Bare branches showing


Bare branches showing
Cold winds come blowing
Stealing this year away
Curlews are calling
The light now is falling
Dark nights are drawing in

There’s a crack in the church bell
There’s ice in the stairwell
Take care my love
Take care.
Close tight the windows
The day is only shadows
Come sit by the fire
With me

The far distant hillside
Is laced up in moonshine
No thoughts of the valley
Below
And maybe tomorrow
We can beg steal or borrow
Some time for just me
And just you

This house is now sleeping
Old floorboards creaking
The warmth’s all but gone
From the fire
So lets climb these stairs love
Dreams waiting a-bove
Let me lie in your arms
Again

Bare branches showing
Cold winds come blowing
Stealing this year away
Chris Goan, September 2007

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Lost coins

The M6 unrolls it magic carpet in the early evening light
And the hills of Lancashire draw me close in welcome.
Though my life is blessed now in a land of milk and heather honey
Still I look across this scarred land
Softened by green growth
Seeded with my memories
And feel close to home

Rivington
Alan, Peter and me
Pounding and panting up the steep tracks
To rest and recuperate at the heady height of the Pike.
Above us only the TV masts poking the whispy cloud,
As in front the lights of Chorley flicker on.
Horwich is hidden by the curve of the land
And in the far distance, the flat lands meet the sea at Blackpool.

Closer, held in the folds of the fields
Along the old roads
Stand stone houses, built out of the quarries at our feet
Falling into the creases of the earth like lost coins
Hidden treasures.

Here was my world.
My place of communion.
My Eden
Or so it seems with hindsight.

Now I pass through, driving south
And a little rain makes the road ahead darker
In the warm car, surrounded by a sleepy family
I grip the wheel gratefully
But with a sadness
Move on.

© Chris Goan 24.5.05.

The wonderful gift of empty days…

Today is Saturday.

And we have nothing planned.

No visitors are coming to stay (although I love having visitors.)

We have no major tasks at hand (although there is great fulfillment in a job well done.)

I am not on duty (and work can just go hang for a while…)

I do not have to worry about planning church stuff for tomorrow- after years and years of weekend church business, I now can enjoy the occasional sabbath…

Sure there are many things that I could/should be doing- gardening, cleaning, decorating, sorting out, planning for the upcoming Aoradh event. But I feel no pressure to do any of these things.

I may just so nothing…

And days like this, they are like sonnets. And they turn me all poetic.

Slow Saturday

Saturday morning
You and me
Stacked like school chairs
Racked together like delicious dishes in the dishwasher
Quilted by the wonderful possibility
Of an empty day

Me holding you
You wearing me
Like a film star in a fur coat

You told me that I had fallen back to sleep
And that you liked the sound of my snoring
And I curled closer

And the chatter of a blackbird outside our bedroom window
And the sound of slow diesel engines out on the estuary
The creak of boards as Will heads for an appointment with a pokemon
All these sounds of the approaching day
Are beautiful

Like you

So open up day
Like an Alpine picture window

I’ll put on the coffee

13.09.08

On our anniversary…

Today Michaela and I have been married 18 years.

18 years! Where did the time go?

But I am blessed.

Michaela- you formed the best part of me, and I love you more now, than ever…

Michaela avoids cameras- but here are a few recent photo’s…

And here is a poem- old romantic that I am.

Evolution

There’s a billion years of history
That starts in oozing slime
But it makes no sense to me
It has no human rhyme

The vastness of the universe
The emptiness of space
This has no part of me
It has no human face

If I knew the time when
All time will meet its end
All would still be meaningless
Without you my friend

For as you wake
The morning mists your eyes
And in the afternoon
The sunshine shows your smile
And as the evening slips into the night
Your hair is dancing in starlight

For Michaela 2002.

Fragile circles of life

All around us, life is circling.

Some circles are big, some very small.

Insects that live a whole life in one of our days. Breakfast sees the end of childhood, lunch the weight of middle age responsibility, tea time the creaking of age, and with night, the sleep of the dead. Until the next generation comes into being.

Or consider the life of these tall trees.

Each slow forming ring of growth, evidence of their elevation over our own anxieties.

Each falling leaf layering the soil, laying down the food for the coming spring.

Each spreading branch offering the arm of shelter to a thousand lesser creatures. And me.

Seeding slowly and deliberately.

But even the tallest trees

Will one day

Fall.

And what of us?

What of our life time? We tend to see our journeys as linear. Even then, perhaps we are comfortable with the now, less so with the tomorrow, and the future is a foreign country, were be dragons.

Away we go, off into middle distance – always forward, but often acting as if we are standing still.

But we are born not to die,

But to live.

