Religious & spiritual poems.

My religious and spiritual poetry of my own personal journey.

St Martins, Barcheston.

Well someone has to keep the faith and as a younger man I embraced religion…. but when my circumstances changed went away from the all-consuming church. In later life looking for answers went back to kneel before the alter and take communion but then covid struck and put an end to that. While recovering I went out walking to the village of Barcheston and noticed some people leaving the Church. I enquired if the church was now open following covid restrictions. It was but only for morning prayer on the first Sunday of each month. “You are welcome to come and join us” and I’ve been going ever since.

In the south of Shakespeare’s county,

lies a church near the river stour,

with a past medieval,

and a Pisa like tower.

A nearby manor house,

Therein a tapestry enterprise,

Now of national importance,

The weave hid from our eyes,

Then a south aisle added,

To host the Willington tomb,

For William and Ann,

Of a depopulation boom,

After the Victorian restoration,

The music we’ve embraced,

For the recitals here playing,

on the organ now replaced,

Between Holroyde’s donation,

Saint Martin in stained glass stands,

In the Wigington memorial,

Cloak divided for a beggar’s hands

A lot of people now attending,

The monthly Sunday mass,

A feeling of Christian community,

The collection plate to pass,

Sat or kneeling in the pews,

As we pray to heaven,

We give thanks to God,

For the South Warwickshire Seven,

Of the work within our church,

And the villages all around,

Praising God for our ministry team,

Who serve this sacred ground,

Outside in the churchyard,

The weather with it brings,

Wind, sunshine, snow and rain,

Yet a congregation sings,

Hymns for the people,

Evensong in full flow,

With those that worshipped here,

At rest in peace below,

To the future of this church,

And the people who attend,

Long may it continue, the grace of our lord to send.

The South Warwickshire Seven is a group of Seven churches within the Diocese of Coventry and comprises the following churches: St Martins, Barcheston. St Lawrence, Barton on the Heath. St Barnabas & St Nicholas Burmington, St John the Baptist, Cherington, St Michael & All Angels, Great Wolford, St Peter & St Paul, Long Compton, and St Michael, Whichford.

“The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors cometh rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!”

(William Walsham How 1864)

Upon Gods earth (a shadow cast).

I love to walk especially after being indoors due to bad weather. To be able to put my hiking boots on and venture out amongst the countryside and especially in warm sunshine. This poem is about one of those walks where after a number of dull rainy days, I was able to cast my shadow on the earth.

After endless days of rain,

We venture out of doors,

To catch those early rays,

Let them soak into our pores,

Of the skin to vitalise,

And to take in the glow,

For the shadow we cast today,

Upon this earth to show,

This shadow is you,

And you alone,

Of no one else,

Of anyone known,

No clouds above,

To spoil the view,

Just you and the sun,

Your shadow anew,

Upon Gods earth,

With time to dwell,

To appreciate the good,

And the peace as well,

A time to think,

With contemplation,

Only myself on the ground,

For a short duration,

Between the sun and I,

And Gods good grace,

I’ve cast that shadow,

Right here at this place,

Of this time,

Now no more tis gone,

The shadow has faded,

It’s cast undone.

A different path.

Ever thought as you get older, I wonder how my life would have panned out had I chosen a different career or even a different relationship. Who knows but I bet I’m not alone in this thought.

Where would we be now,

If we had changed our past,

How would it have been,

Had the die not been cast,

As we get older,

Look back on our time,

Wish we were younger,

Well in our prime,

To make no mistakes,

And change our vision,

Made at that time,

A life changing decision,

But think of it this way,

We are who we are,

This hand that was dealt us,

To bring us thus far,

Had we taken a different path,

How would we have felt,

Exactly the same,

I have no doubt,

There is no guide book,

To map out our day,

It is what it is,

Be happier this way,

Embrace what you have,

You’ll miss it when it’s gone,

It’s not a rehearsal,

Same for everyone,

Your past is buried,

Enough now said,

Because when it’s over,

The word Dead means….Dead.

With appreciation of:

Felix Dennis: “Never go back”.

Robert Frost: “The road not taken”.

The beauty that lies under.

I used to fly fish a lot but haven’t been much lately as I lost a good friend of mine a couple of years ago with whom we would go for a “dabble” to see if we could catch some rainbow trout. This poem is dedicated to my fishing partner and friend Martin Westcar.

