Victim and victimiser When the whole world is at peace When night has fallen there is God’s face In the stars of the sky In the silhouetted land In my minds eye On the one I love On the one I ignore On the one I give On the one I give not On the one of my children On the two of my children On all of the children Is it my lot to wander gardens Walking barefoot asking pardon? I’m given a choice. Look inside Don’t be blind And Listen. Very. Quiet. Very. Hard. Concentrate, attend, be present. The victim and the victimiser Are just words and split factions States of being irrelevant to God So forget victimhood, being a victimiser God’s love dissolves, he is the great atomiser Exploder of the false self and selves Clear the decks, throw books from the shelves. God is all in all I am who am Yahweh.
Popular posts from this blog
Sea-Fret Fogbank at Start Point
Sea-Fret Fogbank at Start Point: Sea fret fog banks descend on this rocky peninsula, creating their own liminal space. Erasing the past and the future, time becomes a loop. Makes a tidal island of Start Point. Once before the fog came, maps were destroyed in the deluge of my grief. I was lost, moorless, drifting and dead calm in a place between land and land. This time my anchor is this lighthouse built on this rock and the sounding of this fog bell. Sea fret fog descends, but yet I stand firm. I feel my toes grip the moss on the rock. Land is obliterated, without compass I am ignorant of direction, it matters not. The fog bell sounds, a voice of low sonoration, waves of ultrasonic sound As the voice of God on the immensity of the multitudinous waters, it shatters the cedars and small houses drop into the ocean. The fog is a gateway, a place where the veil thins. Do not step out, for I know the cliff drops raggedly to...
Breast Diaries 4 Why is she going for counselling? Anger Grief Moving on Permission to let it go Waiting for the clog to drop Waiting for a meltdown. To freefall To turn herself inside out. And then will she stop being afraid? She have a hole in me that she has obsessively and compulsively filled with chocolate, alcohol, smoking, God, working, making my life so full she can’t think, food, keep fit, dancing, dieting, running, writing, making art, not in that order and some consecutively and some at the same time. She is gurning and grinding and consuming life like a great cement mixer. Stop being afraid? No that plague rat is her friend. Like an old sock in the basket, she has been turned and turned again. Theseus has visited her and tied his red string around her little finger, there will be no free-falling. Chemically induced menopause is sizzling her softly but melting is for butter in a pan. That clog has been dropped down a shaft, i...
Comments
Post a Comment