The days are cold but my hands are moving.

I have been writing, but haven't been posting it on here.  Will that change?  Man, I hope so.  And if hope is all I have, it's enough.  This poem was an attempt to ask a question; I'm not going to come back to it.

Insubstantial Morsel, Immolated Cup.

Held reverent, clutched tight against your chest,

much like important books in rainy days,

Your ever shredding truth hypothesis;

the ever present symbolism haze.

This is His flesh, and, this is not a pipe

His blood, thick on our garments, red and loose:

I offer you an insubstantial slice

of wholemeal bread and watered down grape juice.

This, the triumph of the greatest miracle?

This fundamental turning point of time

When Truth stood true both figurative and literal

Is given, then denied that it be mine?

I clutch my bible close against the rain

that erodes; re-affirms; erodes again.

Here is silence.

It's an odd feeling labouring over a poem.  A lot of time and work is put into a small body of text, and it can feel a bit overworked.  At the same time there is a reward when even a single line feels weighty and  full.  This is not quite one of those poems; I'm still working on them.  But I like this one, though I feel like I've posted in an earlier state.

Here Is Silence.

We do not stand together

I am tethered;

You're a feather.

And I must carry on

I am strong;

You are gone.

I would ask what turned your back

On this hard track

Don't answer that.

My questions fall away

There is an absence

Where you lay.

And I may never go inland;

Grasp your hand;

Understand.

The absence where you lay

I questioned on the day-

Answers you will never say.

We do not stand together;

I am tethered

Here forever.

Mid November Remember.

I've finally finished reading the 30 days with jesus - a year after starting.  The poems will take longer; I will probably miss days, and I'm striving now to work and rework pieces, especially ones I wish to make important for myself.  There are always others though, in the meantimes.

Rough Discards

The wind gushes!

the wind rushes!

the wind stumbles, and utters

curses, and shakes its fist at the skies.

Its scrape dislodges stars, that tumble

in a cascade that rumbles

off the great clouds that fumble

and roll their dark eyes.

The stars are spelt

that clatter and melt

and they felt

cold when they settled on my arm.

This proves to me thus

that what's dislodged are husks

to melt into dust

while you brightly shine on.

The Nones, the nones!

The year has passed incredibly fast up till this point, but shows signs of slowing.
I must admit I didn't actually think this as a child, but I wish I did.

Small Circles.

As a little child I held

a little piece of bread

a little cup of grape juice

And looked into my little face

reflected in the cup.

I looked and reasoned

with my little mind

that why we got a little bit

of Holy Flesh and Holy blood

was so there was enough of it

for every little child

To have a little bit.

an omnipresent God

should have more body though.

But why I did not care to know

as any little is enough.

Winter's warmth.

Often a winter day can bring clarity of thought, but usually not when you want it to.

A Fire Far and Near.

Waves on the shore, turning from the shore

I lift my armour down with false pretenses

The bright scarf on unexpected tides was washed away

along with my sand castle defenses

I have two contrasting problems

The place I dare not go, and cannot stay.

A friend with flashlight kills my best intentions

A genuinely good friend, so who should ask for more?

All my desire, turning from desire

the place that makes it, out of reach.

A desperate step, outside a coward's grasp

one more metre along the beach.

each time I call it cowardice

a trait for which I did not ask.

A failure I would swear I didn't preach

And kerosene to dampen down the fire.

Interlude: context is meaningless

This doesn't make any sense, and I'm not too pleased with it.

Except lines 12 and 13.  They're nice.  

At any rate, now I can carry on.

Social Amphigory

An old hand turned transmitter

Pants out into the fog

“I do not know

    I do not see

 I want to hear ..."

And back the echoes bring

much of the same thing, until I do not care

and the echoes wilt away.

Beautiful silhouettes I've come to fear

are projected from my shadow

(With damp swirls on the glass)

and a vibrant light I've turned my life

three-quarters of a way away from.

But there's terrain I want to shed some light on - 

The pavement twists are narrow,

and a cart has trundled past

of some meaningless decay

- It was pulled by a dog -

Yet you say, non sequitur.

Saying an awful little.

I kind of like this one, though for no real quality I can fathom.

the wind and me.

Amidst the roars and ice-tipped tendrils of the wind

that coil on my chest and scrape across my face,

that wrap around my neck and tangle with my limbs,

that try to lift me up about my waist,

a point of weakness in the feet's resolve

to hold close correspondence with the ground.

To keep firmament's kiss upon the soles

or nuzzle up and rub the shoe grip down.

The insubstantial bonds that hold me to my shadow

are torn; they flutter, whip irreparably fray.

It gets stretched out, lithe and bent and narrow

And I am altogether whisked away.