A poem for Good Friday

inktuition good fridayI’ve always wondered what was hiding in Good

about a Friday that foretells a death,

where a revered man is nailed to a cross

with the scent of vinegar on his breath.

Dying he destroys our sins

is the story I’ve been told.

But what the story means to me

is a transforming that will unfold.

I had to explain, one random year

To an au pair of Easter knew nought.

So I explained that trust and hope and faith

can get lost in the cycles we’re caught.

  

We’re meant to believe that all will be right,

when cometh that sacred relief,

But when agony pricks the white of my eyes

I’m tumbling into my own grief.

Metaphor’s the cross, I know all of that

because problems resolve in their time.

Let it go, they say. Let fate do its work,

let your bum note again find its rhyme.

A poem for the Paschal Moon

A show-off moon looms loud above,

eager, serene and yellow with love.

The moon this year is bigger than most.

It makes me reflect on my unfulfilled ghost.

It stops my tracks, makes me stand in awe

at its light, its bright, its symbolic draw.

Not just your everyday, every-month moon,

the Paschal is rounder and makes me attune

to the wonder of nature, a great work of art,

to the bigger forces surrounding my heart.

Am I true to the light, the generous gaze

of her majestic roundness, her heavenly hurrahs?

I Am Enough: a poem to fight feeling ‘less than’

When somebody makes me feel less than,

Says I’m too much can’t, not enough can,

There’s a fear that jellies my thighs,

And my heartbeats double their size.

 

My essence of soul gets lost

As my fingertips turn to frost.

And I scrabble to save my self-esteem

As it’s chased by monsters in my dreams.

 

My sense of self loses all its shape,

My presence shrivels like a sad old grape.

As I creep away, full of blame and gall,

The shivers of shame make my skin cells crawl.

 

I feel nothing of worth, my confidence kicked,

My value rusted, my optimism pricked.

I retreat to a cave, all dark and dank,

Knowing I’ve only got myself to thank.

 

But at my core there’s a flicker of flame.

Really, this time, is it same again?

Will I let them all tread

On my bowed, mournful head?

Or will I rise from the wreck of this feel-sorry stuff

And say to the world: “I am enough!”