Magi, the magical poet
and off-the-wall humour writer
Spiritual
Benedictus
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord of Hosts and bears witness for the Prince of Peace with the white lilies of innocence he holds forth to you his dear brother and keeps fast the faith that all are beloved by God thus plucks out the thorns draws forth the nails cleans and binds the wounds ` strikes down the cruel cross throws aside the leper's bell wipes away all tears sees no sin to damn casts no stones of death bows not down to idols of hate and vengeance but praises love and in the name of God cries out Lazarus come forth says even unto Judas you did not betray me and to Peter, the rock you did not crumble for the cock crowed not thrice before the dawn though in fear's darkness you were thus mistaken Blessed are you who emptied all dark hate from your mind to receive the Light that casts out fear makes room for Love that be not of you but for you to heal your heart so that you may freely give love without limit and in its sharing increase the treasure of innocence and light to flow as a river of gold and silver from the storehouse set deep in your soul to give hope and freedom to those who hide still in fear in dark places believing they are unworthy and forever cast out Blessed is he who gives with unclouded mind and an open heart for he keeps the faith and honours the Covenant of Love thereby walks not alone for the living God the Lord of Hosts walks with him hand-in-hand and over all shall prevail
For John F Walter - and for others that I know Father John 02: The Mass is Ended Father John 03: Midnight of the Soul Father John 06: Gruel of Jesus
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Father John 07: The Van of God
In the dawn stood John
with hat askew on head of grey
and tufts of curling hair
and whiskers on his chin
his long black coat
bore the vomit stains
of she in the bus shelter
and his vagrant facade
belied his dog-collar
and garb of black
proclaiming priest
of him who stood coughing
in rag-tag queue
with bleary eyes
and stiff back
shuffling for his turn
of gruel slopped onto
plastic plate with one-off spoon
and cheery good morning
by the roly-poly man
in the van of
Jesus saves
and thus this is my body
and the coffee in the plastic cup
this is my blood
So they all stood
these lepers with invisible bells
but all cast out
save for the plastic bowls and cups
in the grey light of dawn
as the city woke
and arose from bed
and time for these rejects
to fade away from sight
of cop cars cruising by
but in doorways to lurk
and beg or steal for cash
from the sightless hurrying by
to work and slave
another day to pay rent
and buy nothing of worth
that could be taken
beyond the grave to bribe
Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates
Before John left the homeless
gathered around the van of God
all those men and women
and street kids too
he looked at their faces
with hard eyes
though dull in places
listened to the voices
thick with cold and drugs
but no social graces
compare their nights
and what this unfolding day
might bring on the wing
where to score another hit
of crack, ice, coke and smack
to deliver salvation
and where to sleep the night
safe and warm away
from cops and prying eyes
of the muggers and thugs
who patrolled the darkness
in search of redemption
Smoke on the Water - republished with tiny changes
| Christmas Series Aeon's Cusp 02: Stars and Seasons Bow |
Easter Series: Throats on the sword's Edge
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OTHER
Of the heart
Whispers on the Wind
There were sad whispers
carried on the wind
that spoke of a farm
far away across the
wild and stormy sea
and of lonely fence
posts leaning grey and
drunken in the breaking
dawn with my face
in a dew drop
hanging from the looping
wire for you to
see as you sit
alone on the farm
house porch in the
evening twilight and think
of you and me.
The wind murmurs sadly
that when you see
my face in the
morning dew drop hanging
and gleaming from the
fence wire you start
up from the chair
on the porch to
stand peering in the
evening light with your
heart in your mouth
and the tears of
your soul rolling down
your cheeks until you
turn your face away.
The wind sadly whispers
to me that I
am the ghost who
haunts you still from
our yesterday and that
your mind screams at
me to go away
but that your falling
tears beg me to
come once more and
with you please stay.
The wind murmurs that
it is the closing
of your day and
that I am the
pale wraith from your
morning who stands waiting
alone in the yellow
light by the fence
silently looking with tears
streaming down my face
for what so easily
once upon a time
just might have been.
And the wind whispers
that your are a
shadow standing upon that
porch in the violet
of the evening twilight
with the wide-flung farm
shrinking in the deepening
night and your family
inside are voices fading
before the growing yearning
of your heart for
what once was but
with the tear drops
running down your cheeks
gleaming that it now
could never be in
the violet of the
falling night and you
go once more inside.
Oh my love let
the wind no more
whisper of me standing
in the pale morning
nor of you sitting
yearning in the night
nor about the long
lost day that now
lies forever weeping between.
In the Mirror Darkly
CHILDREN
COLLECTIVE
The Dark Side: Death & Acid Poetry
Abandon all who hope ye who enter here.
Death:
Death of children EULOGIES Acid Poetry
Tinkles, Musings, Humour & Short Series
Haunting and Surreal
Song of Songs
My mind was visiting a wasteland of
mute headstones in a
sprawling graveyard where
islands of black marble
monuments were pointing at
and not even seeing
white clouds floating by
the black fingers proclaimg
the empty wealth of
now dusted captains
the hollow power of
now ashen kings.
They stood ignored
these black tombstone islands
rising from a rolling sea
of grey concrete markers
bearing silent witness that
mere servants once
too were loved
and anonymous mounds of earth
mutely proclaimed that
beggars need grovel no more
for all had come home
at last to find
welcome in the cold
endless halls of death.
My mind paused in its wandering
near the grief that stood forever
at the very foot of the graves
where lay buried deep the
battling mother who loved me
alcoholic father who forgot me
naval brother who sailed away
younger brother I'd remembered to know
and as I counted their days
I wrestled with why they lay
under the ground with their hopes
and now lost dreams
while I stood there with years
still to drift before my eyes.
As I stood there with
the silent ghosts of yesterday
I heard a guitar begin
to strum the low notes
of some sad tune
the melody fused with
the slow measured beat
of a muffled drum
as might mark the awful footsteps
of a coffin borne to be fed
to the gaping mouth of a hungry grave.
In tune with the guitar and drum
a woman began to sing
her deep rich voice
soft at first then swelling in power
only to fall
then rise again
in a tongue totally
unknown to me.
It was a strange and
haunting song of joy
yet full of sorrow
a song of hope
rising from the soul
a lament of tears
falling from the heart
a soaring song exulting love
fading with those passed away.
It was a song of the bitter and the sweet
and of such anguish and deep yearning
that ghosts arose from
each and every grave
to listen
and all the living grieving there
also stood spellbound
silent and still.
Though I understood
not one word sung
I resonated with the woman's song
as if my very soul
had penned the music
and my heart
had written the words
as if my own yearning
was the guitar
and my falling tears
the beating of the drum.
And we the stricken living
and all the transfixed ghosts
were a silent chorus
joined in this
the song of songs
Stranger in the Mist - honed and reprinted -
Sailor by the Sea (03 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Ghost Words (04 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Where Did My Childhood Go? (06 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Soul Mates on the Shore (encompassing the whole Hourglass series of poems)
A Sample of the Very Best of Magi's Poetry
I Should Have Written You a Love Poem (For Carolyn Madden and Michael A)
A Thousand Tears and Kisses Deep (First Annual pre-Simulationist Poetry Prize Competition)
A Thousand Tears and Kisses Deep (on Gather)
Moment of Truth (First Annual pre-Simulationist Poetry Prize Competition)
Seasons
Our Clock (01 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Scrapbook Dust (02 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Cars on Wending Road (05 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)
Faded Away (07 of 07 in the Hourglass series of poems)