Saturday, 29 March 2014

Out of the Mist

Out of the Mist
I held within the Saviour of the world
And walked, step by step, into the unknown
Blood and cries gave birth to Him
And as I saw myself in those dear eyes
I knew now there were different stars to behold
Other treasures to find . . .

As He grew, a tree sometimes cast a shadow across my path
Memories would return: His tiny hand clasping my finger
Him labouring in the workshop
Handling wood, pausing to talk to me
Such skilled hands that were to reach out
To those no one would touch . . .

My boy
I could not protect Him from those hate-filled looks
Murderous whispers and a jeering crowd
I could not take Him back inside
Overshadowed by rough wood
This time the blood and cries were His . . .

And as darkness fell
He spoke from out of the mist
I could barely understand it then
Giving me another family
John’s strong arm supporting me
As I stumbled and wept
Remembering the words I spoke at the beginning of it all . . .

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour ...

Words: SC Fordham, Image: Walter Hayn

Thursday, 13 March 2014



I always imagined
ruin’s touch
to be harsh  
but it was like a hand
on my shoulder
gently pushing me down  
I always imagined
the ground to be cold  
but it was to envelop me
like a mother  
by unquestionable arms
I was down  
I was part of the earth


I am a seed in God’s hand  
I can barely see now  
but have felt both the sun and the rain
as my heart burning  
my real tears  
and with every day
I was reducing  
I was becoming only one thing  
knowing only one thing  
that God would bury me  
and the time came  
He whispered  
is the only way to live 


time advances stronger than an army ready to strike
cut me down to the ground
where I now live and am like a seed being covered
dug into soil
yes it starts long before the final burial
but there are no witnesses for this  
to be born you die  
my Father said  
be as a seed into the ground  
wait there in the great sleep underground 
 to live  
so you can become like me
 who you sought when it was day

Saturday, 1 March 2014

Freedom is at the door

Ibrahim Qashoush (born 3 September 1977 - died 4 July 2011) was a fireman and amateur poet from Hama, Syria. He sang and authored songs mocking Syrian president. On 4 July 2011, Qashoush was found dead in the Orontes River, his throat cut and his vocal cords ripped out. After his murder, fellow protesters hailed Qashoush as the "nightingale of the revolution". This poem is for him.

A dawn chorus sung from within your dusk
What they took from you cannot be measured
Immeasurable loss
Daily slips through fingers
Raised in protest
Raised in the expectation of change

Nightingale of the revolution
So cruelly silenced
As you sang of freedom
Prisoners came to your door
And ripped your finely tuned instrument
From you

It is too much to contemplate
As the river flows on
Others will make music and sing …
Showing forth spring before its appearing
And many more will doubtless die

What will it take for the shut door
To creak open?
When will it be? When will she rise?