To trace our own arc through this space of ours –

To windmill wide and open,

To love this life

And let it love us back

Perhaps unlike any of these other circles, we humans have this gift (this curse) of knowing

Knowing and seeking to know more

Seeking to connect and to overlap these circles-

Seeing where they depend one on the other

Seeing where they smash into one another

Vulnerable to the sharp jagged things

But capable

Of such joy

A slice of idol worship- Bruce Cockburn

Here is some footage of Bruce Cockburn playing the guitar. I think this bloke is incredibly talented- both as a guitarist, and a poet. I love his lyricism, but I discovered him because he had something to say- from the tradition of the traveling troubadour/protest singer.

Enjoy!

(He is not an idol really, but we all need hero’s I reckon!)

Blessed are those who are persecuted…

Blessed are they who are persecuted because of me…

Blessed are the unfashionable

Blessed are those who dare to be

Different

And blessed are those who receive the scorn2273church_in_poso.jpg

Of others, because they know me

Blessed are those who are guilty

By association

And blessed are those who become the subject

Of gossip

Blessed are they in stunted careers

And broken friendships

Blessed are those who

Know rejection

Because of my name

january_jan11guantanamobayarrivalproc.jpg And blessed are the prison bars

Blessed is the lash

Blessed are the roaring lions

Blessed are the broken bodies

Bless this human

Trash

Bless them in their suffering

Bless them in their pain

And give to them

The keys to my

Kingdom

From ‘the beatitudes’- the whole thing is here.

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Creation/Evolution 2- poets and butterflies

The first poem of the Bible concerns the origin of the world- the sweep of creation from formless void to the teeming tangle of animals, vegetables and minerals that make up this wonderful place that we live in. And perhaps most of all, this poem concerns the place of men and women in the order of things – our position in the mind and heart of God, as he unfolds his masterpiece.

This poem of the origin of all life has been one of those battlegrounds that men have argued over for centuries. Modernity, in all its scientific and analytical rigour, pinned the poem to board like a butterfly, and for a while, seemed to destroy its shape by pulling it a part – by measuring its width and depth, and finding no industrial application. From this world view, the poem is an irrelevance – it has no value to our understanding. Like the butterfly, its beauty and simplicity are categorised and filed, at best as a decoration to ornament the progress and rise of mankind.

Some religious people still try to defend the words of the poem. They too have it in a glass case of their own. For them, it has become a sacred artifact. Its words are open for analysis, but only by those who have the looking glass of correct doctrine, and anything that appears to question its absolute truth must be challenged and nullified, lest the power of the words be stolen.

But poems, like butterflies, were never meant to be pinned to boards, or kept in cases – they need to fly. Perhaps the truth of a butterfly can be measured in terms of its constituent parts, but much more than this, we understand the essence of the creature in the light of an early summer day, flickering and dancing in and out of the flowers, seeking nectar and spreading pollen – its flight seeming both impossible and triumphant.

I believe that the poem of life that has been given to us in Genesis is true. I am not a scientist, or a theologian – I am a poet. For poets, truth is given not as a blue print, or a mathematical equation, although these things are wonderful and creative in their own right. Poems bring meaning and beauty in the abstract, in order to make clear the obvious. They are often far more concerned with the why questions than the what, or the how. Poets should have no fear of scientists, who speak a different language.

As for those of us who have faith in the Creator God, I think we should also have no fear as we read the poem of life from the beginning of Genesis. We do not need to defend, or to stand against the scientific community. It makes us look stupid. Think of those folk in an earlier age who found their world view challenged by those who said that the world was not flat, and that rather than the sun turning around the earth, in fact we seemed to orbit the sun. This was the theological dynamite of the medieval age, and as such, was an idea suppressed by the religious powers of the day.

But God is not defined or limited by science – His was the art that birthed the science in the first place!

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…

Blessed are those whose spirit
Rises to meet mine

And who are never satisfied with

Easy compromise

Blessed are they who lay down their rights
To look for my righteousness

Blessed are they who quest

Beyond dogmadogma1.gif

Into me

Blessed are they as they as they escape
The confines of what is known

To search for more

Blessed are those who are vulnerable
And whose necks are stretched

To my sword

For it will fall

Kindly

And blessed are those dirty streets
Where rests

My manna

Blessed are they

For there I am planting

My Kingdom

Blessed are the peace makers…

An excerpt from ‘The Beatitudes’. The rest can be found here;

http://www.aoradh.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=123&Itemid=62

Blessed are the peace makers…

Blessed are those whose find themselves
No longer vindicated

By the failure of others

Blessed are those whose borders lie open

And whose cartographers no longer

Conspire

Blessed are those who put off
Their badge of office
peace.jpg
And reveal who they are

Not who they want to be

And blessed are those

Who lie down like a bridge
For others to walk upon

Whose sinews take the strain

Of two way traffic

And blessed are those who seek peace
In an age of war

And speak of love
In a time of revenge

Blessed are you

Sons and Daughters

Of the Most High God

Agents of

My Kingdom