Saint Joyce

One of those Church Saints died this week, This is for her. 

She didn’t look like you’d expect

and she did not perform miracles to order

but in her company disorder

was re-ordered

into a kind companion.

Her voice was more the still small sound of heaven

on earth,

she did not shatter

but gently bathed her listener with the kindest of words.

She will not be recalled by the writers’ of history

and yet,

yet,

she is the saint who sat and watched

over a beloved community for God.

Not as mother superior but as a superior mother,

who does not pass unregarded.

Her seat sits empty and yet I look up and see her watching over,

praying for sister and brother.

Writer’s Block

For a long time now I have struggled to write poetry. A while ago I expressed this, with some irony, in a poem! I publish it tonight only because I have written again tonight in memory of a church member who died this week.

I’m looking for words

but they have slipped inside the sofa,

hiding beside the remote

my hand touches one before the others.

the words remain abandoned

in the accumulated debris until they are

accidentally,

with purpose,

dragged neglected into the woven dust and fir

that swirls.

I have a dyson.

Confused, they are choked then binned.

I sinned, I discarded them

and did not let them sit beside each other on the page

where they would have had a meaning

not before prescribed for them.

Providence would have lured these words,

these letters so arranged

to a new home.

Instead they are crumbs that will not be gathered

except by the bin man.