Running (Easter Poem)

Since I didn't manage Palm Sunday on time for anyone to use it this year, I'd better post an offering for Easter!  Here's a performance poem I've used many times in the past.  It works a little bit like 'We're Going on a Bear Hunt'.  Feel free to add actions for each of the bits in brackets and get everyone joining in.  The 'running, running, running, running" refrain is usually accompanied by very fast pats on the knees.

Running, running, running, running,

there's a girl running through a garden (mmm, pretty flowers)

and in that garden there's a stone

and behind that stone there's a tomb

and that's where they buried him,

the special one,

the saviour,

the one they all believed in,

that's where they buried him.

Running, running, running, running,

there's a girl running through a city gate (hustle bustle hustle bustle)

and outside that city gate there's a hill

and on that hill there's a cross

and that's where he died,

the special one,

the saviour,

the one they all believed in,

that's where he died.

Running,running,running,running,

there's a girl running to a house, (home sweet home)

and in that house there are stairs

and up those stairs there's a room,

and that's where they're crying for him,

the special one,

the saviour,

the one they all believed in,

that's where they're crying for him.

Running,running,running,running,

that girl runs up the stairs (huff puff huff puff)

she bangs on the door (bang bang bang bang)

and when they let her in

she shouts HE'S ALIVE!

the special one,

the saviour,

the one we all believe in,

HE'S ALIVE! AND I'VE SEEN HIM!

Running,running,running,running,

now there are two men running

they run out of the door (bang)

down the stairs (huff puff huff puff)

out of the house (home sweet home)

through the city gates (hustle bustle hustle bustle)

past that cross

into the garden (mmm, pretty flowers)

past that stone

into the tomb and -

it's true

he's gone

so now they're running, running, running, running

to tell the whole world about

the special one

the saviour

the one they all believe in

Have you heard yet?

Riding On A Donkey

It's a shame I didn't manage to post this in time for Palm Sunday; but then I only finished writing it about five minutes before The Rector went off to sing it to the children at the Palm Sunday service!  This is not the first time I've written a donkey-themed song to this traditional folk tune.  The Snail Tales Christmas donkey show has one too, with a verse for every story and, of course, the same chorus.

Jesus, with his group of friends
Going to Jerusalem
Called them near and said to them,
"Go and find a donkey!"

Hey ho and away we go
Donkey riding, donkey riding
Hey ho and away we go
Riding on a donkey

Two disciples went ahead
A donkey's colt away they led
When the owner asked, they said
"The master needs your donkey!"

Hey ho...

So they brought the donkey back,
Spread their coats upon its back,
And some more along the track
Where Jesus rode the donkey

Hey ho...

Crowds and crowds were gathering,
And they all began to sing
Loud hosannas to the king
Who rides upon a donkey

Hey ho...

Prologue from The Bridesmaid

This was my very first attempt at NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) way back in November 2006.  I only managed 25,537 words in the month, half the number a NaNoWriMo winner writes!  The novel was great fun, though; deliberately written in the style of Wilkie Collins, I'd only ever be able to publish it if I could travel back in time, but I'm proud of it nonetheless.  This was the opening of the book.

    So you wish to know what she asked me, Sir? I confess, I am affronted. Which other professional would you ask so impertinently, and be so arrogantly certain of a reply? Which trusted doctor or member of the clergy would give you an answer and betray such a confidence?

    Stay! I am neither doctor nor clergyman, though I could be both if you were rich and wished. I am anything to those who wish and can pay. Give me silver in my hand, and I'll tell you what she asked me. What, are you surprised now? No, Sir, it is your own heart you should search and reprimand! What am I to you? And what was I to her? Humble and low, providing a service for your money, that's all. Why deny it? Your conscience, as a gentleman, should be quaking; mine is clear. Reserve your shocked expression for yourself and your own desires and actions. If your pride allows you, you shall hear what she asked me.

(I see I have touched a nerve. His pride and doubt and disgust at me are making playthings of his face. But he will stay. That is my business; I am like Shakespeare's fool, allowed by maligned status to speak the truth and live, hated but untouched. There: his hand strays to his pocket. I live on the shillings taken from those whom I have persuaded thus far.)

