My wife says, You look dreadful.
I look in the mirror and see the same me as always. You need to eat, she says.
My brother says Your pain is written all over your face.
I look in the mirror but can find no signs that indicate the truth of his assertion.
I walk daily looking through a glass darkly, illumination only coming after those around
me testify of what they know is true in me.
I eat and feel better.
MDC
April 2021
You have been brought to this hospital fourteen times
in the last eleven years. What’s going on with you?
The nurse clearly suspicious of my motivations.
What’s there to say? What excuses could I give that
satisfies a suspicious mind? Do I dodge the question and
tell her how demoralising it is that this statistic blows
any sporting Personal Best into oblivion?
Is a wry smile enough to ward off further enquiry? I know
from experience that it won’t garner any further sympathy.
Am I accident prone, or just plain careless? It’s not as if I
go looking for the chance to become injured or maimed.
Hot metal from a grinder getting past my safety glasses.
Bitten by an Eastern Brown in my own back yard. A branch
from a gum tree falling onto my head. I look remarkably
normal and healthy for someone so intent on self-destruction.
Do I continue living as I have hoping the trend of accidents
diminishes with age, or do I cover myself in bubble wrap
and step into armour each time I venture from the relative
safety (until recently) of my own dwelling?
The neurologist is delighted to see me. He now knows he
will learn something new about the human body - but not
enough to cure me. Not enough to stop or slow the
incessant journeys under flashing lights and sirens.
Oh, wretched man that I am!
Who will save me from this body of death!
MDC
April 2021
Praise the day, for it has dawned
And His mercy it has spawned
Praise the sparrow wheeling on its wing
Praise the joy in each flitting thing
Praise the night past, moribund
Its nocturnal choir many-tongued
Praise the sun for shining light
Praise the light that brings sight
Praise the day that has been christened
Preordained with full provision
Praise Him for His given acts
With their mysteries of parallax
Praise the strength of given faith
Strong enough to stand stress and scaith
Praise the enabling of given grace
That empowers to run your race
And praise the joy that He has given
When you are blessed and forgiven
MDC
April 2021
1
I was like a tree
In which the wind dwells.
2
Over all the earth,
The only thing that never ceases
Are the eyes of the wind.
3
Many things may dance in the wind
But it is the wind that is the major part of the pantomime.
4
A husband and a wife
Are one.
A husband and a wife and the wind
Can be one.
5
The movement of grasses like oceans
The swaying of trees like dancers
The whirl of dust and cloud like dervishes
All of which the wind is involved in
6
There are tidal patterns and magnetic lines
Circadian rhythms and lunar seasons
Domains of electricity, magnetism and gravity
All of which the wind is involved in
7
There are many beauties in this world
Inflection, innuendo, nuance,
grace in a child, mercy from an enemy
The wind gives it all.
7
It goes where no one knows,
Having come from who knows where.
It criss-crosses the earth in obtuse fashions
Carrying enigmatic ciphers whose importance is unfathomable
8
Striving after the wind is like grasping for wisdom
Yet wisdom is gained by His word whispered into the ear.
9
O wise men of Behistun,
Why do you imagine a golden child?
Do you not understand the gold, frankincense, and myrrh you present
Is given to you by the wind?
10
The wind is strong.
It may not be withstood
Yet it can be commanded to cease
By His word.
11
It is clear that the wind belongs to Him
The snorting of His nostrils, His breath, His life.
O that I would know the wind
And He would know me.
MDC August 2021
For though He faces a difficult death
He looks now back at long history
And casts His eye to the future soon
As He makes a way free, opportune
Hanging patiently on that tree
He will gladly give up His last breath
For though the pit looks sordid, grim,
He does not fear the dark, the pain
Shrinking not from the cruelty of its awful kiss
He enters into the fastness of that abyss
Knowing that love will raise Him up again
For no predatory embrace can hold Him
And there will be a victory undiminished
No more crying, no more doubt
On our behalf the Father to entreat
A perfect work full and complete
Angels rejoicing with a shout
When at last He says, “It is finished!”
