Sunday, 14 October 2018

'God is not in this atom'

God is not in this atom.
God is not in the nucleus
Of this atom.
God is not in a proton
In the nucleus
Of this atom.
God is not in a quark
In a proton
In a nucleus
In this atom.

God is too large for this atom.
God is to spirity to be seen.
So is the quark
In the proton
In the nucleus
In this atom
A vibrating string
Tying God's Almighty Shoe?

God isn't made of quarks or protons.
God is made of God.
God is God in all His parts.
And all His parts are God.
God is everywhere and everywhen -
From the godly head
To the godly toe.
God is the beautiful dawn
And the stinky underpants.

God knows what you're doing
Even if you don't knows.
God will guide you to the bookies
And then to church.

God is in love with you -
You and seven billion others.
But you're still very, very special!
As are all the seven billion others.
Hang on! You're special in a very special way.
Not in a very ordinary special way.

So let us pray:

O blessed atom!
Be me to thee for thou
And thus and therefore alike
Unto we shall be unto
All those evermore too.

Blessed thee to thee and to thee.
Yet more blessed than thou
And hotter in de heavens.

More wish less thou
As ever utmost to be
And more shall reign
Among thee.


Thursday, 11 October 2018

Nothing is Ever Enough

The emptiness arises within.
He realises that the latest goal,
Or the captured body (or love) of a woman,
Simply isn't enough.

When he achieves what he achieves -
It's not enough.
His sights are simply reset.
And the process begins again.
Contentment is never found.

Why is that?

It's not about the things he does or doesn't do.
It's about his mind itself.
It's about how he thinks about things.
It's about being not doing.
About cherishing the here and now,
Where and when he can.

Wednesday, 10 October 2018

Today Again

He awoke to others returning from work.
Lying there, in life’s clever time-killer.
All swaddled in moldy blankets - 
The easy means to snuff out each day.
The curtains blocked out the light. 
The blankets... the rest.

Another day to line up against the rest.
Lined up since his loss.
Now forward into old age.
Day after insipid day 
Merges into a feeble wave.

No vision.
No hope.
No new day for him.

Is it today again?

Tuesday, 9 October 2018

'The dog's a silly thing'

The dog's a silly thing.
It eat shit and shit bricks.
It do what it told - never more.
It wait like a patient thing 
For the master, 
Long since gone.
It wait and it wait on those who'll come.
Or so it think.

The dog is loyal.
It loyal to almost many; though not all.
Tell it, “Fetch!”
And it do fetch.
Tell it, “Beg!”
And it do too.
But tell it, “Speak!”
And it do nothing.

Dogs's a funny thing.
Unlike the selfish cats that plot the destruction 
Of the not-so nimble little brown mouses.
They know nowt of cats' horrid habit.

If dog be man’s best friend, 
Then man be dog’s best friend.
If that man’s got second-best friend, 
Then him too be the dog’s second-best friend.
And so on to infirmity.

Dogs? Don’t we love them?
Yes we do so.
Give them a bone and they’re forever friends… 
Or nearly so.

Dog don’t think themselves into dark holes.
They take the moment as it be.
Not as something before the next thing.
Dogs just be.
And that’s the way I’d like to be -
Snug in a little world 
That’s as small as the dog’s brain is tiny, too,
And very small.

Monday, 8 October 2018


Don't meet nature at the wrong time,
Or in the wrong place.
It will freeze your bones,
Or boil your blood.

The vastness overwhelms,
Or closes you in.
Ravines offer sharp heights
To entice or intimidate.
Malevolent mountains hover above
And snigger down at feeble selves.
Huge woods choke and smother -
Take your breath away.
Their dark, dank insides
Threaten with perfect silence.

Moors suck you into bogs -
Blast away with wind and rain.
The heather snares your poncey boots;
Dragging you back – again and again.
Tall ferns loose you -
Send you to the beginning - or the end.

High above, hawks hungrily patrol -
Their eyes on the meat below.
Insects nibble through skin
Into raw flesh.
Ticks bite, suck,
Spit bacteria into the blood.
Flies cloud the vision
And harass open mouths.

This is what you get -
Nature's many faces.
Nature kind. Nature mean.
And nature indifferent.
Nature can pose for a picture,
Or turn aloofly away.
Nature won't play your game -
Unless it wants to.

Tuesday, 2 October 2018

What a Man?

Was a man, 
Who did walk as tall (as tall as can be) 
As all the animals did too.
Had a oneness with himself - 
Oh, sweet yes!

Who lived in a hut 
Underneath the everlasting twitters
Of the neverlasting birdies.
And overneath the critters 
Which died under tenderless foot.
Had a twoness, too, 
With his beast friend, 
Deep down in the dankest wood.
So too deep for comfort, 
But unnot so for... and... joy.

But not he knew the where, 
The when, 
And the why (never far behind)
Of this small happy-ever-after of his.
Lived until his heart bled black blood 
(And that heart was as large as his body was up)
Upon the crunching leaves 
Of his last-ever earth’s Autumn.

Met this man on a yesterday, 
Because tomorrow never did come -
Until it did quite yesterday, 
When he so, so died!

In that past I’d “hello” 
On the top of my so-called breath.
But made sure (as sure can be) not to very befriend the friendless man.
Didn’t weigh him down with pretty talk -
Of all of a nothing, such pretty talk.
Spoke when spoken to. 
(Never after or before.)
And gloried in the silence 
Which knocked on the door
Of his oh-so-vast and wild.

He liked it on his own.
That’s the way he liked it - on his own.
And he did so like it, on his own.
He was the man to be with 
In the dark night of the stomach’s eruption
And that ever-lessening being.

He lived inside the mountains 
On the smiling stars
And in-between each everything 
That would let him be.
That’s as good as good can be - 
And never an inch more!
It was so verily good!

His life was the wild life.
A life that went up so far (but necessarily no more!),
Rather than down, deep down, 
To the death and the dead,
Who slept in their humble pile 
Between himself and the living.

Out in the sky, 
He’d catch the trout’s full flight 
(As it flew for flying’s sake),
That existed on its long tale.
And up too into the water 
He would snatch the bird 
From its nest of thorns -
Of very fine thorns.

When this man did die 
(And die it’ll be for us too),
He died with himself, and for himself.
Not one or a few did false tears cry.
Nor heat up the tea for the steaming belly 
In that waketype thing that’s oh-so-often had.
Nor did someone (or even no one) do anything that is something…
Something more than nothing less.
And this lessness of his iswas the best way to be
As was said by those unwritten books, 
Left unwritten in the tall man’s wild
And pretty damn world -
Pretty damn world!

Monday, 1 October 2018

'If I won the Lottery...'

If I won the Lottery I'd buy the most expensive packet of crisps in the world - the ones you see in M & S or something. I'd also buy some plush, thick toilet rolls and a super-posh bottle of wine - I don't know... for £6.99 or even for £7.99! I'd go on holiday all the way to Hull in a first-class coach, where I'd drink Morrison's whiskey all day on the beach. I'd invest in a nice new pair of pants, some nice thick socks and a nice new woolly jumper. I'd buy my mum a nice new chair and treat my wife to a nice lamb lunch in a posh pub. I'd buy my best mate a pint and lend him a bob or two. Perhaps I'd invest a tenner in a taxi firm or gamble on the Lottery again. Then I'd retire to Haworth and buy a nice house on a new estate. The house will have the thickest shag-pile in Yorkshire. There'd be a widescreen TV in every room – even in the toilet, where Id watch the footy and then use the plush toilet roll...