10-04-2014, 10:35 PM
Edit one.
A Sunday fishing prayer.
i
If I turn my face away
don’t take it as a sign
that I’ve lost faith in you.
ii
The plough share in my hand
has crumbled into salted grains.
furnaced in your love,
tempered by your word,
glass remarks are moulded and made,
a broad edge buried to the hilt
in the quicksand of my prayerless mire.
A sword broken into shards;
slivers of sibilant words
that slide into the place,
where the unsaid shibboleth resides.
But still sharp enough to cut the cloth,
the gilded purple of titled deeds.
Breathing dissent from breast to breast,
they tease out their intent;
sweet little murmurs that tickle and please
those busy little PC bees!
Droning on in broadsheets;
honeyed up at the meet ‘n greet.
They hive themselves in fixed pews;
passive mutes that drip saccharine invites
to the broken and blind. Serve cheap tea
coffeeish and wilk* to the weak.
Luring others to join them to rest and recline
on plump cushions, waiting to dearly depart.
Place me in the park, where the children meet,
playing piggy in the middle – “let's eat!”
Lead me to roam down lonely roads
where dead fellows are needled
by the voice of green sweetmeats.
Here I’ll fellowship with coke and chips
and pass over the stale disks, dipped
in Burgundy, being washed in plattitudes.
iii
And if you turn your face away
I won’t take it as a sign
that you’ve lost faith in me.
Your cloak has covered my feet
for the faceless, fippled night;
I’m happy fishing in the dark.
*watered down milk.
WARNING SPOILER.
A fipple is a constricted mouthpiece plug for an instrument. (often wood) I have used it here to convey an image of a moonless and silent night, but obviously in connection to the metaphor for God looking away from the church and no longer speaking to her corporately. Wondered if this actually worked for anyone?
Not sure fippled is even an actual word...but then I have used the same device in furnaced and steepled !
Original.
“Sunday - Gone fishing”
i
And if I turn my face away
don’t take it as a sign
that I’ve lost faith in you.
ii
The plough share in my hand
has crumbled into grains.
Your furnace love and lightening strikes
made glass remarks
in the quicksand of this prayerless mire.
This sword has turned to shards,
slivers of sibilant words
that slide into the place
where the unsaid shibboleth resides.
Still sharp enough to cut the cloth,
the gilded purple of titled deeds.
Breathing dissent from breast to breast,
they tease out their intent;
sweet little murmurs that tickle and please
the busy little PC bees!
Droning on in broadsheets;
sucking up at the meet ‘n greet.
Those earthly tents of steepled stones
might hide dry bones and shallow lives,
but no amount of cushioned pew warming
will win lost hearts and minds.
Redemption is counted in feet and pounds,
crushed into love, poured out for those who rebuff
the empty air hugs; talking cynical and acting tough.
Place me in the park, where the children meet,
playing piggy in the middle – “lets eat!”
Lead me to roam down the lonely roads
where the dead men walk, among
the needles on the streets.
Here I’ll fellowship with coke and chips
and pass over the disks of bread
dipped in Burgundy;
washed down with watery words.
iii
And if you turn your face away
I won’t take it as a sign
that you’ve lost faith in me.
I know your love still covers me,
but this night is long and moonless
so I’ve gone fishing in the dark.
I need to post up a late credit for L5& 6 in St6 found myself humming a tune this afternoon and realised with horror that i had stolen these lines from a song. Kevin Prosch "Love is all you need" (I will try to edit later..shame I think these are the best two lines in the poem...which figures consider they are somebody elses work!)
A Sunday fishing prayer.
i
If I turn my face away
don’t take it as a sign
that I’ve lost faith in you.
ii
The plough share in my hand
has crumbled into salted grains.
furnaced in your love,
tempered by your word,
glass remarks are moulded and made,
a broad edge buried to the hilt
in the quicksand of my prayerless mire.
A sword broken into shards;
slivers of sibilant words
that slide into the place,
where the unsaid shibboleth resides.
But still sharp enough to cut the cloth,
the gilded purple of titled deeds.
Breathing dissent from breast to breast,
they tease out their intent;
sweet little murmurs that tickle and please
those busy little PC bees!
Droning on in broadsheets;
honeyed up at the meet ‘n greet.
They hive themselves in fixed pews;
passive mutes that drip saccharine invites
to the broken and blind. Serve cheap tea
coffeeish and wilk* to the weak.
Luring others to join them to rest and recline
on plump cushions, waiting to dearly depart.
Place me in the park, where the children meet,
playing piggy in the middle – “let's eat!”
Lead me to roam down lonely roads
where dead fellows are needled
by the voice of green sweetmeats.
Here I’ll fellowship with coke and chips
and pass over the stale disks, dipped
in Burgundy, being washed in plattitudes.
iii
And if you turn your face away
I won’t take it as a sign
that you’ve lost faith in me.
Your cloak has covered my feet
for the faceless, fippled night;
I’m happy fishing in the dark.
*watered down milk.
WARNING SPOILER.
A fipple is a constricted mouthpiece plug for an instrument. (often wood) I have used it here to convey an image of a moonless and silent night, but obviously in connection to the metaphor for God looking away from the church and no longer speaking to her corporately. Wondered if this actually worked for anyone?
Not sure fippled is even an actual word...but then I have used the same device in furnaced and steepled !
Original.
“Sunday - Gone fishing”
i
And if I turn my face away
don’t take it as a sign
that I’ve lost faith in you.
ii
The plough share in my hand
has crumbled into grains.
Your furnace love and lightening strikes
made glass remarks
in the quicksand of this prayerless mire.
This sword has turned to shards,
slivers of sibilant words
that slide into the place
where the unsaid shibboleth resides.
Still sharp enough to cut the cloth,
the gilded purple of titled deeds.
Breathing dissent from breast to breast,
they tease out their intent;
sweet little murmurs that tickle and please
the busy little PC bees!
Droning on in broadsheets;
sucking up at the meet ‘n greet.
Those earthly tents of steepled stones
might hide dry bones and shallow lives,
but no amount of cushioned pew warming
will win lost hearts and minds.
Redemption is counted in feet and pounds,
crushed into love, poured out for those who rebuff
the empty air hugs; talking cynical and acting tough.
Place me in the park, where the children meet,
playing piggy in the middle – “lets eat!”
Lead me to roam down the lonely roads
where the dead men walk, among
the needles on the streets.
Here I’ll fellowship with coke and chips
and pass over the disks of bread
dipped in Burgundy;
washed down with watery words.
iii
And if you turn your face away
I won’t take it as a sign
that you’ve lost faith in me.
I know your love still covers me,
but this night is long and moonless
so I’ve gone fishing in the dark.
I need to post up a late credit for L5& 6 in St6 found myself humming a tune this afternoon and realised with horror that i had stolen these lines from a song. Kevin Prosch "Love is all you need" (I will try to edit later..shame I think these are the best two lines in the poem...which figures consider they are somebody elses work!)
