What’s the trucking problem?

The problem is articulated
often when the P.C. meets,
because it’s shaking our foundations
of village life, of rural peace.
But there’s no traction
with council action
(who’ve a county’s-worth of ‘nimby’ pleas).

It’s true – “the road has always been there.”
Stock answers have no truck round here,
‘cos it’s traffic-ing a heavy load
of stress that’s going up a gear.
Yet still no traction
with council action,
in spite of data, year on year.

So how can we scale down the problem,
what solution to our plight?
How long will this rumble on
and drive us round the bend, despite
the lobbying faction?
Well – I’ll scan ya reaction –
a model answer is in sight!

TOP TIP

“I’m off to pick some litter up.”

The prospect hadn’t lit her up,

so she sat scrolling social posts

while he went strolling past the ‘post

that marks his turn to Braybrooke Road ,

propelled by depressive episode.

For turning left at that T-junction

he walked where some had no compunction

in ejecting from their cars and vans

plastic wrappers, cups, and cans –

not caring how this thoughtless spillage

marred the way into our village.

This lane shows up the country mile

we’ve yet to go to reconcile

our place on earth and how we’ve farrowed

the filthy pigs who’ve filled Phil’s barrow.

Who then was that verge embosser?

Who threw stuff out? Who was that tosser?

Back in the drive. She was all a-twitter

about his shocking haul of litter.

Yet not one foot had she advanced,

just her cosy, passive, indignance.

But the corner-post, the single beacon,

shines – the hero of the season.

Going forwards

Nan died.

Pen dried.

Two years passed

in wordless gasps.

Grasping into a void –

the quiet blankness devoid

of former eloquence – and yet

so much still being said,

still being faced. Until

a sailor’s coat-frill

opened the sky,

which is why

I’ve kept

my pep.

I wrote about my Nan’s passing previously. It was a time of other darknesses coming to light. Anger and outrages emerged and I became unable to articulate my experiences in writing for some time.

Nan had several funny expressions. One was ‘If there’s enough blue in the sky to make a sailor’s coat…’ meaning – stay optimistic, things will get better. I think of it often and it makes me smile. Clouds may trim the blue, but the blue is there if you look. Her hopeful resolve was part of how she’d present herself to the world, and she was right, we can use the most hurtful things around us and try to make life more positive in all directions moving forward. I’ve been working hard inside, it’s taken time, but a new vigour is breaking through. I love you Nan.

Small boat, big seas.

In roiling seas I’d wished I’d skirted –

harbour-seeking all perverted –

the passage to that still horizon

reels me, and my soul is siphoned

down into deep briny troughs.

But though my fears are in the buff

I’ll hunker in the hull of this coracle

and trust it’s buoyant beams arborical.

Inspired by a talk by Adrian Plass, delivered with his usual wisdom and compassion. I am now in a safe harbour, but I remember well the scary voyages I’ve been flung out on. I am now grateful for having experienced what it is to be in a small boat in big seas, and for learning to trust the steersman.

For those still out on choppy waters, know that there are harbour lights shining out for you.

Fruit shoots

I had such zest and energy

a new skin of sweet piquancy.

‘Don’t take the pith!’ I pled and cried

‘Don’t pare me from ekklesia’s side.’

Uncommon people pulped me down

Sapped me – but, was then I found

out flowed a fresh vitality.

The juice is worth the press and squeeze.

Discarded flesh all crushed and dripped

had composted unwanted pips.

These new shoots – they may be minute

but promise, from the hulls, new fruit.

CROSSED THE RUBICON

No more shall we be woe-begone,

not since we crossed the rubicon!

Habeus corpus – no unicorn?

That horny time is purged.

The test is always by the fruit,

and moral tales we shall impute.

Our time of ripening (from deep roots)

will sap the bitter urge.

Laughter transports poignancy

and gives the message buoyancy.

A vision, in ascendency,

helps scale the learning curve.

It’s not a stage we’re going through –

we’ve got a solid platform to

reach up, reach out, and show them truths

where light and love converge.

I had thought that being under the umbrella of a spiritual institution was important, but found toxicity there which in turn hindered our creative expression. Not how it should be of course, but there it is. During this time someone ruefully joked that a unicorn must have been slain to account for the gossip there. In fact this mythic murderess was cleared; the ‘body of evidence’ proved unsubstantiated. Not so for someone else in the end though.

Standing for truth and justice sapped our energy, but once done we found a new lease of life. Our puppetry is physical, visually dynamic, and fun, and always with a moral message in the content – so the audience has something good to take away from it. It is part of what has been healing for us as we move on. This poem was written to celebrate liberation from that hard time, and mark the longed-for independence for our performing arts work.

Ashes and oil

It is not I, but he, indicted –

such sadness of a soul benighted.

Pride has wounded and misguided,

but the critics heart is unrequited.

In brokenness I once was sighted,

yet – of sustaining grace reminded –

ashes and oil are all united,

to restoration I’m invited.

Sleeping Snooty

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

who’s the one who’s so enthralled

by abusing those who see

past his self-centred deity.

It’s served you well to spin the story,

and yet it’s lost you so much glory.

A little prick – and how do you sleep?

No conscience, you shrug off deceits.

But the greater wheel of justice turns,

what comes before a fall confers

a yarn much spoke of as a warning

to others for whom truth is dawning.

Cognitive dissonance can be a particular problem in the church, where locally and institutionally the impulse is to protect the reputations of those in it’s employ, no matter what. It is its foolish and fatal flaw. It is of course an inherently fallible place – as the saying goes, ‘it would be alright if it weren’t for all the people in it…’ (and I was there too).  And yet truth will often out, in its own good time. It is not always love that covers sin, but many deceits – pride being the most powerful. As we reflect, may we better acknowledge what is in fact ugly and distorted, yet also see the precious facets of hope and redemption within it. Let’s change the picture shall we?