Memory River

In an ice river of memories we swam. We swung from tattered ropes and trailed feet through river soul. We blew tunes with blades of grass and watched dragonflies skim the water’s laughing face.

A decade had passed, but the fragrance of childhood lingered in the mellow air. Clouds opened up their lining, surrendering themselves onto land below. We let the drops pound our heads, running streams down to our chins, cascading us into a time-warp of summer days from long ago. And our hearts grew younger as we drifted to the age when simplicity was all we knew.

City Streets

I caught her dreaming, her head cupped in honey coloured hands. Her autumn hair escaping from it’s plait, dancing with the lace curtains in the window breeze. Her five year old eyes drinking in the cold stone streets and chimney lines. Her mouth wore a wistful smile and as i spoke and broke her dream she turned and laughed, scattering hopeful tones across the dull sitting room. I dreamt this city changed, she said... like when i paint colour on pictures in my drawing books; those concrete slabs grew flowers out of the cracks and those chimneys turned into trees.

The army chant

I once heard the voice of a crowd chanting: “We’re an army without a God." They beat out the words with fervent lips: “Army. Army. Army.” And you could feel the pulse of their vigor, as their souls marched to this haunting call. I wasn’t in this army; I recoiled at their war song; their one boast was their downfall. By eliminating God, they eliminated victory.

I’m in an army of weak soldiers, of misfits, of broken men. We’d never win a war if we were left alone. Yet we’re an army with a God; and the battle is His.

To look

I learnt to look. Lying in bed all day, you start to notice things you’d never otherwise see. Today i looked at a spider’s web blowing in the wind. I simply watched, for half an hour. My window was ajar and it was strung from the corner, quivering with the breeze. There was a small autumn leaf caught in it’s strands. I didn’t look in order to analyse, or extract deeper meanings. I decided to simply look; to let things carry out their days in view of my eyes, but demand nothing more from them; to just let them be.

Circles of light

She was the moon-beam of absurd laughter and he wrapped her in candy floss wisps of star light. He was the full stature of a healthy country man; a wheat coloured sun casting happy ripples across freshly ploughed ground. She was the echo of his voice; the reflection of his prominent presence. Together they governed a palate of blues; from the faintest touch of day in a gathering of white, to the densest tones of night in a treacle sky. And they graciously stood aside for one other, like a couple taking it in turns to curtsy and bow.

Comrades

I watched you as you stood there, unaware of my eyes. My heart sank into a deep sea; your expressions were the tide. Just a stranger, yet you had the power of an ocean to lap at my emotions and draw them as your waves. You held your hat abreast your chest; your face pierced with sorrowful pride. And you scanned the names of your comrades; the war memorial displayed them, etched side by side. What grief have you known? What have your eyes beheld? Silently i watched you; your tears filled my eyes, now your tears fill my mind.

A bare-backed horse

Indie rode through the field on a bare-backed horse, crying mercy through her lips, running tremors through her toes. She clung to the reigns with her little girl strength and she galloped to escape the burning town. Her mother flung her on the horse with a desperate plea: “Ride Indie. You can ride free.”

Powerful muscles pounded beneath her knees, but her own strength lapsed; she slipped to the ground. Her eyes opened to the gaze of a frail old man and he did what her horse failed to do; he carried her free of the flame-filled town.

Little wolf-child

Lydia, the wildest of the girls, reminded me of a wolf-child; a moglie type, like she had been raised by a pack of beasts and learnt survival techniques in the jungle. She had the most endearing smile, and sad broken eyes. She lifted her face to mine, like she was begging me to free her, but had given up all hope of freedom at the exact same time. And her desperation almost robbed me of hope, until i remembered my God was the God of wild fatherless children just like the wild fatherless girl staring up at me now.

My window-pane

There was a crack in my window-pane, about the length of a pencil crayon. On wild nights the wind would blow it like a penny-whistle. On summer days the sun would joyfully parade glints of light through it’s centre. In my odd way i loved that crack. It gave the sky a voice; made space for the outside to speak poetry to the inside. Without it, i would have been obliviously isolated; unchanged by the fierce storms, untouched by the streaks of light. This broken pane was a bridge; a pathway that joined two places; it was necessary.

He was glorious

He bowed His head and gave up His spirit. His appearance marred beyond human resemblance. This was the face of the King; the face of a child born into a bed of hay; the face of the word become flesh; the face of love. And this face - marred beyond human resemblance. These cheeks - kissed in betrayal by a friend’s lips. This brow - encaged with thorns. These lips - cracked with thirst. These eyes - crying our freedom. This man - the man of sorrows.

He should have worn a crown of gold; He was the King. Yet in this brokenness, He was glorious.

Milky thoughts

I choked on my own words; curdled cheese out of milky thoughts. And i tried to soothe the wretched sound, with liquid bleach and red blood wine. I flexed my neck and stretched my jaw; let pulses run across my skin. And inbetween my stuttered breaths out fell a cascade of lettered noise.

It hurt.

