Walking a park of flowers around York Minster
tickets in pocket for the festival of early music
colours singing to the sound of the past like minstrels
until I rounded a corner and found all I'd ever seek
in the slightly forlorn sight of a single rose
a captive to love's tune and white as a frozen sheet
hoping for a spare ticket to hear the angel voice
of a choir in concert as beyond compare as she
“sit no longer dear lady - share with me” and spirits rose

white rose in my veins when in time we hugged shuddering
as a cold coat of feeling moults tunes on to your lips
secure in silent truce in mon amour doubt shedding
deep petal armour on a second skin to get a grip
when stems entwine in a new warm understanding
as if about to fall back in time to retrace steep steps
so lean forehead forward on your soft drop strands
shoulders combine soldier sidearms with giddy happiness
heart stopping red passion stitching together bled thorns

I pretend a meek surrender giving ground to fate
but secretly hope to surround with pikes where you sit
heart's drum beat rallying to rush up lush slopes
search parties in the choir stalls but sound you out
dislodging bared hearts so tales compare more freely
pushing with the weight of growing pains in concert
to get your defensive walls to tumble away to reveal
a many levelled playing field of mutually shared delight
where music is the food of love served for every meal

you give no quarter but a quavering piece to which I lay claim
to shield how I revel in each quiver at advancing forces
raising my standards to meet your church steeple climbs
but still ardour yields to the scale of your appeal en masse
torn from arduous verse to verse praising that limb this limb
I submit and sense a chance of permanent heaven in this peace
as like a knave on the trail of your scent summits crumble
into the rolled out treaty rosy perfume in precipitous ravines
where I pin chivalrous titles to the brush of knightly leaves

snared in the honeyed trap nave of your thorns
abandoning myself to the rapture entwined with love
winning the soul rights to capture and chaperone
a concerted effort which brought you to the fore
by the devious role of fate and by divine charm
by some device and by far ranging gentle force
of arms which did no harming
and by the loving voices
of angel choristers
which sing now to break the ice
as loudly as they have
down the ages before us

Quick sweep of the steeple's steep
staircase winding
forever reminding
of a chasm in the maze and the mess;
A House of Mirrors.
A ***** trail, left to confess.

Three hail marys and a change of tack;
A quick sin shower
gets the devil off the back.
Perpetually pious of the priest
to keep the gun beneath the sheets.
Christ is hanging on the walls
a quick look up
the burden falls.

Shattered into tiny pieces
peace re-pieced upon the altar,
by Holy ghost and ****** Mary
Be this not the day he falter.

The dismal scene
Of church
And parking lot
Played before her hazy eyes.
God absent from the pews,
The moon,
And wherever the **** else
People believed He could be.

She sat on the parking stop,
Knees close.
The night air lapped at her arms,
Raising hell beneath her skin,
And Satan
In her yearning bones.
Her heart beat
At varying abnormal paces.
Her stomach stirred
In craving.
She scratched at her ribs;
A little too hard,
Bruising ****** skin.

God was gone.

And for a moment all she had was a sympathetic truck,
Parked next to her.
But then
She knew she didn't even have that.

Images of her childhood
Sunday mornings, accompanying grandma to church
Appeared as targets
For mind's gun.
She brought from behind her,
The gasoline.
And ran
Without hesitation,
Skipping gleefully as she poured.

Then lit a small pool.
And watched as the church
Erupted into burning
Chaos and
Forgiving embers.
Then she left to satiate
Bitter craving.

Listening is relative.
Reading together is shallow.
Love is biased.
Reaching out is a myth.
Worship is noise.
Giving is a habit.
Church is a party.
Church is a half-way house.
Clapping is stepping on the cross.
Sitting is sin of omission.
Fellowship is exclusive.
The Cross is a decoration.

But God is still God.
Jesus
From Heaven or From Men?

A blow is delivered with
Closed fists
To my temple –
Where I so often came to worship.

Stained glass has been coloring my vision
For too long.
The pure light stings and I must
Close my eyes.

Our Father who art in Heaven,
Hollow is your name.
Kingdom come
And I am done,
On Earth as well as Heaven.

Your house is forever standing with
The steeple reaching out
To grasp at nothing
But raindrops and clouds.