Oh little heart
What mountains will you climb?
What vistas will you take in?
What heights will you tumble down from?
What snakes will you uncover?
What rock will hold firm, and
What sand will crumble below?
What blades will you cross?
What wings will shelter you?
What misty frontiers will you push?
What great and terrible things,
What horrors inside and out
Will spur you and haunt you?
But earn your scars and stories and tears
And come home safely
Wherever that is.
I’ve seen glory in Berlin. They keep their streets clean there despite the odd graffiti. They speak English there because why not. They remember their past because leaflets line the streetlamps saying Fuck The AFD. They remember their past because ruins grab rudely toward the sky alongside chrome towers, because the fruits of war need to be seen as much as the fruits of peace. Continue reading “on glory”
It ends at the old airfield. I fall down and I bawl my eyes out, because it’s all gone and I can’t get it back. Then it starts raining and I have to get to the boat.
But no, that’s not right. That’s not how it ends at all. Continue reading “on the old airfield”
My latest video, an old project that’s been a long time in the making. Based on a short story I wrote almost ten years ago.
The secret of contentment. What is that?
Well… finding just the right thing in life? Finding your passion? Doing a good job? Being a good person at heart? Continue reading “on pressing on”
These are my kids:
One of them loves taking pictures. She’s really quiet, but if she likes you she’ll show you photos of cats and birds.
One of them dreams of joining the UN.
One of them reminds me of myself at her age, determined but a bit unsure.
One of them is a bit of a diva, she’s really smart, if only she could just stay awake.
Another one tries her best to stay awake but often loses that battle.
A few of them always look straight at me reassuringly as I talk.
One of them puts on a tough, sophisticated front, but now and again you see she’s just a scared little girl. She’s really smart but she gets tired a lot.
One of them always says what she thinks. She wants to be a vet when she grows up, but she has doubts.
One of them loves hockey.
One of them loves fencing.
One of them gets sick a lot and it makes her unhappy.
Some of them love swimming, and they always smile and ask me for help.
One of them loves dancing, and she writes really well.
One of them loves everything Japanese.
One of them is sharp as a tack but doesn’t let it go to her head.
One of them always steps up to try even if things sometimes go over her head.
Some of them really love Jesus. They try their best even if things get awkward.
These are just some of them, there are many more. They’re the kids that Dad gave me.
I’ll be very sad when they graduate.
When in the line of cruel battle
When the anguish and the fear and the cries to gods rise up
When the spears shatter and the knees buckle and the bowels loosen
When the ground is mud beneath and the longing comes to dig down and sleep and rest from sorrowful war
The man may stand and shout loud defiance
But when cruel battle continues its push
When companions turn and flee
When the man in an instant can suffer no more
And forgetting all pride he begs the bright gods with tears
No more, please no more
Will he turn, will he flee through the mud beneath?
Will his buckling knees carry him past the shattered spears and anguished cries?
Will the gods and companions call this man a coward
Who stands no more than he can
And flees and cries only when his warlike spirit has also fled
In the line of cruel battle?
Would that some god come and stand
In place of the man who flees and cries
Who speaks winged words instead of shaming and
Who wins the victory when none is deserved
When a man flees in the line of cruel battle.
Jesus, you are warm, warm like sunshine on the grass at the park, warm like a nice coat on a cold morning.
You are playful, like a light drizzle in the winter, like the birdsong in the middle of the night, like a little kid taking his first steps.
You are sustaining, like a packet of biscuits on a very empty stomach.
You are gentle, like the older brothers who sit me down and listen.
You are dashing, like a warrior marching to battle.
You are soft, like the breeze on my face.
You are fierce, like a bear defending her cubs.
You are constant, like the smooth surface of the third pillar from the right at the entrance to All Souls Church Langham Place.
You are just, like the constant sunrise.
You’ll come back, like you said you would.
Son of God with flint-like eyes
Falter not though men despise.
Son of God, march to the fray
And may the King grant you this day.
Blessed be the LORD
Who makes good what is bad
And new what is old.
Who makes wisemen out of fools
And fools out of wisemen
That both may laugh at what good has been wrought.
The LORD who promises justice
Who kindles hope because of what has been
And what will surely be.
The desert He waters with thirsty men
And shows freely whom asks to see
this Love that weakens the knees of mighty men
and compels the adoration of princes.
Remember, My Lord 