Tag: Poetry

Pride

Rainbow over Telly Tubby Hill Newhall, Harlow. posted by Steve Townsend on his Facebook page.

Pride

After the rain
we trooped with rainbow flags
past buildings spotlit by the sun
against the dark smudge of loaded clouds.

A straggling, motley bunch,
we gathered in solidarity
to share, to encourage
and to remember.

As we listened to rallying words
of inclusion and love
and the diversity of creation,
a seven-hued arc
flamed against the charcoal sky
– each colour distinct, yet
joined in song,
without need of borders or hard edges.

Making our song,
against the dark clouds of hate and menace,
more vivid and more resolute.

poem by Piers Northam
after a gathering in Harlow to mark the end of Pride month
30 June 2022

Spiritual sparks flew

photo copyright to Gabriel Pollard

Pentecost (Spiritual sparks flew)

They heard it, 
a distant rumble like thunder clearing throat
for some announcement,
an important cosmic moment perhaps?

Sky storm-dark, twists and spirals,
trembles as clouds are seared open,
rent asunder.
Thunder claps gleefully.

Wind blowing, strength growing, 
Growling, rushing towards its destiny.
It comes.

She comes,
To stir up lives.
Celestial expectancy
melds with devoted self-offering.

They gather.
They wait.

A sudden, violent cacophony of sound,
Wrenching, twisting, gyring.

Then heaven opened its treasures,
tongues of fire, cascading down.
Dervish flame, whirling ecstatically through the sky.
Descending, anointing,
love flowing into lives gathered for meaning.
Commissioned. Sent out.
Spirit filled joy-givers proclaim Jesus, bright God.

And so, spiritual sparks flew. *

[Mr. G. 6.6.2022]

*this phrase was suggested to me by an article I once read by Bishop Richard Harris.

Gethsemane

 ‘Keep watch’, he says,
but weighted lids pull me down
into the dark, deaf waters of sleep
and I drift – yielding consciousness…
Then strain to resurface again
to what’s unfolding.

He kneels, a stone’s-throw close,
his pleading just perceptible.
Yet he is far-off:
unreachable in his anguish.

As I sink back into the swaddle of sleep
I sense betrayal close.
Then voices and torchlight
yank me to the surface –
suddenly alert.

Now, he is calm –
resolved:
a still centre
in the uproar.

Fear’s chill seeps into me –
for he foretold denial:
will I have the courage to stay true?

Piers Northam
Holy Thursday 2022