While grating gusts and gales of Winter’s winds
Mourn with a deaf’ning dirge till Spring begins,
Intently and vindictively they’ll look
F’that moral compass found within the book
of such lovingly constructed wording
Of whose heart’s thoughts in our minds is painting
His reflection to grow within our hearts;
Like wisdom to child, their parent imparts.
He transcends any cultural chasm
To reach all hearts before his phantasm.
Clarity of faith by which we can walk
Decanting the love but keeping the cork
As a stopper to stop the willing draining
To those wilfully closed eyes rejecting.

The burring and whirring takes us to task
In battle, futile for the facile mask;
The mask to mask the vacuous content
With razzle-dazzle detracting repent.
Low weaponry the opposition draws
On his ***, so preys on our many flaws.
The things at which he cannot be the best,
Hopeless to attempt, so drags down the rest.
The strength from these words is for us to draw
To fortify the truth and shroud our flaw
From the eyes and lies of the wicked one;
Weakening us ‘till easily undone.

Never must we, so never shall we yield
Lest we gamble that love that we all wield.
The love that is him, not given by whim,
Can and will be found in amongst this din
Of the towns and cities keeping alive
The corrupt, capital world of the lies.
Dangling the bogus carrot of pleasure;
Misdirecting us all from the treasure
Of something more real spiritually
Than anything that’s found posthumously.

For when time grows old, all corners explored,
All things have been sold and all has been bought.
When all has been said and all has been done
With nothing unpainted, ev’rything sung,
All’s been invented, no lines left to write,
No mountain to climb, no evil to fight,
No path left untried, no words left to talk,
No niche unoccupied, no roads to walk.
To surpass anything, where is the hope?
Upon past achievements we will still dote.

All religions, legions and ligaments
Feel full force of their own eradicant.
Once blinded by their own faithful binding
They’ll begin to prove its own unwinding.
Then reluctant eyes open up to see
Their stubbornness was based on fallacy.
By this time now all chances will be spent.
Choices made by those who will now regret
Not seeing what’s evident for all sight
But those whose hearts and eyes they kept shut tight.
Regret will abound for the truth not found.
Eternity in Hades and the ground
Is the only future for the many
Who chase that carrot dangling for jenny.

Ambiguity of a single word
Begs contextual study of the broad.
Only then can a justification
Substantiate their stubborn rejection.
What will fill the void where once there was truth?
Ostensibly only eternal ruth,
Curtailed by the one whose ultimatum
Can be found in that book of verbatim.
The book written to escape the scapegrace
Our only grace and our only solace.

Those grating gusts part, exposing a path
A path enough wide for many a rath,
But the wind which once blew for all idols
Has changed its direction toward idylls.
Softly but certainly the air makes change.
With grating now gone, systems rearrange.
Where one and one equal much more than two,
Longer is forever if it’s just you.
Love is the only, the all, and ever,
The one currency we’ll grow together.

Amen.

Of all thoughts, all passions, and all delights,
Whatever will waken this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of love’s insights
And feed the fuel to his sacred flame.

The thoughts, the passions, and all the delights
From you, do rouse this mortal frame of me,
To encourage love as its air ignites
And collectively lights, our eternity.

For sore eyes, a sight I saw through the door.
Heart healing hope was offered through the frame.
A mother and her child beautif’ly smiled
Through the door’s window’s picture plane.

Expectation postponed makes the heart sick;
For your realisation, my heart can’t wait.
Your patience helps me endure the clock’s tick.
Imbibing its air; the blows will abate.

You are calm and content with what you’ve got,
And by this you have so much more than most,
Yet brag of your virtues you still do not
Nor of your blessings do I hear you boast.

Naturally, with your utmost modesty,
While heeding the interests of others
You unconceitedly shine humility
Irradiating the love of brothers.

Whatever you do seems always decent,
Appropriately chaste, moral, and clean.
Whether from years of yore, or more recent
Of godly motives, have your deeds all been.

Your heart’s gaze, acutely on the look out
For that which stirs other’s hearts’ yearnings,
Examines the unseen psyche, shakes out
The cob webs of their suppressed despairings.

Paying such heed to the words of their mind,
You learn, and discern their very being.
It’s in their needs where your interests lie,
So you can see what their heart is seeing.

Giving rise to an unwelcome reaction
Is not something seen on hearing your name.
Biting back at what’s of fruitless faction,
To the person you are, does not pertain.

Your memory bank is cleared of accounts
That cause injury to the mind you mould.
When, to the potter’s plan your mind amounts,
You’ll be brought in out of the bitter cold.

Your compassion feels sorrow of others.
This is a virtue under stealth attack.
You’ve fortified yours with shielding covers
Of righteousness driving me forth, not back.

Over righteousness you do so rejoice,
Where the contrary clearly pains you so.
To show joy over truth is but a choice.
You love the truth, and let everyone know.

Truth is your joy and in it we’ll delight.
Love of truth is the one and only way.
Love: exactly what the truth will incite.
The truth about love God guides its way.

Love bears all things because God is love.
Endures all things which, for our back, is a rod.
All things hoped for are from whom came the dove.
It believes all things because love is God.

Should we allow our God to take the wheel,
All fears, foreboding what might be ahead,
May be dispelled for they were never real,
But were from our hearts, betraying our head.

Your voice is the music of all your thoughts.
Your thoughts are paintings of your mind above.
Your mind’s clean canvas, my mind’s brush so courts.
My being is yours. Your being; I love.

By Tom Lock

I'm tired.
Tired of everything.
I just want to sleep,
And never wake up again.

No, I'm not lazy,
I'm not running away from life.
I'm just tired of the world and myself,
And too tired to change anything.

Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.

You, to me,
Are unobtainable.
I, to you,
Am most dispensable.

Say it’s sad,
Say it’s horrible,
The fact remains;
You’re adorable.

Nothing more can be done,
Yet so much I want to do.
Nothing more must be done,
That’s not what a Son would do.
Nothing more will be done,
So much I want to say to you.
Everything is left undone.
But the one thing I didn’t want to do,
Was say good bye to you.