
paint their eyebrows.

Which seems such a trivial matter to discuss with an archangel, but I know there was more;  I just can’t remember it all.

The first heaven hides the second heaven.
Its blue veil is drawn back with a flourish,
momentarily revealing its scarlet lining  each evening.
Then the second heaven appears.

Enoch says we see the first and second heavens because God wants us to think, and to realise there must be more.

The second heaven hides the third.
But we can  see it only by invitation.
If I understand Enoch rightly.
Which probably, I don’t.

But oh, what joy!
To lie here on my back,
gazing at the blue above
and the egg shell in my hand
and wait for Enoch
so we can talk
and wonder some more
at our God’s creation.

“What intelligent being, what being capable of responding emotionally to a beautiful sight, can look at the jagged, silvery lunar crescent trembling in the azure sky, even through the weakest of telescopes, and not be struck by it in an intensely pleasurable way, not feel cut off from everyday life here on earth and transported toward that first stop on the celestial journeys? What thoughtful soul could look at brilliant Jupiter with its four attendant satellites, or splendid Saturn encircled by its mysterious ring, or a double star glowing scarlet and sapphire in the infinity of night, and not be filled with a sense of wonder? Yes, indeed, if humankind — from humble farmers in the fields and toiling workers in the cities to teachers, people of independent means, those who have reached the pinnacle of fame or fortune, even the most frivolous of society women — if they knew what profound inner pleasure await those who gaze at the heavens, then France, nay, the whole of Europe, would be covered with telescopes instead of bayonets, thereby promoting universal happiness and peace.”

— Camille Flammarion, 1880

Poems

Angel Voices

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Softly she slips into church
she has only come here to hear
the children who sing in the choir
their voices so crystalline clear

She knows all the people by name
they greet her with nods and broad grins
but she doesn’t believe their believing
and she doesn’t believe in their “sins”

The voices of children ring sweetly
singing of peace and of love
as the people wine-sipping and kneeling
give praises to something above

But she’s only here for the beauty
all the rest is simply nonsense
to join in would be, well, hypocrisy
she will stick with good old common sense

As the voices crescendo and sparkle
and the cadences make her heart melt
purest joy, purest peace she is feeling
as complete now as ever she’s felt

She says that the voices are angels
she says that the singing’s divine
but what has it to do with this breaking of bread
and this delicate sipping of wine?

She sits there surrounded by glory
bathed in the light of life-force
enjoying the joy of her Sunday
but ever ignoring its source.

Stories

EVERYTHING CHANGED

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It was all very well for mother to say “God will provide” as she sat listlessly on the edge of her bed, tired and weak, but surely it was he who was doing the providing!

Up before dawn, walking in the frosty morning air to the shore.
Digging in the cold mud by the ligtht of his small lamp for worms that seemed as listless as he felt and unlikely to wriggle enough to attract the interest of any curious fish.

But he had caught fish.
Twelve of them in all.
Ten of them a fairly good size but two that were just tiddlers.

By mid-morning he was in the local market place, bartering his 10 best fish.
A nice looking lady seemed to take pity on him and had offered him a barley loaf for 2 fish, well above the normal going rate, but he suspected she could see his own hunger and his anxiety.

Tramping back across the hills, the boy was pleased with his morning’s work, but still resentful.
How he wanted to go to school and learn, like his friends, about the whole wide world.

But his mother was sick and his father had been away for months; may even be dead for all anyone knew.
There was only him to head out each morning to find food for his sick mother and baby sister.
He sighed, looking down at his own dirty bare feet as he walked, lost in his own miserable thoughts, as he transferred his heavy basket to the other shoulder.

“Today I caught a fish
tonight we’ll eat the fish
and give thanks to God
for his provision
so that tomorrow
I have may the strength to
to catch another fish.
Oh hell!”

As he crested a small hill he saw a crowd.
What was this?
The boy immediately thought a fisherman must have drowned and this must be his funeral.
But as he grew closer he heard the voices – happy, excited, chattering with joy.

“He’s here!
Come see!
Gather ’round
all Galilee!”

Who was this man at the centre of the crowd?
He began to speak; not loudly, but with certain authority.
A hush fell across the crowd.

Yet the boy
was still far off
and could not
hear the words.

