Category Archives: poetry

The Aspiration

The Aspiration

Someone asked what I would be

I said to be a pastor

What I meant was not so broad

I meant a simple preacher

 

Along the way I caught a dream

To be a knowledge master

To engage the minds of the hoards

So I trained as a teacher

 

Was not to be as I snapped

The way ahead did not suit

My mind was blurred for many days

To counsel I then sought

 

No road a head so I felt trapped

No place to learn the route

I then asked “what is the way?”
Preach, or teach, help thoughts?

 

These were my aspirations

The dreams I dreamed at night

And the ways I trod by day

Did not grasp a plan

 

These goals formed a foundation

Though walking without sight

I heard the gentle shepherd say

“A minister to man”

 

I was to pastor souls of men

To preach and teach and counsel

The goal that God had in mind

To speak and really listen

 

Nothing seems to go to waste

But all part of His will

All of the things from which I’d haste

Of future days now glisten

 

A slow and glad process

 

A Mistaken Journey

I’ve written a lot about my journey.  I guess guests to my blog will have read some of the stories I have to tell.  Some aspects of my journey testify to the power of cowardice in my life.  Others stories speak about desert experiences.   Other still refer to that new Jerusalem that we now see as through a glass.

A Mistaken Journey

A Mistaken Journey

My job at the time was in Wellington’s CBD.  My home at the time wasn’t.  Rather, it was in Porirua, which I guess would be considered a suburb of the greater Wellington area.  This being the case, I would take the train to and from work.

The train station served as a portal between the worlds of work and home.  This particular train station had multiple platforms servicing multiple lines.

It was early in my “taking the train to and from work” experience when I found myself on a train going in a direction that wasn’t the one I had intended on.  The stations didn’t look familiar.  Was it my relative inexperience?  Or was as it because I had not committed to memory the station names and their order?

About 10 minutes in came the realisation that this was the wrong train – or the wrong train line at least.  What was I to do?  I did the only thing I knew to do.  Alighting at the next station, I crossed the platform and waited for the next train back to the station.

From there, I made doubly sure that I was on the right train – the train to Porirua.  A mistaken journey that meant I got home late.  Late to walk through the unfamiliar and dark streets of a troubled town.  I made it home.  And the journey made its way into the annals of my memory.  And these annals serve as a rich repository of potential blogging topics.

 

Like a Desert

My mouth was like a desert

My tongue was hydrophobic

As I drank water

Like a Desert

 

Xerostomia (also termed dry mouth[1] as a symptom or dry mouth syndrome[2] as a syndrome) is dryness in the mouth (xero- + stom- + -ia), which may be associated with a change in the composition of saliva, or reduced salivary flow (hyposalivation), or have no identifiable cause.

Like a Desert

This symptom is very common and is often seen as a side effect of many types of medication. It is more common in older people (mostly because this group tend to take several medications) and in persons who breathe through their mouths (mouthbreathing). Dehydration, radiotherapy involving the salivary glands, and several diseases can cause hyposalivation or a change in saliva consistency and hence a complaint of xerostomia. Sometimes there is no identifiable cause, and there may be a psychogenic reason for the complaint.[1]

 

Hillary’s Law Calls for Parental Notification

Having faced the attempted suicide of her teenage daughter, kiwi mum petitioned the government, asking that there be a law change.  Hillary’s Law calls for parental notification in cases where there teenage daughters are taken by education providers for abortions.

Sadly, the Select Committee decided the consequences of parents knowing what’s happening to their daughters is not something they are willing to contend with.  Instead, it’s better that no parent know what’s going on.

This is my poetic reflection:


Hillary’s Law Parental Notification

So your daughter needs a panadol

There is a much greater toll

In things of which you ought to know

 

She’s going on a school field trip

For that you’ll sign a permission slip

While others are lead away

Hillary's Law Parental Notification

Hillary is lost for words

Like her voice has not been heard

Other’s silenced too

 

Why can’t they know about their girls?

