Tag: poetry

Roots

My memory is a woodland grove of trees
who, down the years, have joined with me in prayer.
For such a long time I was unaware
Of quite how deeply my roots joined with these
Companions who, while steadfast in their place,
Have walked with me on paths of pain and grace.
There was the Hawthorn, clinging to the rocks
Where I sought shelter from the driving rain,
The fragile Birch outside the window pane
Where we would pray beneath the tower blocks,
The Chestnut, lightning scarred yet resolute,
Into my prayers these trees have taken root.
So now, as I seek stillness for my praying,
I find their rustling leaves, their branches swaying.

© Rich Clarkson, 2020

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I Watched The Road

I sat and, for a while, I watched the road.
I watched the squirrel with the ragged tail
make her daily rounds in search of treasure.
I watched the pheasant, that fine fellow, stalking
puffed up as he crossed the pinstriped lawn.
I watched the crows, those jesters of the air,
make mockery of wind’s attempts to throw them
from almost imperceptibly fine perches.
I watched the pigeons fail to be like crows.
I watched the laden clouds drift slowly by,
looking for a better place to land.
I watched my squirrel friend leap gracefully
from ash to beech to chestnut. Then at last
I watched a car pass by. Once they were common,
their rumbling song would filter through the trees,
a flash of colour glinting in the sun.
But now, like other species under threat,
their absence leaves it’s mark on eye and ear.
And as I sat and watched, the space they left
was filled by squirrel, pheasant, cloud and crow.
I think I like this new view of the road.

© Rich Clarkson 2020

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Fox

I saw a fox last week. It sauntered past
The window where I sat and ate and watched –
Eyes bright, tail swinging low, a casual air
Belied the steady purpose in each stride.
Was she (or he) off hunting? Or perhaps
He (or she) was seeking out new ground,
New territory, a place to call his own
In this post-adolescent world. I do
Not know. The fox passed by and then was gone
A mere momentary glimpse, which lingered long
Impressing into memory, fleshed out
By stories half remembered, myths once heard
Not of this actual fox but of its kind.
I could not see the fox before my eyes,
Without the shadow of its reputation.
Yet this fox, in this garden, on this day
May not have been at all like foxes past.
How true that fox and human both alike
Are carried by a weight of expectation.
The burden of our past, our name, our kind,
Can cloud the way we see, the way we’re seen
Until we, fox and human both alike,
Lose that which makes me me, and makes you you.
Yet I am I and you are you and fox,
Dear fox who travelled through my gaze that day,
Is fox. And we are none of us the same.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2018

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The Beatitudes

I’ve been looking for Sonnet version of the Beatitudes for a sermon and couldn’t find one so I wrote my own!
(note: ‘blessed’ is one syllable, ‘blesséd’ is two)

Blesséd are the poor in Spirit who
for Heaven’s kingdom long with all their might
Blessed are they who mourn the dark night through
for they will see the comfort of dawn’s light
Blesséd are the meek, they shall be heirs
of all the earth. And blesséd are the ones
who hunger and who thirst for righteousness,
they shall be filled with that for which they long.
Blesséd are the merciful and pure
for in God’s mercy they shall see their Lord
Blessed are they who seek peace over war
to be God’s children shall be their reward
And you, when persecuted and hard pressed
for my name’s sake, you shall be truly blessed.


(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Quercus

I entered this into the Manchester Cathedral Poetry Competition (but didn’t win!)

​He sits there on the edge, skin gnarled and worn,
wrapped in a wrinkled overcoat – a size
too big – to keep the wind at bay. His gaze
takes in the water as the passers by
pass by. They come and go, he does not mourn
for those no longer seen by knotted eyes.
He used to set the Autumn sky ablaze
but he cannot remember how, or why.

A crow has the temerity to land.
I watch him as he deftly shrugs it off,
displaying his contempt with an irate
harrumph as the wind picks up, blowing in
a further feathered throng, filling the land-
scape like a fall of soot and snow. They scoff,
cackle and caw, their chorus swells, abates
as his reluctant shade stifles their din.

He stands there quivering, rooted to the spot.
After all these years, unnumbered days
of keeping watch amidst the wild and bleak,
he knows his place in the grand scheme of Things.
He is content now, youth’s longings forgot-
ten, no more need for flamboyant displays
just quiet pride. Leaves rustle, branches creak
as every fibre of his being sings
his maker’s praise.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Upon installing a new dishwasher

For many a year we have battled

At times being near overrun

As the mountains of crockery rattled

And the washing up failed to get done

But we will be vanquished no longer

No more shall we shed soapy tears

For today – oh what rapture! what wonder!

Our brand new dishwasher is here!

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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White Church

Entered in the Worldwide Whitchurch Weekend Acrostic Poetry Competition 2017

White church, which once stood high atop the hill
Holding holy vigil o’er the town
In ages past your faith stood firm until
The night your weathered walls came crashing down
Contained beneath that rubble lay untallied
Hopes and fears and prayers of those long gone
Undaunted by the task our forebears rallied
Rebuilding what was lost and moving on
Come now and see the town which bears your name
Held firm in faith and friendship once again

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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The Invitation

The invitation: Come and follow Christ,
walking in the footsteps of Saint Chad.
A pilgrim church, a diocese which tries
to walk the well worn ways of faith. Feet clad
with peace, armed with humility, we share
the love of Christ with all those in our care.
The steady beat of prayerful footsteps, heard
from track and towpath, high street, lane and alley,
fills this ancient landscape with the word
that God is here. From tower block to valley
floor the message goes out, seeking those
willing to wander where the Spirit blows.
Saint Chad reminds us of our true vocation:
To follow Christ, and heed his invitation.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

 

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Bible Memory Poem III (The Church)

Jesus said to his friends “you must go on without me
but I’ll give you my Spirit, tell everyone about me”
so his friends got together and shared everything
and thousands of people said “Jesus is king!”
They baptised them in water like Jesus had said
and each week remembered him in wine and bread
They prayed to God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
and spoke about Jesus to anyone who’d hear it
As time went by many saints followed God’s call
their actions and writings encourage us all
Now all round the world Christians share, pray and sing
because Jesus, our God, is our friend and our king

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Pugs

She goes to the shelter to look at the dogs
Her favourites are loveable snuggly pugs
She cuts out their pictures from old catalogues
And covers her walls with their wrinkly mugs
She takes them for walks in her click clacky clogs
And fills up their water bowls from plastic jugs
Posts pictures and stories on various blogs
She’s smitten, she’s spellbound, she’s got the pug bug

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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Snail

You can call it slow, laid back or ponderous
Lazy, plodding, hesitant or tedious
You can call it tardy, bullish or thuggish
But please don’t ever call a snail sluggish

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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Poetical

The preacher felt prophetical
While waxing homiletical
About the saints ascetical
He used skills exegetical
To make points hypothetical
Analogies genetical
(albeit parenthetical)
Though seemingly noetical
Were mostly just synthetical
The choir were sympathetical
To teaching catachetical
But all the rest were skeptical
Though it was quite poetical
It seemed rather heretical

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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