But it must be important.
Looking at all the faces, men and women, old and young, all gazing it rapt attention, desperate to hear more.

Finally, the boy was close enough to hear, but all the man said was “You are hungry my friends. Let us share our food”.
Then the crowd began to murmur, and the murmuring turned to grumbling, and it became clear that nobody had any food.

At that moment a huge, tall man with a long curly beard spoke directly to the boy.
“Will you share what you have in your basket?” he asked.

The boy looked at the man, felt the warmth of his smile, and was unable to reply.
He’d worked hard for this food. his mother and his sister needed this food.
How could he share it with strangers and go home with an empty basket?
How could this man even ask?

As if reading his mind, the bearded man knelt down so that his eyes were level with the boy’s.
He pointed to the man at the centre of the crowd; the one they had all come to see, and said.

“Do you know who this is?
He is the Son of God.
Whatever you give
will return to you
a thousand-fold”

“But my mother is sick,
and my sister is poorly.
What I carry
is ALL
they will eat for a day”

“Your family will be fed and your family will be well”. the man replied.

He seemed so confident in his words.
He knew the truth of this miracle man who needed his fish and his barley loaves to feed his friends.

It seemed so little to give,
when so many were hungry.
But it was all he had.
And he had worked hard for it.
And would again tomorrow.

“And would again tomorrow … ” unless SOMETHING happened!
unless something changed.

He remembered the words of his own father, as he went away, seeking work, somewhere,  a pack slung across his back:

“If you never take a risk, nothing ever changes.”

He looked at Andrew (for that was his name) and Andrew looked at the boy, struggling with his decision.

“Yes”, said the boy
eventually
“of course
the Son of God
may have
my fish and bread”

And he handed over the basket.

And everything changed!

For Sandie – an agent of change (John 6:6)

Poems

Integrity (for Libby, who helps me unpick)

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To integrate
in every way
in action, thought and deed,
Being your own purest, pure truth
is a perilous path indeed!

We start to die
from our truest self
in infancy as we grow
to see ourself
through other’s eyes
rated higher than
our own.

There seems to be
so very much
that needs to be unspun.
To pare back to
the delicate core
picking the complex pattern
undone.

Integrity is all in one
the same in every way.
being truly who we are
in every place
on every day.

With no pretence
but speak your truth
to everyone you see.
Take your time
to form your words
to speak
in honesty.

There’s nothing harder
you can do
than peel back the bark.
And every time
a bit comes off
you feel  little spark.

The bark is the hardest
work of all,
exposing little wounds,
that made you who you are today
but the sparks
are tiny blooms.

We compromise
our own true self
from the moment we can speak,
Intent on pleasing others
for the approval
that we seek.

It’s a stage within a cycle
As I grow older
I care less
for the opinions of the people
I grew tough bark
to impress.

(for Libby, 2015)

Poems

Purls

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I’m knitting a scarf for my grandson
and thinking of him as I do
the joys and the giggles he gives me
The fun of just watching him grow

There’s yellow for sunshine and laughter
and green for all nature’s excess
red  for power, blue for calm, mauve for dreaming
and orange for heart’s happiness

Every new stitch forms a kiss
and every new row a new prayer
I’m knitting my grandson a rainbow
all knotted in loving and care.

(for Jensen, Cameron and Patrick, 2013)

Thoughts, Words Matter

Epiousios

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Epiousios (Ancient Greek: επιούσιος) is a unique Greek word found only in the Lord’s Prayer in the Gospels of Matthew  and Luke, and nowhere else in all of classical Greek writings.

It has been translated to mean “daily” as in “our daily bread”, but perhaps we devalue the word and the concept when we think, metaphorically or literally, as this being a prayer for sustenance.

If the New Testament writers had meant “daily” there were more common words the could have used than epiousios, so it must have some distinct and special meaning above and beyond “daily”.

If Epi means necessary or essential, and Ousia means to physically exist, then Epiousia can be taken as necessary for existence, and Epiousios becomes that element that is necessary for existence.

If we think of this in terms of a creator, do we owe just our original manufacture to the creator, or is the creator responsible for maintaining ongoing reality as we know it?

Does reality exist independent of God, or is reality the ongoing product of God.

Are we God’s dreaming?  Are we products of God’s mind?  Is this the concept the word is attempting to express?