Ready, Set, Grow

hoarfrosted grass

Where tears met the fog,

Your armour grew –

Negligee wrapping

Pain in more palatable form,

Deflecting eyes from

Bones brittle as death.

If you allow the Light

To strip you naked

(Sinews and seams

Bruised and bare)

Your genuine

Can grow.

Candid Camera

You think

that these layers of cold pseudonyms,

6-ply stratification,

red-herring Venetian mask

will conceal inadequacy

and cloak sparse spirit,

but I see you;

your true colours

spill through the cracks

of your costume.

Fig-leaf false fronts

are destined to fall;

lay smoke screen aside

so I can

touch the true self,

and be blessed by your

candid camera.

*

For more on this topic, visit Growing with God in my Garden

The Day Will Come

Aloft,

you nod

and blush

 and simper;

there is nothing to suggest

that your core is

full of worms.

Plastic smiles

and wooden nickels

are bread to your butter,

static to your cling.

You have cleverly hidden

the stench of death

under a fresh Febreeze,

but the day will come

when the nearest nose

will  get more

than it bargained for…