Tag: poetry

The Natural History Museum

The queue is long, the sun is shining down
upon the gathered hoards. With cameras primed
and guidebooks open ready for the day
they wait, though some more patiently than others.
Then, urged on by the bells, the great beast moves,
slithering its way towards the doors
like some vast prehistoric serpentine.

Transitioning from warm to cool, from light
to dark they make their way into the hall –
presided over by that well known frame,
which once inspired great fear, but now brings joy,
delight upon the faces of both young
and old, as Dippy watches over all.

Then from the central chamber’s beating heart
the crowds, like blood, are pumped around the whole:
through corridors, round galleries, up stairs.
And as its hushed tones rise towards a roar
the dormant building slowly comes to life.

This ancient silver-speckled behemoth
stands proudly as a creature in its prime
Sharing its age-old wisdom with the world
Revealing the secrets of another time.

© Rich Clarkson 2016

0

The Little Cloud

Scudding across the sky like a gleefully skimmed stone
The little cloud made her way speedily home
Back towards the mountain where her journey began
In the gully on the hillside where the little stream ran

But the gully on the hillside seemed deeper than before
And the stream a little quicker to the valley floor
And the journey to the river and the river to the sea
Wasn’t quite what the cloud remembered it to be

Then the waves in the ocean and the pull of the sun
Reminded the cloud why she found this ride such fun
And as she got ready to turn back into rain
She cried out to her friends “Come on let’s do that again!”

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

Mind the Gap

I wonder what mysteries lie in the gap
‘twixt platform edge and train.
A place where lost footings and favourite toys go,
never to be seen again.

I wonder what creatures lie in the shadows
awaiting the opening door,
Looking for ankles that misjudge the leap
From carriage to station floor.

I wonder what pressure makes platforms recoil
When the train rolls to a stop
Turning slit into canyon, crack into rift,
Groove into bottomless drop.

But do not fear the looming gap
Nor mind the impending height,
For the dark may be conquered with one simple step
So take care as you alight.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

The Session

The gathered few share tales and songs
As drinks are poured and memories raised,
And all join in, and all belong.

The tunes fly past the nearby throng,
Some are left cold, others amazed.
The gathered few share tales and songs.

There is no right, there is no wrong,
Songs are enjoyed and not appraised,
And all join in, and all belong.

Some know their craft, their voices – strong
With rounded tone – are neatly phrased.
The gathered few share tales and songs.

Some, though unconfident or young,
Still play their part, receive their praise,
And all join in, and all belong.

And when all voices sing along,
The rafters of the roof are raised!
The gathered few share tales and songs,
And all join in, and all belong.

© Rich Clarkson, 2016

0

Existentialism

I exist. (I think…)

I think I do?

I do! (I know!)

I know I learn,

I learn, I find,

I find I see.

I see I am…

I am… I hope…

Me.

© Rich Clarkson, 2016

0

Second Chance

I’ve often wondered whether, given a second chance,
I’d not just do the same thing as before?
Whether the benefit of hindsight or a change in circumstance
has made any kind of difference at all?

Sometimes, in an idle moment, I wonder how it would play out
if I had to go and do it all again.
But for all I’ve grown in wisdom, and for all I’ve learned about
the world, I know my weaknesses remain.

Now I could find this depressing, let it creep into my mind,
watch bitterness and self-doubt grow apace,
or I could, when sat reflecting, be honest about what I find
accept my flaws and surrender to grace.

Mistakes? they make us human. Regrets? they help us learn.
A backwards step can help us to advance.
We none of us are perfect, however hard we yearn
so go on, give yourself a second chance!

© Rich Clarkson, July 2016

0

If

If a pacifist identifies fifty different rifles
If a squiffy drifter sniffs a whiff of aperitif
If an aquifer calcifies manifold cuneiform artifacts
If a shifty grifter testifies to terrifying a housewife
If a sheriff in midlife swiftly modifies his lifestyle
If a scientific lowlife recodifies conifer diffusion
The ramifications will be terrific

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

Bees

What’s happening to all the bees?
If you know do tell me please!
Have they found a better life,
Free from toil and work and strife?
In a field of endless bloom
With lots of nectar, and with room
For all the bees from all the hives –
How I hope they’ve all survived!
As I think about it now,
Perhaps they’ve gone to join the cows
Where grass is green and sky is sunny –
In a land of milk and honey!

© Richard Clarkson, July 2016

0

Je Suis Prêtre

Behind the altar candles gently burn.
A wisp of smoke dances then fades away
as Father Jacques, too old for dancing, pauses.
Another morning Mass, another day.
For many years this man of peace has stood here
in service of his people and his Lord.
In joy and pain, in sorrow and in rapture,
a constant beacon in a darkening world.
But as he scans the faces of the faithful
two unfamiliar visitors appear
and, in those final moments at the altar,
he knows that perfect love which drives out fear.
Your service ended, Ite Missa Est.
Faithful servant enter now your rest.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

The Apple Tree

Producing fruit is hard, just ask the apple tree:
It takes the right conditions, it takes time and energy
to turn the blossom’s beauty into vessels for the seed
but in due season, when it’s ready, fruit will come.

You can’t expect a Pippin in a February frost,
or a heaving bough of Coxes on the feast of Pentecost
and come September, when the Braeburn’s bare, it may seem all is lost
but in due season, when it’s ready, fruit will come.

There is wisdom in the seasons, in the cycle of the year,
in the ebb and flow of fruitfulness across the biosphere
for, even when the winter bites, and hunger turns to fear,
in due season, when it’s ready, fruit will come.

It may be hard when harvest is a struggle and a chore
when the bounteous crops of yesteryear are memories, no more,
but in Jesus we are branches, grafted firm and sure
and in due season, when it’s ready, fruit will come.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

Holy Hill

Come let us ascend this holy hill,
direct our feet towards the house of God.
We walk where countless saints before have trod
and, in years to come, yet more saints will
discover whence the living waters flow.
Unsteady feet for some, uncertain minds
for others yet all come to seek, to find,
to pray, to learn, to reconcile, to grow.
Come, turn your gaze past scaffold and boutiques,
past market stalls and shops and chained up bikes,
past memories and future fears alike
for, in this moment, Christ alone we seek.
And in the shadows of this holy place,
within these well worn stones we glimpse his face.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

0

The Hippopotamus

The hippopotamus, the ‘river-horse’.
Not like our English horses: docile, tame,
With their sugarlumps and carrots, while their force
Is harnessed for our service or our games.
But to the Greeks a ίππος* was no pet.
To all who in its way would dare to stand
It was wild and dangerous, a threat.
The ίππος. War horse. Conqueror of lands.
Then there’s the ποταμος*, the river. Wide
With vast, unbridled power when in flood,
Its shadow harsh and desolate when dried.
In wax or wane with power of life and blood.
Untameable. Unyielding. Dangerous.
The ‘river-horse’, the hippopotamus.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2015

*
ίππος = ‘hippos’
ποταμος = ‘potamos’

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