    Why, she asked the same question they all ask, Sir. Male and female, high and low life, young and old, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief! Do you draw near it now?

    (The question I hear daily, nightly, whispering in the hearts of men and women. They are taught to ask it from the moment they are born. The Bible teaches them to ask it. Does it not say that he made them male and female? Does it not say that it was not good for the man to be alone? Creation teaches it, the rivers teach it running to the seas, the whole globe spins to the question she asked me.)

    Did you expect me to speak plain, Sir? That is not my art. The soothsayers never spoke plain. The oracle never spoke plain. I see that although you ask, you are afraid to discover. You need not fear, however. It is not the question she asked that makes you tremble. It is the answer I gave, and you have not yet requested knowledge of that. It is a brave and bold heart that would ask that question.

    (There! Now I have him. An appeal to his courage has left him defenceless. He will stay; he will ask; he has braced himself for the knowledge to destroy him, the noble soul. He does not see that it already destroys him, from within. The story is in his possession, not mine. For what do these people know, upon leaving me, that they did not know upon seeking me? Knowledge is only the worm that I have drawn out, like a skilled surgeon, and dangled before them to show them what was hidden, curled up inside their bodies and doing its subtle work.)

    You are very generous, Sir, with your gifts. I will be as generous with my replies. She asked me whom she would marry.

    (Did I say it was the question they all ask? It is, indeed, nearly the most frequent. There is only one other question above it. Girls ask whom they will marry, and men ask when they will die. But the two are in essence the same question; and it is equally unwise to know the answer to either. Wisdom, however, is not good for business.)

    I do not know the answer directly, Sir, that is not within my power. It is something only she could see. I told her the way to find out, since that is what she paid me to do. I can see that I am making you afraid again, and I do not blame you; even I feared when I saw her eyes, but my business is to foresee the future, not to alter it. She was given what she paid for.

    (I told her, at first, what I tell them all. I read her palm and her cards, I gave enchantments and told stories. But she returned.)

    Turn away that angry look from me. I am not deserving of it. I have done my job and served those who paid me. Do you suspect that I wronged her? That I am not as I seem? No, I am not as I seem, to you. To the next man I will not be as I seem to you now. I am changeable. I am all things to all people, it is necessary for my art that it should be that way. To you I speak as a gentleman, because you desired information and you asked politely. To those who are paying for witchery I speak low and mystical, to romantics I speak with an accent and to tourists I speak as a traveller from myriad countries. You understand that these are tools of my craft, secrets of my trade and nothing more. Dissembling? Only to those with expectations. I am what people expect. My business is to become what people want. But I do not tell lies to make mischief. Where would be the joy for me in that?

    No, Sir, I did not deceive her. There was my great error. She came as a free soul, without expectations and believing all was lost. And she returned. Without confidante or chaperone, she took me into her confidence and made a sister of me, viewing me as she did without the barriers or hindrances that modern views provide as a safeguard. While she was still bringing me her pennies, she heard what people pay to hear. But when she became my friend, I mistook. I told her that which makes all men tremble. I speak of the truth, Sir. She was not ready to hear it; and no more are you.  

Pure Nard

A poem for this Sunday's reading from the Gospel: John 12: 1-8.

A final time at Bethany

in old, familiar company

Jesus, were your thoughts pierced through

with knowing what you had to do?

And did you clutch within your heart

a world about to break apart - 

or steady, with a conscious will,

a brimming cup so soon to spill?

Lazarus sat next to you

so grateful, and yet puzzled too

the dark thoughts of his tomb not quite

extinguished by the rising light

while diligent Martha, unreserved

and practical as always, served

her living brother, sitting by

the healer who had let him die

and round the table, sharing food,

those dear disciples loved and known

a band as close as flesh and blood

in whom the kingdom seeds were sown

yet no companion understood

the fullness of the fears you faced

until that generous sister

with a love learned from the master

poured out a salve so precious

that it seemed just like a waste.

