Author: P.
Watch “SPOUT OF RIVER GARNOCK” on YouTube
#Poem For Our American Cousins
Romans 8:17
In every year thats passes by, there’s friends from overseas, visiting a little town with dreams of family.
Perhaps Place castle some will say, or found in Walker Hall, perhaps a line of great descent, behind Tianna Falls.
Walking streets which long since gone, with hopes of names or face, wearily they pace around to find the slightest trace.
And when we ask about the task, the answer’s never clear, identity or Grandpa’s home or memories they hold dear.
Still there is a waiting wealth, which passed through every line, a joyful welcome and a smile to all who take the time.
And legacies of golden bowls surrendered long ago, exchanged for joy preserved in time, for future folk to know.
Heirs of joy, and stewardship still, which lasts beyond our peers, kindness, smiles remembered still throughout the passing years.
If today a search does come to wanton lonely minds, think not of watches or old clocks to search for back in time.
Instead to know their sense of joy, is shared today by all, a random act of kindness do, instead of searching halls.
For welcome, joy and happiness was theirs and ours today, there is no forgetting acts of Love which fall on minds today.
Make your mark for future lines, by random acts of good, remembered more by other folk than silver, gold or wood.
Rain at Jock’s Burn, Kibirnie
(John 5: The Pool of Bethesda)
An angel clad in white winged robes with hands upon the pool
A surge of water gushes forth, clear, transparent, cool
Children watch upon the bridge with raincoats, darkened caps
My mother calls me not to fear, the bridge’s missing slats
Like needles dropping in the stream, rain pierces to the ground
Raising thoughts in Children’ s minds with every plopping sound
And as the Angel, golf course walks, the clouds clear with his step
Revealing brighter thoughts for man with every place he treads
By Crawfurd’s castle, blue skies clear and children move away
Their raincoats filled with water still seem strange in Summer’s days
Shadows clear upon the fields and hope again appears
Within the showers, sunny glades where man has nought to fear
Long after Angels hands descend or sun upon Man’s dreams
Still the pool, it gushes forth pushing all upstream
And on the Minds of local men an Angel dares to tread
Stirring healing loving thoughts upon the dying bed.
Not a God I know
Confined in brick or iron box is not a God I know, reduced to wafers held with gloves by men at circus shows.
And others claim a Spirit near descends at certain times, usually with silver plate and fortified good wine.
Then some say, a devil comes with pitchfork pointed beard, to chase us all around the streets, like Benny Hill appears.
Then others paint a sad faced man who hangs with blood stained tears, enough to frighten hardened hearts to heighten all their fears.
The God I know is found in Love, in silence, peaceful ways, in the innocence of kids, in kindness every day.
I see him in the daily smiles of acts done chaste and pure, helping with a shopping bag or charity for sure.
In the hospitality of coffee with a friend, sharing every friendly branch where two birds sit and bend.
When other’s thoughts approach your mind with doctrines black and grey, with suits and cars, prosperity, do not be afraid.
For Spirit lives within the realms and hears not earthly praise, reaching to our higher selves with kindness every day.
Not in stone but in the act of passing thoughts of Love, builds the temple in your heart, where thoughts come from above.
For Paisley and it’s Places
Perhaps upon the River Cart or by its dwindling streams
We feel a heart that’s beating power without another means
A power that turns the waiting tide and waters plants and flowers
Turning students to their books in every waitng hour
A power that lights the morning dawn and dusk a gentle glow
A power that hold each swan intact as waters gently flow
A guiding light which simply “Is” with no demands on man
While preachers loudly scream and shout that all the folk are damned
A power that needs no words nor praise to move within it’s place
For it has the world for man to feel it’s gentle guiding pace
And if by chance an apple tree should spring in Barshaw Park
Or nestling feathers after flight, you see a morning lark
Look upon its shining beak or feathers black and pure
Worship not the image, mind, but the power that it endures
And when the apple tree no more, holds up it’s greenish fruit
Look toward the power in Life for all things absolute
Only the real stands up to time, with majesty and robes
All else disappears from sight, with pain and anxious throws
And so the real in everything is found not in the clay
But in the power of Life itself which opens up the day
Dwell not in things which are not real but look behind the eyes
There you find the real idea of all that Love implies
