Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
There’s a God who enflames.
He puts fire in the head
and though I have run, the wind
has never extinguished the flames,
though I have swum, the depths
have never doused them,
though I have sung long,
the music has never drowned them out.

So I have sat and I stilled
and as the flames settled
I found they were a gift, a friend,
and that this friendship warmed me.
And we ate and storied
our way through the nights.

And the flames took hold
as intended.
After Sheila Moylan’s exhibition, ‘Fire in the head’, an old Celtic expression describing being illuminated by inspiration.
sheilamoylanart.com
See also Acts 2  “And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. And divided tongues as of fire appeared to them and rested on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance.”
Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.
Theres a mighty Yew tree in the grounds of Waverly Abbey in Surrey, that is worth a long gaze.
Like a treed squirrel
with no fear of capture.
Like a failed terrier
with two feet on the ground,
giving no heed to heel.
I fall victim
I am subject
to my nature.
Observations in a suburban park, Ealing.
Like a Pool Frog
at a dry river bed.
Like the flow
of a water garden
in the dry season.
I am stilled.
I am struck dumb.
I am Walpoled.
Walpole Park, Ealing has a curiously dry 'water garden'.
Steve Page May 25
Keep a clear head
Your eyes peeled
Your nose clean
Your lips sealed.

And whatever it takes
- keep a straight face.
Loving idioms.
Steve Page May 22
I know the face of God
I have that faith beyond my sight

I know my fellow pilgrims
I have this comfort of common doubts.

I doubt my church at its lychgate
I bear these beliefs in its shade.
Prompted by lines from Conclave, the movie, and also by my recent discovery of lychgates (also known as resurrection gates), sheltered gates standing between consecrated and un-consecrated space, where coffin bearers would wait for the vicar.
Steve Page May 22
Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.
sometimes i come across a poem I've written (this time from 2017) and I'm almost convinced I must have copied it down from another poet.  But I cannot find this despite my best google-jitsu. I've concluded this did indeed come from my pen.
Next page