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Cutting the Grass |
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Growing in malevolence |
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I hear it straining, |
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easing blade by blade |
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through the dank dull earth. |
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God has His purpose |
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and today the sun is shining |
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encouraging the febrile will |
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to drive into remorseless life |
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a challenging of greenery; |
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disrupting equilibrium |
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menacing my time |
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aggravating my sloth, |
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making unwarranted demands |
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as sands run hourglass slim |
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within the eye blink of my life. |
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While all about His globe, |
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carnage, mayhem, ethnic cleansing, |
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and the crying out of children |
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goes unabated, while I, reluctantly |
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am barely moved to cut the bloody grass. |
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|
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Basil Griffiths |
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Dragonfly |
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|
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By probabilities’ fine balance |
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Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed all apart |
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teaching of both saint and sage |
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may not yet move to make belief. |
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|
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And even though |
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the silken universe |
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might not convince |
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the presence of some architect. |
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|
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Consider then |
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a sultry summer day |
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the wondrous artistry |
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the beauteous rainbowed symmetry |
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fine delicacy of its construct: |
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a one day hovering dragonfly. |
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|
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And simply ask, not purpose, |
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but what or whose creative touch. |
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|
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A Sense of Belonging |
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He waits for me. |
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When I arrive, |
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with all his warmth and beauty |
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he invites me. |
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Caresses with excitement and anticipation, |
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longing to stay. |
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|
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For a brief time, |
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I shall be all that I want to |
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lie in the sun and warmth of his spirit. |
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A sense of belonging. |
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|
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He reaches out from the sea |
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to the hillside. |
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Where I can be one |
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with him. |
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|
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For these precious days |
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I will answer to no one, |
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and be as one, |
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with Harlech. |
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Claire Syder |
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Power of Life |
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I want it all. |
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Find me. |
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Fill me. |
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With all I can be |
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beyond my expectations. |
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Ideas, dreams, emotions |
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burning excitedly |
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I will share with you. |
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Then only, have I lived. |
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|
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A selection of poems from |
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This is... |
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... Salem |