Children of God

I'll be singing this again tomorrow morning, so I may as well put it here while I have it up on my screen.  As silly songs go, it's on the sillier side of daft.  Needless to say, the various animals have various actions/dance moves.  It goes to the tune of 'If I were a Butterfly' which I thought everybody would know when I wrote the lyrics two years ago, but sadly, that particular ohrwurm from my childhood seems to be less ubiquitous now.  I suppose it's also copyrighted, so...what can I say?  You'll have to make up your own tune.  This does in fact have an original tune as well, but it was written by my colleague Chip, and I don't have a way of reproducing it here.

Children of God

To the tune of 'If I were a Butterfly'

A mother hen's children are lucky things

She keeps them safe beneath her wings

And a kangaroo's kids have a comfy couch,

They get to ride inside her pouch,

And hyena babies have a laugh, it's true,

But they're not as lucky as me or you,

'Cos we all get to be called the children of God.

God really loves us, like a mum or a dad,

When we're happy or sad, if we're good or we're bad,

We still get to be called the children of God!

A koala mum is never slack,

She carries her children on her back,

Baby birds eat the juiciest bugs

And I bet mummy bears give the very best hugs,

But all the same, I'm glad I'm me,

Because it says in 1 John 3

That we all get to be called the children of God.

God really loves us, like a mum or a dad,

When we're happy or sad, if we're good or we're bad,

We still get to be called the children of God!

Performance poetry for Mothering Sunday

Hmmm.  The story of Lois and Eunice is not, in fact, a story, but a mere mention: a sort of 'thumbs up' from Paul, commending in a single verse the mother and grandmother who passed their knowledge of scripture and love of God on to Paul's new helper Timothy.
How to present this single verse in an enjoyable way to a group of children tomorrow?
Here's a performance poem rap type thinger.  As always with performance poetry, the scansion is rather free (critics would say that the scansion is rather rubbish, but I prefer to say free!)  Watch out for the longer line in each chorus...

Lois was a lady who lived long, long ago,

Her mother used to say to her, when Lois was small,

Lois, here's a story that you need to know,

It's about the God who loves us and who made us all.

He's the great creator who made you and me,

When we were stuck in slavery he set his people free,

He's a shepherd who guides and feeds his sheep,

And he's given us the scriptures to read and keep.

Lois grew up and had a daughter as well,

She called her Eunice, and she said when she was small,

Eunice, here's a story that my mother used to tell,

It's about the God who loves us and who made us all.

He's the great creator with the world in his hand,

He led us out of trouble and gave us the Promised Land,

He's a steadfast God who does no wrong

And you'll find him in the scriptures, full of story and song.

Eunice grew up and she had a little son,

She called him Timothy, and said when he was small,

Timothy, this story is for everyone,

It's about the God who loves us and who made us all.

He's the great creator of the heavens and earth,

He made you and he knew you long before you came to birth,

His works are perfect and his ways are just,

And he's given us the scriptures to read and trust.

Timothy grew up with his mum and gran,

Till one night he came to dinner with a friend named Paul,

Who said, “Here is a story about a man,

He's the son of God who loves us and who made us all.”

He's the great creator who made you and me,

He has led us out of trouble and has set his people free,

He's the shepherd of the lost and he hears our call,

And he loved the world so much that he died to save us all.

And when Timothy and Eunice and grandma Lois too

Heard the story about Jesus who was dead but is alive,

They recognised their God and they believed that it was true,

And that's why you'll still find them in 2 Timothy, 1:5.

Evening Hymn

Another transfer from Blog The First, by special request - although it is timely, because I've been wondering about entering the Crossing Songs competition.  There's a category especially for lyricists to provide new lyrics to old hymn tunes.  I don't think this is quite what they're after, though, do you?


EVENING HYMN

The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended
The darkness falls at thy behest
To thee my morning prayers should have ascended
But I was grumpy and sleepy and stressed.

I'm sorry, Lord, that I have stumbled
Through today without your word; 
And any prayer I might have mumbled
I'd be surprised if you have heard.

