colours of sunday

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Impressions of Sunday morning;

for Valerie, Vince, and John

*

valerie and I

call the slice of chapel light

hockney and lemon

…

sunshine on silver

tails of little wriggling fish

feeding the thousands

…

vince by the fountain

twinkling as he talks about

beetroot and the times

…

gold on the mustard

seeds that grow in gospel leaves

scattered on the ground

…

black belt lay preacher

hurling holy water on

the red fires of hell

…

the peace, fingers crossed

wishing my heart was as white

as the altar cloth

…

shades of pigeon grey

orange plastic shopping bags

taking sunday home

*

© Gail Foster 30th July 2017

Easter Sunday; Devizes

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for John (Ted) Dexter

*

no cars on the road

all of the town sofa bound

food lulled and sleeping

…

walking home, a man

evensong’s slow gentle peace

on him like monks’ robes

…

old man and poet

meet in quiet communion

by the graveyard gate

…

souls of the same shade

in unspoken fellowship

watching the birds fly

…

on the bridge, silence

white blossom, silver water

Easter Sunday light

*

© Gail Foster 17th April 2017

Midnight Mass; St. John’s

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*

Church on Christmas Eve

Experience of spirit

Secular delight

…

Candles flickering

Stirred by one communal breath

Casting bright shadows

…

The choir whispering

Mournful cadenced melodies

That bless the silence

…

Drunken folk giggling

Respectfully hiccupping

Noisy chundering

…

Strange and precious faith

The uninitiated

Wary, questioning

…

Through agnostic eyes

Such peculiar mystery

Custom, novelty

…

The truth hides in love

Ancient priests and children know

Its simplicity

…

The door is opened

Out in to the night The Word

Flies on sacred wings

…

Midnight Mass; the light

In darkness comprehending

Emptiness with joy

*

by Gail

Performance Poetry

Is it cool to review yourself?  Probably not…

Performance Poetry

 *

Mad gladiator

Tossing herself to lions

Armed with only wit

 *

Disinhibited

“Titties” brought out for the lads

In verbal foreplay

 *

Lyrical satire

Like pencils sharped for pricking

Holes in lead balloons

*

From naughty corner

More by wine amused than rhyme

A shadow giggles

*

The tumbleweed blows

Words settle on silent ground

With one hand clapping

*

The poet’s cloak hides

Shoulders warm and broad enough

To quiver with mirth

 *

by Gail