The Seeker



She searched the halls of castled kings,

parted feathered angel wings,

pondered deep with think-tank Brains,

researched Wall Street’s short-term gains,

cozied up to Heads of State,

sought the rarest foods to plate,

joined the ranks of earth’s elite –

and still, her quest was incomplete

until the day she saw it clear,

frost upon a barren spear.

That quality of strength and grace

she’d hunted for through time and space

was clinging to these simple stems

where trials turned life’s tears to gems;

the Truth – elusive, and unknown

had always sparkled close to home.






Soul Runs Empty

empty bird feeder

Soul runs empty,

pants for bread,

craves attachment,

must be fed;

convention’s trough

won’t satisfy –

O Christmas Son,

will you supply?

Born and laid

in manger hay,

feed our souls

this Christmas Day.


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

Winding, Winding, Ever Winding…

Image courtesy of Brian Gaynor Photography

Winding, winding, ever winding.

Incessantly insistently stubbornly winding,

Path called to reluctant Feet.

As always, she could only see a few steps in front of her nose;

Obscurity wore the pants in this relationship.

Path liked to cloak itself in mysterious profundity,

Slinking under sheets of rain,

Shrouded in turban-cloths wound into mist,

Wrapping itself tightly into fists of fog.

And always, her feet followed at Path’s insistence.

Somewhere ahead, somewhere she hadn’t been yet, was

The Self that she sought in her dreams.

Always elusive, always fleeting,

She caught glimpses reflected from the microscopic mirror-specks of

Vapour hanging pregnant in the saturated air.

Fractured form and function,

Her shattered Self mocked with seven year’s bad luck.

And yet –

The Prophesy that drove her on, that fuelled her falter,

That cried through the whispers between leaves,

Promised a rainbow of Self fulfilled;

Quest beat with courage of steel in housing of paper.

So on Feet crept, blindly faithful,

Winding, winding, ever winding…

Around the Next Bend

Image courtesy of Brian Gaynor Photography

Hooded, he searches restlessly for

the end of the line.

He wonders if it will be around the next bend,

but after a million curves and

a million miles,

he has lost count and

the odds aren’t stacked in his favour.

The journey isn’t what he expected.

The curves and twists are dizzying in their complexity.

He thought he’d be further at this

stage in life.

He thought he’d have gained a conductor’s hat;

instead, the caboose is overloaded with baggage

he can’t even begin to tag.

Hope doesn’t conduct well on rails.

Emptiness washes him out like a hollow horn echoing back

from the trees,

chugging with used and belaboured  ‘I-thought-I-coulds’.

Is he on the right track?

Will he run out of steam?

Maybe, the next bend will clatter with revelation, illumination,

be a station to pull into.

Maybe what he searches for even in his dreams

will be around the next bend…