And I will soon be deep in slumber
My night time prayers cut off midway,
I wouldn't like to count the number
Of things that I'll forget to say.

But wait here, Lord, while I am sleeping,
You know the troubles of my heart,
And when my snooze alarm starts beeping,
Help me to make a better start.

The Good Book

Not a new poem, but as yet unseen, mainly because it was meant for performance and I kept chickening out of printing it.  Performance poetry never quite works written down: the scansion is always out unless you're reading it with the particular intended emphasis.  

I wrote it to read at the end of a talk I was giving about making the Bible relevant to primary school aged children, in order to remind my wearied listeners that despite everything I had been saying about the challenges and hindrances of telling some parts of the Bible to children, most Bible stories are 'good stories' that do actually lend themselves to being told.

The Good Book

What other book has

Wise men, starlight,

Sheep, a baby,

A cruel king, a great escape?

Some books, maybe.

What other book has

A donkey's jawbone

A cockerel's crow

A lions' den, and two she bears?

No book I know.

What other book has

A finger writing,

Dry bones walking,

Bushes burning,

A donkey talking,

A cloudy pillar,

A river of blood,

A wrestling angel,

An epic flood,

A still, small voice,

A beauty queen

And - toilet humour?

No book I've seen.

What other book has

God among us

Death and sadness

Resurrection

Joy and gladness

A heavenly Father,

Risen glory,

Life for ever​​

All a true story?

It doesn't matter how far you look -

There's only one.

Now that's a Good Book.

Why doesn't prayer work on sleepless children?

Another one sneaking across from Blog the First.  I'm proud to add this one to my patchwork words, because a lovely friend asked permission to print it in her parish magazine when I first wrote it; she did so, and sent me a copy, for which I never thanked her properly.  I'm also proud of it because it was the page with the highest number of views in the other blog.


God, why doesn't prayer work on sleepless children?
I mean, considering your flair with wine and water
your feeding of the five thousand
and the way you have raising the dead down to a T
I would have thought that settling this screaming baby would be relatively easy.

So why doesn't prayer work on sleepless children?
Because it really, really doesn't (I've tried over and over)
and although I've known prayer to work on sickness,
impossible tasks,
broken down vehicles
the weather
and lost property,
it never, never works on screaming sleepless babies.

Is it, Lord, because you were once a screaming, sleepless baby yourself?
Do you sympathise?
Do you remember what it's like to need something,
and not know what it is,
and not have any words for it
only tears?

I suppose this baby is praying too,
crying out to you in the only way he knows,
and you have answered his prayer.
You have given him me.
And you have equipped me for the task:
you have given me a body that can nurture him,
arms that can hold and rock him
a voice to sing to him
a scent that comforts him
and a heart that loves him
even at 3am
even though he is screaming and snotty
and that teaches me about the way in which you love me
which, in turn, leads me to tell other people about the way in which you love them.

In fact, this baby is your evangelist
your teacher and preacher
your intercessor
for me, at 3am

which perhaps is why prayer doesn't work on sleepless babies.
I suppose I should be thankful for that.

(But, God, if prayer can't work on sleepless children,
Please could it work on laundry instead?)

Amen.

Scargill, 4am

Patchwork quilts have old and new scraps.  I'll be transferring some poems and pieces across from my other blog, mainly for ease of finding them here.  If you've already read them, bear with me - I'll be adding new ones too!  This one was written on family retreat in September, when Jeremy was not quite 4 months old.

Scargill, 4am

I told myself I'd use this time to pray,

But my son's sleepy snuffling at the breast

Has lulled me to a semi-slumbering rest

And skims the rising bubbles of my prayers away.

Subjects occur to me, but never stay:

In the peripheries of my mind swim pleas and fears

That vanish, like a star which disappears

When looked at straight. The dawning of the day

Is nearly here. Birdsong. I sigh and yawn.

My reverent efforts having failed, my thoughts

Switch to toast and coffee: prayer leaves with no trace.

Yet somehow, in the meshes of the dawn

Around this prayed-in place, my prayers are caught

And every wordless word is heard with grace.