MDC July 2021
The sound of an axe as it hits a tree trunk tells
a story about the life of the tree; its genealogy,
its history, its personality.
An old callistemon or bottle brush will groan with
a thick wet thunk as an axe blade splits its flesh,
biting into the resistant phylum, sinews skewed
by the keen whet edge of foreign metal, matter as
strange to it as alien life will be to humankind.
A dry tone coupled with strong vibrations coming back
up the axe handle will tell you it's a gum, maybe an
ironbark of indeterminate age until such times as its
rings are exposed
The paper bark will catch you by surprise, looking like
a fluffy winter cardigan, its soft skin curling and inviting
but its resistance to sharp blows can come as a shock.
Take stock - all is not as it seems.
The camphor laurel will greet your attack by scenting
the air with its perfume, rewarding you with the incense
of its death long after it is gone.
As we do with one another - we often decide if we like
a tree from a distance because we like its shape or
colour, or we know it will do something for us like
provide shade, fruit, safe harbour or a hiding place
Often, we don’t realise how much we depended on a
tree until it is cut down; its amenity something we took
for granted until it is lost. My uncle treated people like
trees - severe pruning being his favourite garden activity
His adage was if a tree doesn’t do what you want, then
get one that will. Oh, he would graft and prune and
trim and shape regardless of whether the tree was
suitable for the ground, the location or the climate.
Sometimes I wonder if we realise that producing sturdy
fruit requires sturdy boughs. Some people need to be
handled with tenderness and care, and even then they
will never produce sturdy fruit.
Don’t plant an apple tree if you want a dainty flowering
hedge. Go ahead and plant an orchard of apples but
don’t be sorry if there is no delicate beauty to soften
the landscape, or to hand to your spouse after an argument.
Every time I chop wood for the fireplace I wonder at the life
of a tree. I am so practiced with an axe that sometimes,
before awareness comes, I have one in my mouth,
readying myself to make a deep incision into the
flesh of an argument that needs to be felled quickly.
Those occasions never end well.
MDC July 2021
The garbage truck lumbers up the street, its injured-
beetle crawl slowly moving it along a path
it knows so well it can do it without thinking
Like my neighbours, I wheel my bins to the curb
the evening before, leaving my cyclic offering on the
sidewalk altar to feed the returning beast
I pass along its route on my way to work so
I know the driver must be getting up well before dawn
I wonder if the early rising makes up for the stupefying mundanity
I wonder if the certainty of weekly rubbish provides
a security of employment for him, and does the
regular pay check make up for the lack of job satisfaction
I have worked white-collar and blue, self-employed
and shift work. I prefer the certainty of a small regular
pay cheque than the feast and famine of self-employment
There’s something to be said for the monotony of small
regular payments - routine to take care of life's banal essentials
providing space for a precision not possible without regularity.
MDC July 2021
Light is a beautiful thing; not only does it bring beauty to everything it touches, it is beautiful in and of itself.
It ushers in every day, washing the dawn with the fresh mercies of God. And in the long days of an Indian summer it's fading light warms the world with its tender touch.
I go to work each day, sometimes eagerly,
sometimes reluctantly,
sometimes with determination and purpose,
sometimes with drudgery dogging my steps, but I go always looking for light.
In particular, I look for the light that is mine alone. A gift from Him who is thinking of me in every moment. I have been the recipient of illumination that has been created only for me. I know this because some things that I have been shown in moments have been so personal as to only be for me. Not that I am any more special than anyone else; I don't put myself up on a pedestal. I don't stand on a stage, I don't yearn for the treacherous light of public adoration, but I understand that the Lord throws light on my path so I can know where to place my steps. I know this specific individual light is available to every person, and it's unique application is not diminished by its universal availability, but the light He gives me is not seen by anyone else.
Sometimes light comes in the strangest places; when my hands are covered in the refuse of humanity's existence; when a co-worker is venting over a perceived injustice; particularly when I am engrossed in a task - suddenly the penny drops.