I flicked a switch; igniting song, and let the truth drown out my words. I held a book; scanning printed verse, and let the truth drown out my words. I turned my face towards His blood; cleansing my mind - the truth drowned out my words.

A hundred names

You could give it a hundred names.. paint it in colours of different shades.. make it sound like my fault, his fault, no-one’s fault... you can say it’s down to things i’ve done, or down to a broken brain..You could search for roots and causes, lay blame and give me names, but it won’t change a thing. So, i lay down my understanding... call it what you like.. write a hundred labels on me; I’ve done it myself. I give it up. Whatever it is, whatever you call it, whatever i am; the answer is still the same.

Clutching straws

I’m clutching onto straws, reaching out to strangers, hoping for some kind of remedy to appear. If i just keep looking, just keep reaching, just keep searching, maybe i’ll find an answer somewhere. Yet deep down, i know this theory is flawed. I know i have to search no further than where i’ve found hope before. Why am i looking in muddy pools, when I know the place of fresh restoring streams? Joy comes in the morning, that’s what He says. My healing will rise for you, that’s what He says. He is enough. I know it to be true.

A sun-kissed voyage

It ran in rivers round my feet, in dreamy sunshine streaks; a little piece of sky, kissing the sandy streams of backwashed sea. It carved out trails of lace, humming rhythmic salty notes... it was bleeding from it’s rim.. spreading it’s soul across the land.. sharing secrets from countless feet that had graced it’s waves.

I made a boat of driftwood and mussel shells and stood inside. I tied my fears to the deck with seaweed strands, so they could walk the pirate’s plank, when this ship reached the ocean’s heart. And the sun threw it’s voice, summoning our voyage.

An urban desert

It was an urban desert; a wasteland of bricks and walls; but it was a city in which man dwelled. Death and life co-existed side by side; run-down rooms throbbed light and sound - garbled messages that these bricks housed souls; yet the air was suffocating - the resounding pulse resembled a thirsty man’s cry.

“Here we have not an enduring city, but we look to the city that is to come.” It was true, this city wouldn’t last; but those within it would. An urgency permeated my heart; they needed to seek another city - they needed to wake up.

There is grace

There is grace on your life; I see it, even if you don’t. It’s grace that makes the corner of your lips rise again into a sweet smile, when the night before all they did was taste bitter salty tears. It’s grace that makes you stand firm in hope, when it looks like hope is being slayed. It’s grace that makes you reach out in tender expectation, when your arms tremble with fear. And it’s grace that erases your repeated mistakes, even when they’re black as tar and the same time and time again. This is the gift of grace.

More than cells

In it’s barest state, it’s just ink; simply ink. But a line of ink makes a stroke. And strokes make letters; letters make words; words make phrases; phrases have meaning and meaning has consequences. It’s never just ink. It’s never just a letter. It’s never just a word, devoid of power. Strip your body to it’s core, and it’s just cells; water, molecules, protein... but those cells make muscles, and those muscles have power - for good and for bad. So let my words be pure and true. Let my ink be shaped into phrases that build life, rather than destroy.

Inky bowels

The page was empty; crisp white like untouched snow, silently awaiting the pen that would crawl across it’s surface and leave behind a trail of letter-rich prints. Anticipation made the carbon sheet quiver; its fate was still unknown. Sometimes the pen spilt it’s inky bowels in aggressive streaks.. like the path of a bear dragging it’s prey. Or sometimes the markings brought life, like robin footprints joyfully scattered on winter ground. The paper had no say. In unashamed nakedness it lay, waiting to be dressed by the author’s hand, in whatever garments he saw fit for that day.

Until...

I am calling. I am begging. I am pleading. I am reaching out with the frazzled remains of my broken strength and tugging on the hem of your garment; I am tugging; I am tugging; I am tugging. Like a little child tugging on their mother’s dress; I am tugging. Like a child clinging to a security blanket and refusing to let it go; I am clinging; I am refusing to let go. I will call. I will beg. I will plead. I will reach. I will tug. I will cling. I will refuse to let go, until you come.

Sticks and Stones

It was like someone else had taken ownership of her skin and she was just a puppet on a string. Her muscles moved against her will, like they had electricity running though them, an army of ants parading through her veins. It came in torrents, like a rushing stream in full-force, an erupting volcano, a round of bullets being fired in heavy succession. They say that sticks and stones can break your bones, and words can never harm you, but these words harmed her, like rocks smashing through a glass pane. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.

I said...

I said i’d quite like to have it - when i have a house of my own. I said the wood was pleasant - the writing burnt into the back added character. I said i’d like to sit and compose letters from it - on the writing table of a proper author. Yet this is the very table you penned your crude dictionaries on.

So forget what i said. I hate the books you wrote. Your pen inked language that i can not even bare to hear; language that torments my mind. So forget what i said. I don’t want your table anymore.

Under his breath

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Fourteen times he muttered that phrase under his breath. He had no other words; that was all that filled his head. He didn’t know it wasn’t true; so he uttered those four words like it was the only 'can' amongst all he 'couldn’t' do.

