David Dickens



Though I know you never reveal them Beloved,

There are undoubtedly splinters deep

in Your hands, those slender, articulate hands

Silently conducting an almighty orchestra

defying categorisation, creating music

appreciated by few.


Splinters driving deep below the surface

Those feuding clans, warring tribes, competing

corporations, religious and sports fanatics, jousting

legal pundits, political adversaries, bickering couples,

and blowhard individuals fuelled

by the wildfire of discord.


All forsaking the Rose for the thorn.


Most of them have never indulged in the lost art

of witling (too much like meditation for most)

or more advanced carpentry skills. Though Oh!

How they create endless splinters.

Like razors they are.


The reflex of God-Man being so different

to the reflex of his lovers and his critics

It’s beyond my comprehension how

You tolerate the irritation. (Sorry, I’m weak)

That get on with it grin, that sign of Perfection

(shaped by index finger and thumb) remains

still conducting, without missing a beat!


And we bound by illusion, how we bitch,

wail and moan about these irritants!


I know these splinters can only be plucked

by a master surgeon, but You Beloved

seem to be in no rush at all!

Don’t worry, be happy (my choice,

complaining usually makes it worse)


All shall pass, but for Your loving

and those splinters endured

on the journey home.


* 2010