Much of my work is conducted in tight spaces, dim corners, under buildings, in muddy trenches, in rain, in heat, in awkward positions, in drudgery, in discomfort - it is at these times that light often comes.
Light is particularly beautiful in the times when offence has been hard to resist, and the Lord is merciful to me and reminds me that I am capable of being offensive too. And there are times when light is so abundant that I am dazzled by its liberality and I am amazed at how I missed such obvious knowledge.
I am not a wealthy man but there are days when the light has been so lavish that I luxuriate in its glow. The gift of light is such a broad endowment that I cannot specifically remember every happenstance. Yet, I remember some divine sanctions with such clarity that I am more certain of their veracity than I am of the law of physics.
I'm never going to be a lightning rod for popular opinion, I'm not going to grace the cover of any magazine. There is nothing you can read into my preference for wines heavy with tannin or my deep appreciation for prog rock. I give no thought to wishing everyone approved of my preferences. But, I do think about how I may, in my own way, bring a little of this light to others. It will be without fanfare, often without witness except for the recipient, without benefit to me, without my knowing even.
My likes and dislikes do not form a commentary on the veracity of my faith. But one thing I know with the certainty of a rising sun, the effectiveness of my conduct as a man living among men is how my behaviour is informed and directed by light.
And so I go out, each day, looking for light.
MDC 20/04/2021
I first saw you lying alone in your cage at
the animal refuge. I was there to perform some
repairs; not to see you. I don’t need a dog, especially
a down-and-out, no-hope mutt like yourself -
a bloody dog.
I was surprised at how expressive your face was;
your sad dereliction. Your evident shame. That evening
at home, I was also surprised that you came to
mind on more than a few occasions - I don’t need
a bloody dog.
So I returned to the pound - not to see you - but
to enquire about how the refuge works and the consequence
of arriving there without prospect. I understand now that
being down-and-out is not a prerequisite for entry. Rather,
arriving there makes you down-and-out -
a bloody dog.
And I remembered when I was made down-and-out
through no choice of my own - another’s decision. I recall
the growing sense of abandonment, the shame
that increased my reproach; when others thought me
a bloody dog.
I had no choice really. I couldn’t, in all good conscience,
leave you to the end that had been so clearly explained to me.
You may mistake my act as one of love, or intent, or
the weakness of an old man, but I don’t need
a bloody dog.
And just because you're intelligent enough to
read my moods and soft-hearted enough to
care what I think, doesn’t mean you are ever
elevated above the status of a mutt -
a bloody dog.
Sitting quietly with your head on my knee, hang-dog eyes
devotedly watching me. Doesn’t impress me one bit.
You won’t persuade me that you are sharing my
reproach and shame no matter how convincing you are.
You don’t care for me - you’re just an
old bloody dog.
There is one reason I keep you around - someone
has to look after you.
I care for you. I look after you.
I rescued you, to save you from being
a lonely bloody dog.
MDC
June 2020
He can’t afford the stellar prices of a unit in
the city so must reside in a satellite.
His Ford spaceship rocketing him back and
forward along a trajectory as black as a
hole, certain that the cost to his flesh of all that
time spent in stasis will one day have to be
paid. If his goal was simple efficiency he would
eat, sleep and work in the same room and he
knows he doesn’t want to be a hermit. He
feels alone when spending all that
time solitary at the helm. Solitude is not a
problem to him, but he can admit to himself that
loneliness is. He wonders how many other
planetary travellers are alone at their helms, in
their satellites, eating microwave dinners,
with the TV on but not watched, or music
playing to assuage a burnt soul (but all the music
in the universe is not enough to bring
healing). And people whisper their envy of his
far away dwelling place, and his fine rocket ship. His
spacesuit, the only thing protecting him against the
harsh realities of his environment, is cause for
speculation and lust. And he doesn’t know how to
relate to someone’s misperceptions of who he is
and why he lives how he does.
He is in a stationary orbit, slowly spinning around
a large mass of people who don’t know
he is there.
MDC 23/10/2020