When i get thinkin'

Sometimes, when i get thinkin', i wonder if anybody’s for real, or if they're all just pretendin'. You can't just go climbin’ in somebody else's head and siftin' through their thoughts to see if they're authentic or not. I mean, you'd get done for trespassing. Some of 'em have speech sweet as honey, yet hearts devious as a crook. Some of 'em have words all stuttered and senseless, yet hearts as warm as you can get. It ain’t that easy to know. Gotta sift through the words ‘n look at what’s written deeper below. That’s just the way it goes.

Unity

She was a child of Japan, wriggling in her seat. Her hair in pig-tails, her face soft with expectation. She pulled at her silver shoes, ruffling long pink socks which bore the words ‘upsy daisy’.

Opposite, an old English lady poised elegantly, a purple rose pinned against her stiff grey jacket, a furrowed face, and hands that trembled as she scribbled her crossword.

Their births separated by a vast sea and seven decades. Their skin separated by chocolate coloured tones. And they rose to separate as the train approached.

A shared smile broke out, and there it was: unity.

Purple blue rivers

Your veins protruded from your skin - purple blue rivers on a rough terrain. And your nails flaked red cherry peel - faded poppy fields at the tips of dirt track finger roads. You wore a silver-coated-seven-stoned band, next to half a dozen golden signet rings - a row of cottage lights streaking through haystack-filled fields. Your white age spots - scattered lakes amidst endless soil. And you were scented with an opium of potent perfume - oriental spices spilling from market stalls. This was your earth hand - a satellite photo - the view gradually changing with each year; 1928 to 2002.

He sung in colour

She spoke in laments. He spoke in prose. She cried black and white tears. He sung her colourful notes. She scattered ashes. He planted seeds. She grasped his hand. He embraced her bones.

They rested in valleys. They clambered up cliffs. They counted stars. They shared silent breaths. They trailed though deserts. They drank from streams. They washed in the ocean. They followed the breeze. They carved memories on stone. They drew dreams on walls. They soaked up the moon. They waited for dawn.

She undid her heart. He lightened her load. She was named sorrow. He was named hope.

The refrain

You can hear the song almost anywhere; in the shuffling of a pensioner, or the gallop of a bare-backed horse, in the melting of icicles as spring unveils her head, or the rhythm hidden in the depths of your own flesh; blood rushing from one finger to the next, lungs playing catch and throw with molecules of air. Even in the dead of night, amongst the silence of the jet black sky, the refrain still offers up it’s notes; in the ballad of the chaffinch, or the fingers of the wind as it leads the trees in a waltz.

The tree

It was a Thursday afternoon and there in front of me was a tree; green leaves, rust-brown branches, roots than ran with bumps across the ground. It was just a tree. Nothing fancy - not by the normal definition of fancy anyway; it looked just the same as what you’d see in a child’s painting. But it was no child’s feat; have you ever really looked to see how wonderful a tree is? It needs no fairy tale description, no adjectives could add to this mystery; the mystery that makes a tree live - the simple fact that a tree is.

Eyes like the sky

Eyes like the sky. That's what they said. And I can see why. You could catch a ride on the wings of a bird and sail a thousand winters through those eyes. You can feel the warmth as the rays of sun glimmer out between each wink, like shards of light shattering the passing clouds. Even your tear drops grace your face, like morning dew. Sunrise shades match the softness of the hues as you gently awake, and there’s nothing but your heart sketched upon your gaze. Yes, they were right, and i can see why; Eyes like the sky.

Place of dreams

The cover of the book said: “England: Place of dreams.” It sat on the bench, amongst an organised mess. There were cigarette butts lying on the ground - 6 of them, all in a line. 5 bottle caps strung round a piece of old thread. 2 plastics bags tied to the wooden bench legs. A torn woolen blanket folded by a cardboard bed. A scratched metal tin, with paper aeroplanes in. And a note poked out between the book pages, with child’s writing scrawled in pencil lead. This is what it read: “Daddy, these planes are for you. Come back soon.”

His warrior cry

He'd made a sword from sticks and cord, and ran through the trees chanting warrior cries. Little feet left scattered imprints in the muddy pools that laced the woodland floor, and in-between each cry a happy stream of song filtered through the sky. Then suddenly, without warning, he froze.

The scene before my eyes was like a print forming as a polaroid dries... no sound, aging colours, mist hanging heavy all around. And i found myself gasping, trembling, awaking from another grieving dream... my insides longing for this child again, longing for the promised morning, when joy replaces pain.

Two

You only spoke two words, but those two words spoke to me a thousand more. Two slurred sarcastic words.. and two shattered hearts; yours was the pain, but as you spoke, it pierced me too. Your left temple wore two ruby cuts, two eyelids pressed upon two bloodshot eyes.. wet streaks glistened out from underneath. Two arms intertwined round wooden posts, holding all your weight. But here is grief: you are not two, you are just one; you are alone. Yet here is hope: I am with you, the words of One who walked this earth two thousand years ago.