My head is a book of post-it notes

My head is a book of post-it notes

That whizz and whirl and swoosh and push

Against my brain,

Giving it paper cuts.

My head is a book of post-it notes

That fly out of order

Just as I think I’ve got them all under control,

Just as I think it’s all neatly settled.

My head is a book of post-it notes

With sad things written on them.

My head is a book of post-it notes

That have lost their stickiness. You try I try he tries she tries

To glue them back together,

To find some coherence in the mess, to make

The great all-American golden-age kickass best-selling

Novel

Out of the post-it notes in my mind. Thanks

But you can’t.

They won’t keep still. They won’t stick together. It won’t work

No matter how much Pritt stick* you apply

(*Trademark)

My head is a book of post-it notes

That never let me forget. I’m never late

Never miss a class, a meeting, a date

Thanks to these

Reminders.

They remind me of my life

Of all I’ve done, of all that’s happened, of all the

HAPPY

Memories.

Thanks, post-it notes.

You’re great.

My head is a book of post-it notes:

Bright yellow, like those flowers

In the flask on your desk. Those flowers

That she bought you. That day.

That made me sad.

That’s on a post-it note.

My head is a book of post-it notes

That no-one understands.

Not even me.

My head is a book of post-it notes

That keep me up at night, screaming.

My baby won’t sleep

She’s crying I can’t stop her make her stop make her stop make her STOP.

PLEASE.

please.

I can’t take it any more. I can’t take it I can’t take it I can’t deal with it.

I

Can’t

Deal

With the post-it notes.

My head is a book of post-it notes

And you’ll never sort them out.  

Poppies Outside Great St Mary's

23/10/2015

At first I thought them confetti, or paint

Spilled all around the church

Like drops of blood

Falling calmly to earth from our Saviour’s wounds. His blood,

Vibrant, scarlet, fragrant, free;

Dripping down, pulsing through the soil on a hill called Calvary,

Mixing with the earth, nourishing the life which lay dormant in that soil.

And on that hill, and since that day,

Only one plant has graced Golgotha.

The purest flowers that could ever be, for they were planted by his blood,

Cleansed by his blood, stained by his blood…poppies.

Blood-red poppies

Clinging to the hill where my Jesus died.

Drawing closer, I realised that is what they were: poppies,

Glowing brightly, setting fire to a dull pavement and a day plagued

By a dark grey sky. And I remembered all the blood that has been shed for me since;

I remembered the battle-fields, and the bombs in streets, and the heroes

Who were just ordinary men,

Just ordinary men, really, who happened to shed their blood and lose their lives.

For me.

And I realised that I would never look at King’s College Chapel the same way again.

And I realised that we should all look at beauty and try to really see it and look again and keep

looking, over and over, because men died so that our world might continue to be beautiful and

Beauty deserves to be appreciated. And

Beauty deserves to be died for. And

Our world is beautiful. Amen.