Cast the line weight forward,

To break the waters seal,

Of a silvery flash beneath,

Tension on the reel,

Outwit the beauty that lies under,

Movement beneath the lake,

Feel the line between my fingers,

Ecstasy of the take,

Net in the water,

Not to keep but return,

Catch then release,

Depths to which they yearn,

Held in great respect,

For they are like no other,

Of those I’ve known before,

A friend and a brother,

Having been called by God’s grace,

I now fish alone,

Miss the early days,

Of those I have known,

We talked about our time,

At one with nature,

But now it’s only me,

My years getting later,

For the imitation I now have,

Taken as the fly,

Damsel nymph and hare’s ear,

On to which I tie,

To transfix the trout,

With this artificial lure,

Then let it chase,

Flawless and pure,

Lamenting of the loss,

Try again to cast,

Thinking of what was,

For that memory to last.

I wish it was me.

At certain times of the year we perhaps look forward to our holidays/vacations and sometimes look at those airplanes above and wonder where are they going? Ever wondered and wished you were on that plane going somewhere warm and exotic or to some far-off destination you’ve never been to before and thought I wish it was me.

It approaches from afar,

The fan blade sound,

Of which I want more.

To be that high off the ground,

Where does it head to,

I yearn to know,

To a place far away,

I wish I could go,

Somewhere exotic no doubt,

For a land that is strange,

What would it take to be there,

I have to arrange,

To the boarding gate,

For a flight of imagination,

Up above the troposphere,

To a new destination,

And when I get there,

Count the days till my return,

To fly back homeward,

With mileage to burn,

To a place in my dreams,

Of the sun and the sea,

I look at those travelling,

And wish it was me.

Under the Gazebo (a temporary situation).

Weather in the UK is appalling at the moment, high winds, constant rain. My thoughts drift back to the late summer and sitting under our gazebo in the back garden wondering what poem to write next and it occurs to me to write about my present if somewhat temporary situation.

In the oasis of the green triangle,

a summer haven amongst a dappled shade,

where doves call, coo and chase,

sat under the gazebo man made,

Buddha sits in tranquil contemplation,

amongst rising bamboo canes,

and high above his sedentary setting,

mechanical sounds of propellered planes,

with Acer Japonica burning in colour,

pink roses and geraniums abound,

foxgloves, snapdragon and black elder,

Michaelmas daisies can be found,

and of the Sparrow and Starling on the feeder,

a Robin and Blackbird call,

weary of the local feline,

that stalks them one and all,

The statues in the garden,

keeping watch on all around,

while sat under that shade,

listening to a modern sound,

of bat upon leather,

on that big wide circle score,

men in whites do play,

to increase their tally more,

and with the sudden change of air,

a breeze cuts through this space,

Centigrade or Fahrenheit,

retreating at a pace,

alas the summer is drawing down,

Blackberries out at speed,

time to get on picking,

and apples we will need,

the garden feels different now,

until a temperate return,

the open space can breathe again,

for a shelter not to burn.

The light that enters the world.

Is it just me that hates Christmas as in its commercial side of things. All that pressure to perform for one day.

How much more can there be,

To tell us of what we are lacking,

Of the festive fare and decorations,

and cardboard tubes we are cracking,

for the Yuletide celebration,

you must have all this food on the table,

so says the adverts on the telly,

Oh, only if we were able,

Lots of presents and gifts to buy,

With the Christmas spirit to drink,

With all that glitters and shines,

Time to make us think,

Is this really what Noel is about,

Serving Mammon but not God,

The light that enters our world,

Of the darkness we have trod,

But as the celebrations pass,

Into the day of the box,

The one on the wall tells us,

We have eaten too many chocs,

We’re made to feel guilty,

Of not having bought enough,

Only to be told later,

To the gym and “hang tough”,

We should celebrate the birth of a King,

But lose sight of our good intention,

Carry on as usual,

Brainwashed by Baird’s invention,

Forget all excess this time brings,

Leave behind those worldly views,

As the spirit of Christmas beckons,

Time to bring forth the Good News,

Don’t forget the family,

The ones we love the best,

Make time to see each other,

And enjoy a well-earned rest.

Merry Christmas Everyone.

Sweet is the calm Poetry.uk

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