The Blame Game

Praise be to our Lord and God

When we have made god and all creation in our own image it is not God but we who will take ultimate responsibility for the wrath that visits this generation. We have the power to control the environment, all things great and small. We can build and we can destroy; we can decide who will remain and prosper, in a sex, colour, shape or form defined and decided by us.
So, why lay at God’s name what visits us? God’s rule is a rule of love; humans rule through pride, hatred and self-consuming thirst for power. If we have fire and brim stone showered upon us, blame not God. He still hears the cry of His people and in His time will lead us through aridness, across the Red Sea to His Promised Land, in His own time. Be not afraid.

Poems

 

Sweetest Mother

From your favoured seat behind the most exalted throne,
Whisper gently to your son
“He has no wine”.
And, I will do his bidding –
Petty piece of pottery!
Now stained
From
Rings of long neglected watermarks
Of the first flushing out
Of earthly dregs and grime.

I’ll fill to the brim
From Jacob’s well
True
Sparking waters that give life.
And,
Wait breathlessly for his command
To turn the water into wine.

Little Spec of Dust

Little spec of dust
Whence came you?

“O I blew in
On the last gust of wind
That wantonly carried me
This way, that and in a swoon.

Again it rolls me up,
Spins me back to whence I came.

So, I go round and round
Awaiting
When the great gust
Will blow me far far
Into the Sun’s blinding darkness.”

The Way To Dusty Death

I asked the mountain to move
and a rock landed on me,
transfixing me to the desert sands;
a mill-stone of my own making.

Parched, I cannot move;
the weight of yesterdays sink deeply
deeply to my soul.
If motionless, I find relief.
I relax and let go.

A distant cloud bursts
and a gentle zephyr brings the text
“In you I am well pleased”.
Is this the way to dusty death?

Contemplating My Prostate

The prostate is ego-bloated.
It restricts flow;
Voidance that should rinse and purge
Limbs and members of that one vine.

Placed for one purpose,
But it grows!
Disproportionate to its first intent;
Imperiously determining
What should shut and what may go.
Oblivious to all,
It turns, cogitates, and issues sparks
Of delusion.

This agent of the spectre of darkness
Must be suppressed at once!
Bring tacks
Make incisions,
Reduce the size of this bloatedness.
Be cruel but kind
And save from implosions and descent to hell.

An Ode To Mother Earth

A few years ago I passed through an arid zone in our otherwise beautiful state of Tasmania. The area had once been a thriving copper mine. It now lies desolate. I saw natures beautiful colours, with the exception of dappled greens. And, in that silence no birds sang. The Midas touch had taken what was considered of value, leaving behind open wounds and piles of rubble to mock the nature we are master of. No Caesar could be more arrogant and ruthless.

The riches reaped made us blind. Digging giant holes in the ground seemed a good idea and we transposed it, repeating the success around the country. It has been a summer’s day of wealth, success and idleness. Blind greed and slothfulness too have diminishing returns. Mineral prices are tumbling. So are the economy and the futures of those who forgot the lessons of the grasshopper and the ant. The message “Go to the ant thou sluggard and be wise!”

It is a small reminder that our natural resources are finite and need proper husbanding. As fortunate custodians of all of creation, we are bound to nurturing this vast and bountiful world. If we fail in our duty to be creative, responsible and industrious our garden turns into a desert; a lesson learned many times over by the children of Israel. They were sold into slavery by powers that destroyed their cities and gardens. We too, today, face humiliating negotiations over sovereign rights with outsiders who dictate the terms of agreement. They’ll dig fresh holes and displace the locals with their own representatives and work the sites. For a little over thirty pieces of silver we sell our garden, our little piece of Paradise, and hide our shame with leaves from remaining trees.