When our parents leave

Not about priesthood so much, but perhaps some thirty-something couples who has had their parents to stay may resonate with this...

When our parents leave
we sit in silence
and watch trashy telly
and "like" photos on Facebook
and read The Guardian on our phones.

Like Spring's slow creep
clutter recolonizes our home:
an unwanted mug,
discarded shoes,
milk left out of the fridge...
Oh well.

After a while, we speak:
"That was a good visit - mainly"
"They still don't accept that we've grown"
"They are getting
slower
tireder
older..."

In defiance of these things, we make love.

Outside,
the laundered bedding
- so thoughtfully hung out by his mother -
waits forgotten on the line.
Tomorrow it will flap like bunting
Forlorn, the day after a fair.

The Ambitious Woman

I am an ambitious woman - ambitious for God, ambitious for God's people, ambitious for women in God's church. But sometimes it is hard. Sometimes I underestimate the hurdles I face. It is not a fair race. This poem was written on one of those days...

Don't speak
Don't shout
Don't strive
Settle for second best
Find a way to thrive

Don't be angry
Don't be cross
Suck it up
Shrug off the loss

Did you really thing you
Could  change the way things are?

Learn the talk
Walk the walk
Be like the boys
Or you'll never get far.

Don't speak
Don't shout
Don't strive
Settle for second best
Try to stay alive

A Quiet Day (or How to Revive a Priest in Holy Week)

It's quite simple really:
A space
A chair
A place for prayer
Preferably a cat
A mug of tea
A biscuit (or three)
You need little more than that
A pen
A book
A crochet hook
(If you are so inclined)
No text
No phone
Leave email alone
Rest your heart, your soul, your mind...

Weary

Gravity multiplies
My limbs' weight trebled
I am pinned to my chair
Captive
To exhaustion

I only work one day a week...

Chai Latte

Basking.
Curled like a cat
Kate purrs with contentment
In the late autumm sun.

Hands cupping a mug
Of guilt-free skinny
She feels the warmth
Seep through to her soul.

A sanctuary of stillness
Carved out of the rocky hillside of her life
A hermits cell
An unspoken prayer.

You may seek God in abbeys
Cathedrals and windswept Celtic isles
But in their absence
A corner of a coffee house will do.

School Visit

When a 6 year old decides to tell you a story:

Once upon a time
there was a man called...
called...
JESUS
(well, I am talking to the vicar after all)
and he lived in Bethlehem.
This isn't a Bible story -
it's one I made up.
(Am making up actually)
And one day he went up the hill
to see a shepherd.
(Jesus and shepherds seem to go together.)
So Jesus said to the shepherd,
"Come into town and see some people."
So the shepherd did and left all his sheep behind.
When the shepherd went back the sheep weren't there.
There was a fox instead.
So the shepherd told Jesus,
and Jesus realized he had made a mistake
and went to talk to his Father.
He asked his Father to help with the sheep and the fox.
The Father told Jesus to dress in a costume like a bad man.
(The vicar is looking a bit muddled now - I'd better end strong.)
The fox was scared away.
Then Jesus took off the costume,
the sheep came back,
and everyone lived happily ever after.

Dark Night

All I have I offer:
my doubts
my questions
my anger.
Every bit of them are yours.

I commit with all I have and all I am
to struggle,
        wrestle,
              fight,
                 resist,
                   and lament.

My only promise is not to walk away.

Do you accept...
will you accept
me as I am?