Manifesto Translations Prose & Poetry Letters to B Musings Words Culture & Music Other Works Copyright
Official Site Q & A Biography Discography Concert Reports Magazine Reports Articles News Reports News Videos Pictures Pick of the Day Links

Thursday, July 24, 2014


Holy orders

Discarded Sacraments

       if by some

              chanced archaeological intent,
we discovered a discarded clay tablet
with engravings of some half destroyed sacrament,

writing only of love's ascent,
would it be from some grand hand
of an ancient prophet,

or written by a lowly being, simple
and unassuming, foolishly scribbling
what was felt

       in the first descent

              of feeling?

       and what would be

              its most important ceremony?
blessings of communion or union?
baptism by bread and wine?
redacted religious rites ordained
to be a means of divine grace;
a symbolic observance
to be the face of a spiritual reality,
       of a state of taste
given to being human; more than empathy,
more than just personalising
tragedy to broach understanding
that links to another --

       for if it be love

              surely it would be
a sacrament of democracy,
of passion and purpose, distilled through
the prudence of science,

where none is glorified above the other,
apart from life sanctified,
the human dignified:
       in our loving, eating, grieving
(let's just call it living)
where we shall loose black flags flying

when indignity comes half-mast
not only to our country,
but to the world entire: for in every family

there will be no universal blindspot
to only see the malady
of our closest neighbour;

       for love's sacrament

              surely would be a sign

       to how its power brings the widest periphery,
and there is no person so far
wherein we cannot see some similarity

of them in ourselves,
beyond the teams of pro- or anti-
factions and fractured mentions;
for in engravings that embed love's blessings
in the caves of the mind
we are all temporary patterns
in this worldly mime; and we are never
       the final versions of ourselves;
for we are more than thoughts
and more than hearts alone,
we are dreams combined of home
when love opens our mind to its loving --

       and our hearts

              to its way of thinking

       that if by some chance,
we are all part of the same buried soul,
some half-destroyed, discarded sacrament

absent of the love it came to speak,
should not each individual now
stand in line to receive its testament?

Man Made Sense

when I was a child I wished
god for something and when
it didn't come true I
asked my father why

and not believing
in such things he
said to me that

god does not grant our wishes
he allows the opportunities
for us to grant the wishes
for ourselves and others,

and when I grew up
I realised the man made sense,
and made sure I knew how
to make wishes come true

by loving, by accepting,
by accumulating the wisdom to know
that every new opportunity
is a wish that waits for you.

The Believer and the Sinner

break your edicts
not the human, or else
should a believer
not be a thinker?
for what divides a sinner
from the faithful
is a fine line no deeper
than a superficial
scar of human fear -
one just hides it better;

and the iconic symbols
we're so protective over,
killing each other
like zealous owners, are
just faithful associates
that pre-date to another,
in a fine line no deeper
than the superficial
scar of human fears -
that make us worse not better.

Read more from Handprints >>

Creative Commons License

© CC License 2004-18. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.