When treated like stolen pearls

Why darkness must you remain?

 

Kiwi parents, they ought to know

When daughters dealt a massive blow

That often proves too much

 

Daughters being whisked away

During the darkness of the day

To have more than just a panadol

 

What do they think behind closed doors?

When loving kiwi mum implores

To care is first to know

 

It’s not a question of consent

When innocence is being spent

One knows and so one cares

 

Hillary’s law has been shot down

Makes MP’s sadistic clowns

While daughters cry in darkness.

 

Layers and Slayers

Daily Prompt: Layers

How many layers are there in our society?

How many people with pretend piety?

How many people are playing divine?

How many saying “everything’s mine”?

 

How many call themselves “players”?

How many “scores” turn into slayers?

How many say that life is my choice?

How many say “I’ll silence that voice”?

 

How many call this kind of world “just”?

How many confuse love with lust?

How many assume that there’s no cost?

How many “found” really are lost?

Daily Prompt: Artist’s Eye

The artist’s eye

Is there a painting or sculpture you’re drawn to? What does  it say to you? Describe the experience. (Or, if art doesn’t speak to you, tell us why.)

Once I went to a Guggenheim exhibition at an art gallery in Dunedin.

My motive had little to do with my love for or proficiency in what many would call “art”.  I never did get the whole draw a bowl of fruit thing – or at least not in a way that would distinguish my art from that of a 3-year old.  My clay boot wouldn’t have fit even the flattest of feet.

I remember the bus struggling in its lowest gear to get up a hill.  It’s that hill I swear travellers must ascend before descending into the hole (literal) that is Dunedin.

I also remember doing some form of printing – the kind that involved a hard rubber roller.

Art is perhaps too broad a classification.  It is said of many things “It’s more an art than a science”.  I once started a Bachelor of the Arts.  The English paper in which I was required to interpret the film Once Were Warriors through the lens of the Treaty of Waitangi – that was a bit arty.  But political science and sociology?  One has science in the title.

English, as a subject to be studied, probably wouldn’t be considered a visual art for which one would need eyes to produce or appreciate.  So in terms of my academic history, I have not exercised an artist’s eye.

Poetry as art

Is there any irony in the fact that there are categories within this website dedicated to poetry?  Is poetry not an art?  That would be the extent to which I possess the artist’s eye.  Beyond that, as far as it concerns the visual arts, I am blind.

I don’t mind

Being blind

To what some call art

I’ve been left behind

What some call sublime

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have an arty heart.

When Once a Little Boy

A king
A fighter
A singer
A writer

From little boy
To David: King
He played guitar
To dance, to sing

Anointed king
While still a lad
He then served Saul
His heart made glad

Saul knew his plight
He’d lose the crown
The next in line
He would hunt down

By God’s grace
David was spared
As Saul drew close
God was near

David knew God
His hope secure
Saul grew corrupt
The crown seen clear

Soon a new king
On Israels throne
That little boy
Of sling and stone

A king
A fighter
A singer
A writer

what do you know?

It’s said they know the God of truth

Yet they reject all earthly proof

All men do know our God at base

But more in wrath than in His grace

 

In sin they thus disown His name

This to their eternal shame

For all the truth is plain to see

Unless the mind’s at enmity.

 

Natural man cannot receive

What those born again believe

To him they are but foolishness

Suppressing them in foolishness.

 

“You must be born again”, He said

Or is it that you’ve never read:

“New eyes you see, ears you hear.”

Knowing truly begins with fear

~what do you know?~

 

Self control

Self-control that comes by grace

As chocolate bars are what I face

To indulge would be a waste

I hear a Voice saying “taste”

 

“Taste and see that I am good

Better than all earthly food”

I don’t resist because I will

Else I would be indulgent still

Titus 2:11-14

For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation for all people, 12 training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in the present age, 13 waiting for our blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ, 14 who gave himself for us to redeem us from all lawlessness and to purify for himself ta people for his own possession who are zealous for good works.