Name

Not in my name you cannot write
Or whine or make wine or right
The wrong suffered, my might
You cannot utter, my sight

You cannot claim, the night
Is just darkness to you, I AM,
But you are not, you are nothing but
Dust and wishful thinking in time;

And in shame.

The slight delay in exhaustion, the crime
You left late for combustion, the brine
In sea flats walked barefoot to isle
Of maybe or something or still breathing

That thing you call you, and cry in dark
You try as might, and fight in dark
You fight or flight, and run in dark, 

You, and it's always you, 

And I.

Sunday

Today I planned to leave my sins in Munich

But no hearing of confessions offered,

I will take them back with me,

Like an extra piece of luggage

Yet already I feel a bit relieved

Having heard other people's stories

In church, in the Olympic Park, in the hotel

Joyous people, victims, ordinary doers

Somehow, despite the horror of the 12

-- and, with an eye to the North West,

many more besides --

I feel a bit more human having been here today

I think of the mascot

Spitzer bought for his daughter 

Then walk the dunes in my mind

By the olympic lake

All tranquil yet reflecting

Death we all face

And evil in its wake

We all try to escape

Yet all who walked here today
Were human of the sort
Kazantsakis projected on
The Sky he tried to

Conjure in mist,  being
His own imagination
Yet providing relief
For his own doubtful belief.

So here we stand, all human

All fragile like tarps and tents

Extended in Olympic Park.

All making tbeir mark

Even if not celebs with hands

In wet clay but with prayers

Rising uphigh with hands held apart

In wet record of time.

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Shan

twas shan o’ ye tae dae that
tae mock yer tongue that’s
no for ye tae mock cos
it’s no yers, ne’er will be

how wid ye feel

ye daft ---- if ah hunt

yer kin doon

ken, yer kind and aw

Belief

What is worse:

To imagine someone exists
Or deny someone who does?
And well, does He?
We believe in Napoleon
Precisely 'cos he didn't fly
He only ravaged Europe
-- with learning, according to some --
And sent his men to die
Across fields frozen; that part,
No one seems to deny.
We believe in Julius Caesar
Because he didn't claim to heal
But he did know how to kill
-- yet also, more than his peers --
To put sword back in its sheath.
And then we have Christ
Whose life two millenia ago
Seems accepted by most
But the details of his life
And more so, what followed
Are a stumbling block.
There is authority in his speech
But miracles, by their nature
Are difficult (or impossible?) to believe.
It needs a second childhood,
A second birth.
One we hope, springs not
From stupid laughter
But His wise mirth.

( see Chesterton https://www.thecatholicthing.org/2012/09/06/his-mirth/ )

A Tale of Three Nations

In the land of Gog, Magog

None goes Nod, none runs amok

None save the many few who

Touch the Stuff of pretty blue

In the land of North and South

Nice work that bloomin plaster

Not quite happy ever after

But write it down, at least we do

In ways that only novelists do

Worlds apart we inhabit

Not quite shared but there you have it

We admit it, at least we do

In the land of East and West

A Union put to the test

Still, we look there for the best

We sing their songs, at least we do.