Story

If yesterday is history
And tomorrow’s a mystery
Today is His story
That He blends with my story

Can you ever tie together all the loose ends of your life; and if you did, what would it look like?

Afraid knot.

Thinking
Thinking is a funny thing.
If you think about it.
Chemical reactions & neural impulses
Are interpreted
By our consciousness
Into comprehensible cognitive concepts and inexplicably incomprehensible ideas.
Such as this poem.
Which is funny
If you think about it.

Thinking time – when mouths take a break and the brain gets a chance.
Thinking thyme – when a cook’s brain takes a chance and mouths get a break.

Life’s not fair
Do we ride the reincarnation merry-go-round?
Are we playing the wheel of fortune?
Will we float through crystal mazes to enlightenment?
Or splash at the end of a humanist flume?
Is it a scream on a hedonistic ghost train?
Or white knuckles on the oblivion rollercoaster ?
Do we get the prize regardless of our score?
Must we get onto a divine high score table?
What if none of these rides work,
And it really is not fair?
If a unique ride has been invented
Which the Designer wants us all to share.
What if he’s the track and the carriages
And he’s made it totally free
It’s the ride of your life, stretching
From here to eternity…

apologies to Mr Wordsworth

I wondered lonely in a crowd
why poets think they’re allowed
to mess with words as if they’re owed
artistic licence for writing odes.

Strike a light
The colours have gone on strike in the city:
all that remain are shades of grey.
Grey skies drape over grey buildings,
grey streets are filled with grey fumes.
At night, grey lights probe grey shadows
so that grey people can see outside their grey homes.
Occasionally, to shouts of, “Scab!”
a patch of green will attempt to break the strike.
But technicolour flying pickets usually persuade them
to rejoin the strike and demand better working conditions
Some colours do remain: changing shifts
regularly on a job-sharing scheme,
They too might join the strike, however,
if people keep ignoring them
in their grey cars
© 1995 Nick Lear

X-stream thoughts
Who’s responsible for ‘extreme sports’?
someone must be to blame.
Who first thought it was a good idea
to throw themselves off a bridge
with their feet tied to an elastic band?
And who decided it would be fun to hurtle down mountains
on a tea tray?
Or jump off them with a parachute?
Which allegedly sane individual imagined that climbing sheer rock faces
without so much as a safety net
was a bit of a laugh?
Was there a committee responsible for the idea that riding a bicycle down
tracks shunned by mountain goats
would be kinda neat?
What made someone think,
“Let’s ride the rocky rapids
in a flimsy rubber boat?”
And who said it has become cool to pull terrifying tricks
on a roller skate strapped to a plank?
Who’s to blame for this seemingly endless stream
of new ways to nearly kill yourself, yet live to tell the tale?
Usually.
Whoever gave us adrenaline and told us to live life to the max
is surely responsible
for all our irresponsibility.
© 2003 Nick Lear

prayerpome

I wish I could pray like Teresa:

I wish it just came to me quick

she’s so calm and serene and so godly

and I only pray like, erm, Nick.

When Teresa prays we all listen:

with ears pricked and mouths open wide

in awe at the depth of the insight

that comes from her saintly inside.

I wish I could pray like Teresa:

with words that are gentle and kind

pastorally sensitive praying

not the first thing that comes to my mind.

I wish I could pray like Teresa:

a top-notch grade 1 intercessor

while my stuttering words come weakly

in rough phrases that fail to impress her.

Teresa’s prayers are always so perfect:

fluently considered aforethoughts

that flow from her mouth like a poem

that rhymes and resonates like it ought.

I wish I could pray like Teresa:

expressing the depths of her soul.

but God doesn’t want me to be her

he just wants me to say what I think… even if it doesn’t rhyme or make much sense