when I sit alone
in the place of solitude
or half hearted silence.
I sit and think -
or pray -
or maybe just sit,
and wonder at the much defined
order of the creators’ heavenly things,
somewhere between the harps and the violins.
And in my pondering
I sometimes think that whoever
is in charge must raise an eye
and think me maybe just a bit obtuse
for being, so the others tell me,
resident of a different kettle of fish.
For I’ve tried to follow paths of wisdom
handed down from father to son
but still the legacy road seems dry
In learning how, but never why.
So, sometimes when I sit
in the place of half-hearted silence
the voices of superior reproach
leave me still wandering, not journeying.
And, with the waft and weft of faithful doubt
I wrestle with the mindful ways of men,
and pray, or think, or pray, or sit
and wonder whether whoever is in charge
(assuming someone is, of course),
thinks me to be the oddest of fish?
And as the silence closes round
my time of thinking, or praying, or thinking.
I wonder (once, even out loud)
whether in the fishy future of my fate
there will be scope and time for little me,
to be really known, seen and loved?
And in the quiet breath of prayerful whisper,
God, in her wisdom,
Jon Doble June 2020
Cockneys don’t believe it.
Why on earth would there be forbidden fruit
in a world where beauty awakens souls
to act each day with fresh fruits of passion,
And in the succulence of daily bread
find the sustenance of fully living.
When the promise of long awaited cheap redemption
creeps unnoticed past its’ sell by date of shame,
the fat lady fails to sing, and I am reminded
that, at the very heart of her passionate soul,
St Jude is an eternal optimist.