If you really loved me

If you really loved me

You'd stop being such a pest

You'd always try your best

To do all that I request

If you really loved me

You would always understand

Never quibble or demand

Or upset the things I planned

If you really loved me

You wouldn't always think you're right

You'd never fuss or fight

You'd always be polite

If you really loved me

You'd put up with what I'd do

You'd keep smiling through and through

No matter what I did to you

If you'd really love me

You'd always have the grace

To recognise your place

Which is behind me, just a pace

So when you think you've got it

There'll be no need to brawl

Don't hesitate at all

I'll be waiting for your call

Accident

The trivial trigonometry of chance

Writes in scratchy script

Unreadable to the layman

Line and symbol unhinged

Aimlessly wandering, bleeding

No heed to line or order

Growing dull mold stain

Colonising the pores of opportunity

Snaking along fault lines,

The random architecture of stress and strain

Entropy builds behind the dam walls

Chaos spins in crazed jittery dances

Disaster dreams in darkness

Nostrils twitching

Eyes flickering behind crusted eyelids

The pressure of probability

Prowls outside the unguarded gates

When cycicism became the fashion

You're probably going to think I'm writing this because I'm old. There may be some truth to that.

I'm watching a Pete Seeger concert recorded in Melbourne in 1963. I will point out that I was only 8 years old at the time this recording was made.

My father was a folk music fan. We used to sit around the kitchen table after dinner and sing folk songs while Dad played guitar. Naturally I grew up being a 'folkie' too. Of course I went through my rebellious phase with rock and roll and all things 'cool' but every few years my life would return to the purity and simplicity of the single guitar or banjo, the simple song that stood the test of time.

In this concert, Pete is playing all the old ones. He even does 'Kumbyah' Cue disdain. Except Pete is doing it and telling the story of the song's history from Angola and encouraging the audience to sing along. Cue more disdain. Except they DO sing along. And the swell of a thousand voices from 40 years ago rings with sincerity and warmth. Pete sings 'Ain't Gonna Study War No More' and the place roars with harmony and passion. He says 'Let's sing it so loud the generals all over the world can hear it!' and, by God, they try for Pete.

Pete is still here. He's 90 but still plays and still creates hope and peace and a swelling of the heart, a determination that we CAN do better. Mary Travers from Peter, Paul and Mary left us last week.

Sometime over the last few decades, hope and determination for a better world went out of fashion. It's become 'cool' to despair, 'cool' to deprecate, 'cool' to wallow in negativity. We're oh so clever. We've given up. We share snide grins at the few naive who still think music can grow out of a people and unite them in yearning.

Not me, I'm still singing 'Kumbyah'.

Scary Books

The world is full of scary books

That set me all a-quiver

And I'll turn down good literature

For stuff that makes me shiver

I'll read them late at night in bed

Until my pulse just races

And in my dreams I'll get to see

Some quite unpleasant places

I wonder why I seem to be

Drawn to fear and dread

But only when I'm tucked up tight

Safe at home, in bed

Destroying Idols

Many fundamentalist christians are vehemently, rabidly anti-catholic. Their main criticism is usually idol worship. After all catholic churches have all those statues. Statues are idols, right? Guilty as charged. Of course this shows a complete misunderstanding of the role of image in catholic theology. But something more subtle is going on in the critics' own backyard. Naturally critics don't like to look at their own backyard. They much prefer pointing out the flaws of others.

The commandment against idol worship is simple when it is restricted to physical images. But of course this is the most restrictive application of the commandment. By far the most dangerous idols are those of the imagination, the mental concepts we have of God that stand between us and the 'real' experience of God. When we think we know God, that He in some way 'belongs' to us, that he is understandable or understood, we cling to our conceptions of God.

This isn't faith at all, but a poor substitute which is more about intellectual knowing than trusting. As I have written before, it is the difference between clinging to wreckage in the water and learning to swim. Christian theologians have sounded this warning through the ages. They talk about the via negativa, the approach to God which depends on saying what God is not.

Buddhists have an interesting teaching in this regard. It is encapsulated in the saying: ' If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him'. The idea being that any Buddha you meet is a concept that leads away from realization of the self. We cling to concepts. Real mysticism is letting go.

Peter, Paul and Mary

The three of them stood on a stage
Two guitars
Sometimes a bass player
And harmonies that would weave in and out of magic
An alchemy of voices
Singing strong
Singing what was true
Singing for civil rights before it was comfortable
Taking Dylan to the mainstream
Where he could detonate in people's minds
Talking, marching, singing, playing
With a mix of passion and professionalism rarely matched

Mary's gone
But the music still sounds across the years
If I had a song
I'd sing it in the morning
I'd sing it in the evening all over this land

Justice, freedom, love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land
All over every land

Such as these

The simple word
Upon the page
The open book
The empty stage
The smell of rain
The evening breeze
My soul was made
For such as these

The loving glance
The gentle hands
The gift of one
Who understands
The shady nook
Beneath the trees
My soul was made
For such as these

The open heart
The childish grin
The healing kiss
On wounded shin
The sleepy head
Upon my knees
My soul was made
For such as these

The heartfelt song
The circle round
The friends of old
The new ones found
The passing time
That gives us ease
My soul was made
For such as these

Recite!

'Recite!' he said
I quivered then
And slowly lowered down my pen

'Recite' he said
I took a breath
Could this be where I meet my death?

'Recite!' he said
My thoughts all fled
All literature then left my head

'Recite!' he said
My brow did sweat
All poems did my brain forget

'Recite!' he said
His bold command
Took away my will to stand

'Recite!' he said
And then, dear light
I thought of one to put things right

'Oh pretty little daffodil …'

'Not that one!' he snapped

Dark Angels

I met a woman today who taught me a lesson

I was at the mall
Buying stuff, just groceries really
Teenagers twittering in the too loud voices they use
The muzak oozing through the air
Any mall
Anywhere

I walked down the ramp toward the carpark
And there she was,
Sitting,
Sitting on the concrete ramp
Her feet straight out in front of her
Pointing down the ramp
Her back vertical
Her head faced toward the carpark and it never turned

'Are you alright?' I asked
Stupid really
She was sitting where no one sat,
Where no one was supposed to sit
Maybe she fell
Maybe she was drunk
But no

'I'm dying,' she said
'You'll be alright,' I assured her
Stupid again
'No,' she said, 'I only have two weeks to live.'
Not much you can say to that

When she spoke her head remained still
But her eyes looked up at me
And there were dark angels there

'Would you like some help?' I said
'Yes' she said
A passer-by went off to get security

Security

She said 'Say good bye to Doctor Fuller for me'
I said 'Of course I will.'

I stayed with her until security came
Then I left her

I got in my car

We live our lives
Partly sleeping
But all the while dark angels circle us all

These Young Men

It hasn't been easy being a father to these young men
I suppose it's never easy being a father
But these young men
These young men have worn me out;
Not because of anything they've done,
No,
They're fine young men,
Young men I can be proud of,
Gentle, kind men,
Men who know justice and virtue and the grace of empathy,
No, these are young men who are a worthy addition to the world

It was worry that wore me out,
Responsibility,
Entrusted with treasure,
I was tasked to deliver these young men safely to the world
And all along I worried,
I worried that I would lose this precious gift,
That I would fail in this one great destiny of my life

But I haven't

They're very nearly ready now
I am required less and less

These young men
They are my life
And I am happy to be judged by them and for them

The Competition

Some people seem to feel
That life is competition,
A race that goes to those
whose claws are red
But I can never comprehend
The value of a race
Where each and every entrant
Ends up dead