interval

I'm getting cold feet
(Who's getting married? No, not me.)
from placing them on the marble-tiled floor.

A teacher

You were my teacher
you hurt me once with
your words, your
misreading of my intentions-
"I think it's so pretentious. Why
don't you give them titles?"

The last I would have wanted
was to be proud, to think
too highly of myself.
To pretend; to be mysterious.
No titles, 'cos I didn't know how
to name them. There was no
Arthur Yap going on
in my mind (In fact, I
hadn't any idea who he was then.
My apologies, sir.)

So here I am, still
writing my broken verses,
but trust me, I'm writing them
on my sleeves.

Do I write them fiercely? I'd
like to give you the image
of the words scrawled across
parchment furiously as my quill flies,
but not quite. (I do try.)
Though I don't toil over them as
Sassoon recommended Owen,
here they are. Records
of what a different teacher
shows me.

Truth(s)

There's the time-contained truth
It makes you draw painful,
ragged breaths in
sometimes
You might hear it in a song,
even perhaps a different language,
but you recognise its emotion
tugging at your heart
a reality experienced;
though sometimes unresolved.

Then there is truth,
immense, uncontained,
by time, words, feelings
There is yearning, but that
which is built
on hope.
You are there and we
will meet one day.

Line of Vision

"Has it ever occurred to you that one hundred pianos all tuned to the same fork are automatically tuned to each other? They are of on accord by being tuned, not to each other, but to one standard to which each one must individually bow. So one hundred worshippers met together, each one looking away to Christ, are in heart nearer to each other than they could possibly be were they were to become "unity" conscious and turn their eyes away from God to strive for closer fellowship."
-A.W. Tozer