Barefoot in Church

Is it a strange urge
to go barefoot in church?
Although broadly ignorant of customs,
I know it’s okay in some places.
In some religions it might be a condition
of entry, for a place of worship.

But I’m not sure,
as I say, a lack of education
and of a will to research now
to know, leaves me in the dark.

So,
if stumbled upon and seen,
will I be challenged,
forcibly ejected?

“And why mister?
Why’d you want to go barefoot
in church, in the first place?”
Well,
it’s a sensory thing
is all I can think, in answer
to this particular question.

In the usual manner
entering a church –
shoes and socks firmly in place.
I kind of absorb something
of the atmosphere inside,
and this generates feelings inside of me.

“Well what kind of feelings are those, weirdo?”
I don’t know.

Feelings of calm and peace?
There is beauty in the construction
and decoration,
I touch a wall,
feel the stonework.
Admire artwork,
consider inscriptions.
Enjoy the
space.

Even in a small church,
there is a lot of empty space around me.

Anyway, so I did it.
I found a church.
Empty, yet with it’s main door wide open,
which felt symbolic for the matter at hand.

No one inside.
With antenna fine tuned,
able to hear the advance warning of
somebody approaching from the outside.
I felt safe.

Shoes and socks slipped off with ease.
Socks in my pockets (ankle socks)
Shoes, on the floor, near my shoulder-bag.

I walked down the central aisle.
I walked into the chancel.
I walked up to the high altar.
I stood and considered,
Reviewed all sensations.

Back to the nave, more wanderings,
then sat.
Felt confident.

And also more connected to the experience
than ever before.

Although, would I like it
if everyone walked barefoot
in church?

Poems of Sorts

This collection draws together poetry written between the fall of 2017 to summer 2019, reflecting upon the unique qualities of life and relationships, observed through an ordinary eye. The author says, “Within these words are themes anyone can connect with, be this from a simple desire to, a personal experience, misfortune or something they once overheard.”

Available for purchase as an ebook, at Amazon.

when nothing’s inside my head (and I have no clue what to say)

Unsure if the darkened cafe is actually open
I sweep inside, straight past the hosts
Despite their earnest efforts to engage
Princess Charlotte says I look ‘dapper’ –
Referring to my outfit

She – with dark blue eyes
Dual German-Irish princess, by birth-right
Still, I penetrate deeper into the darkened space
Ignoring the time-spent on decorations
I don’t register such things

So, I actually made it to the Christmas fancy dress party!
Having left it ’til the last minute to decide
Congratulations are in order
Certainly
No mean feat

Ignoring everyone I pass by
My mission is to disembark my coat
Find the safe place
Hat and scarf
To boot

Now
Where is the drink?
Wine
Why wine?
Why white wine

Against red?
Chat
Small-talk
Forced
Uncomfortable

Move on
Notice Derek, chatting intensively
To shy Lina
Join them
Graciously elbow Derek out

Lina opens up
I nod head, agree
Say something wrong
She leaves
Smarting

I disappear for a cigarette
Reappear, drawn to the Ladies in Waiting
I chew the fat, yet
Before I settle in
All six arise together and leave

I am doing well
Another cigarette, outside
Back in, attracted to Cordelia
The source of light
To a dusty old moth

“You look well. Pretty, you look, well pretty” 
Stumbling words
I am stared down by her friends
She leaves
To involve herself elsewhere

Secret Santa exchange begins
I watch my wrapped gift picked up
Several times and placed back down
I can’t bear to watch, find another table
Here’s Tara, locks tied back.

But it is exclusively me-talk
I can’t get a word in edgeways
Facing failure, I am elbowed out of the way
By a grandpa age-difference man
That’s how bad I performed

Full circle
I chat to the two Princess Charlottes
Explaining how my gift hasn’t been picked
Now I don’t want to give it away
I decide, so take it back for myself

Mild confusion ensues
I beg my leave
I retrieve coat, hat and scarf
I don’t look back
“If only I had said this…” all the way home

i repeat myself

I wonder of the last meaningful word I’ll utter, mutter,
perhaps merely think of, for that matter,
if I have lost the desire or ability to speak.
As a baby, I know for sure,
repetition formed my world.
Habits grew.
The least most era, spiked around my teens.
But since then, an ever decreasing and spiralling descent has closed in around me
with usage of the same words and phrases, the same dialogues and stories.
My time will come, when without realising I tell my own children,
of an episode I have told to them only a short while before.
I can imagine their patient faces.
Unless, I am able to do an unknown, unspecified thing about this now,
stop all this repeating
and say something new.

“I’m Not Having That!”

It came as a shock,

A sensationalist presenter of a tabloid talk show,

Dead, killed, live on TV.

 

He had been crouched low,

In front of the set.

Goading an increasingly agitated-looking guest.

Waving typed-out notes in one hand,

Pointing his microphone accusingly in the other.

 

The murmuring of the audience increased in volume as he spat out formulaic provocations.

 

Where were the security staff,

As the burly youth rose from his chair?

All at once running and swinging his leg backwards,

Before bringing his boot into contact

With the underside of his inquisitor’s chin.

 

Over,

In less than two seconds.

 

It was shown and re-shown, endlessly on the news.

Stopping just before the critical moment,

To spare viewers of an unpleasant scene,

As a body lifted up and a head snapped backwards.

 

A mercifully,

Quick release.

For all concerned

And for all people everywhere,

Including ancestors and descendants.

 

Reflection From a Shop Window

Previously,

my tummy got bloated

after a filling meal,

commonly a pasta dish,

a Chinese or a curry.

 

Lately,

my tummy looks engorged

before eating anything.

The result,

of calorific food.

 

I seek not a six pack,

only flatness,

to look less gross,

in the reflection

of a shop window.

The Mindfulness Garden Walk (and the Chairs)

the mindfulness walk (and the chairs)

After an hour’s meditation, the group begin their usual slow walk, around the garden.
I am there, bringing up the rear, one foot placed in front of the other.
Green plastic patio chairs occupy a space near the middle, positioned without pattern.
My preference is for rows, what’s with this randomness?

The irrepressible urge to swear in church, now manifests as a different temptation.
I want to pick up a chair,
Hurl it into the borders, decapitating flower-heads, causing damage to shrubs.
And then another chair, followed by them all.

Instead, I imagine an aftermath of shocked faces turning towards me in slow motion.
Wailing, hands clasped to ears.
Catching a sudden breath in my chest, I am back.
Repressing the thoughts, which replay the sequence several times over,
A sense of relief settles.