Sample of book

Bouncebackability

It’s a wonderful ability
to have the agility,
the bouncebackabilty,
to make a smile
your default style,
to shine with grace
on your face,
and carry on –

When ill winds have blown,
when bad times are known,
when faced with pain and loss,
when no-one gives a toss –

When unpredictability
rocks your calm stability,
highlights your fragility –

When you’re tossed about,
wracked with fear and doubt,
you bear a heavy load,
walk a rocky road –

Family matters,
plans in tatters,
bodily pain,
physical strain –

Issues at work,
colleagues that irk,
get you down,
make you drown –

When a cavern of dark
makes sorrow so stark,
when colors are grey
day after day –

When there seems no way out,
you’re filled with self-doubt,
so full of stress
you’re a hopeless mess –

Can you rise above,
like a dove
flying high
in the sky?

Can you turn your back,
choose another track,
turn away from the black?

Yes, you can.

You can stand on the Rock,
on the strong building block,
stretch your hand out to knock
on the door that will yield,
seek your Strength and your Shield,
let your soul be restored,
let the Word be your Sword.

And you will soar
on wings for sure,
be given capability
for bouncebackability.

 

What’s a Mother?

Perhaps the one who birthed you,
or, perhaps she’s not.
Perhaps the one who held you,
rocked you in your cot.

Perhaps the one who loved you,
or, maybe she’s not.
Perhaps the one who nurtured,
or, she just could not.

Perhaps a loving mother
dried your baby tears,
cared for you and taught you
through your growing years.

Perhaps she is your hero,
the one who led your way,
helped you meet the challenges
of the everyday.

Or perhaps your memories
are a different sort,
of a gap inside your heart,
a woman who fell short.

Perhaps the one who raised you
is not your flesh and blood,
the one who soothed your scratches,
cleaned off dirt and mud.

Perhaps a different mother
watched you change and grow,
laughed with you and cried with you,
as she loved you so.

Whatever is your story,
whatever’s in your heart,
God is always with you.
He loved you from your start.

No mother can be perfect;
this we know is true.
But God is like a mother hen
watching over you.

He sees your joys and highlights.
He knows your hurts and pain.
He lifts you up on eagles’ wings.
He helps you fly again.

For mothers who have loved us,
all along our way,
for God’s care and protection,
we praise the Lord today.

 

I saw Them Pass

1.♥ I saw them pass, entangled,
arms draping, holding tight,
two Generation Ys,
shoulders leaning, heads angled.
For them the world was right.

They passed their love in smiles,
eyes aglow with light.
Slow-walking feet meandered.
Perhaps they walked for miles.
Their world was shiny bright.

Their names I never knew,
and yet I understood,
their love was young and strong.
I hoped they would stay true.
I prayed they truly would.

2.♥ I saw them pass, striding out,
chests puffed, sneakered feet,
two label-clad just-forties,
heads up, devoid of doubt,
well dressed, hair super neat.

They didn’t speak, just strode,
speedometers on fast,
intent on physicality.
Indeed they barely slowed,
as, purpose-filled, they passed.

Their names I never knew,
and yet I understood,
their lives were short of time,
together they’d push through.
They knew they really should.

3.♥ I saw them pass, hands clasped,
backs bent, eyes a-shining,
two over-coated septuagenarians,
life embraced and grasped,
leaning in, heads inclining.

I heard them speaking plans,
turn-taking, ears attuning,
finishing each other’s thoughts
through telepathic scans,
simple words, rich communing.

Their names I never knew,
yet still I understood,
that years had weathered them,
in times of just-make-do.
Together, things were good.

 

Without a Trace

The sturdy bright red postbox
on the corner of the street,
come rain or shine or thunder,
so welcoming and neat,
disappeared one weekday.
We never heard it go.
Tore up its concrete roots and went,
with nothing left to show.

For years it stood accepting
epistles by the score,
envelopes and parcels
from people rich and poor.
A pillar box of permanence,
as neighbours came and went,
keeping safe their payments,
and letters that they sent.

It stood through years of changes,
as postal charges soared,
as stamps became a luxury
we little could afford.
Endured the indignation
as email traffic rose,
put up with competition,
and Facebook, I suppose.

I went to post a letter,
in my usual way,
and found our much-loved postbox
had simply gone away.
A mystery surrounds it.
We don’t know where it went,
nor why it chose to leave us,
or what its leaving meant.

We’ll miss our local postbox,
maybe more than most.
It’s such an inconvenience.
Not happy, Aussie Post!

 

Going Deeper

Jesus walks on water,
and he calls me out
to where my feet can’t touch the ground.

Out past the familiar,
in the shallow zone,
where the water moves and swirls.

I’m treading water deep.
I’m thrashing round.
I’ve lost my grip and my control.

My mind is tumbling, rumbling.
My heart is grasping, gasping.
My stomach’s churning, turning.

His hand’s stretched out to me.
He’s standing firm.
His gentle voice says ‘Come.’

Beyond theory and theology,
I know the possibility,
the power of his divinity.

I’m concentrating, hesitating.
I’m stalling, falling.
I’m thinking, sinking.

He gently takes my hand,
buoys me up,
gives me breath and hope.

I’m walking at his side,
defying darkest depths,
in deepest, direst seas of life.

I’m with the one who made the seas,
who stirs the storms,
who calms my struggling soul.

He stills my raging storms,
quiets my soul,
leads me out to deeper things.

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