Poetry
A selection of Christian poetry for you to enjoy
You are welcome to share my poetry and use it in services. Please just make sure you include the copyright details.
Poetry for Good Friday or Easter Sunday
Catastrophic
It was utterly catastrophic: The greatest day. The light once vocalised bowing into darkness as the Word sinks his head. The ground once pulled from the waters quaking in horror at man's capacity as every hand that ever stretched and coiled now wraps around the hammer. A culmination of evil plans, weeping of hopeless hearts, and—wait! Do you hear it? A snivelling, screaming, sliding serpent just realising the catastrophe of his victory. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Poetry: Theology and the world
Harmonious
The interplay of colour between dusk and sunset, Stretching over the horizon; caressing the clouds. The balancing of a chord from fourth to fifth met With a resolve to the tonic most graciously allowed. The pattern on a cheetah, careering over the grass— Stop! It meets black and white, and nature breaks its fast. The bowing of the populace, measured before an altar— Wait! The offering is gauged, the scales surely falter. Why should they be leaving by a different gate than entered? Is the ransom thus achieving the scale that is centred? Nay, the chorus of the dawn, through singing of the cricket Ensures the constancy but not sufficiency of it. For death was never part of the harmony. without the advent, achieving naught but a patchwork piecing together of ragged humility. For whom has truly walked in mercy rather than murk? Surely none but one. The created harmony cannot be won. Except that man's discord be undone. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Scarcity
Often unknown to those with sufficiency until, of a sudden, a change occurs to drown them in actuality. Never a fear of paucity until, late in the day, requirement brings elemental indispensability. "It's not enough. Heaven know we shan't cope." Yet, they've been coping for years, friend. Dealing with unavailability, rampant deficiency in what we call necessity. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Oceans
All do his bidding. A spectacular show for his sight alone In the deepest depths that none can fathom. Where colours are unseen – no light revealing In the deepest darkness of unending chasm. Surviving, thriving and multiplying. From the most essential cell of plankton in its very simplest form, To the exquisite intellect of octopi Sheltering from the storm. All do his bidding: Surviving, thriving, multiplying. But what if one should not? What if the created should step outside and try to leap beyond? What if one should decide it knows better than the Master, and abscond?
The coral reef – a haven for countless living things – should blanche and weep and shed its hope ‘Alas!’ the ocean sings. And every diminutive being from the paramount to the last, Should petition to the Master ‘Let the absconder be past!’ ‘Patience,’ says the Master. ‘I will mend it in my time. For none of you little ones can cease to be called mine.’ ‘I made you for my pleasure, And my pleasure I shall do. Though now you groan – and oft alone, All things shall be made new.’ © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Ice Caps
Showing the tip of the problem Like a fleeting facial expression Drawn across the water. What is underneath? The knowledge is hidden, Visible only by the grave rising Of interconnected waste Not at first related, Until it has abated back into the depth Of frozen, endless trepidation. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Diversity
Poetry: Theology in Life
Solace of a worn out mother
I don’t want to move from this place. As myriad tasks threaten to move me, threaten to distract and quicken my pace – I don’t want to move from this place. Flickering flames over whitened logs, Just enough flicker to warm my face. I don’t want to move from this place. The comfort of reclining, rare resting of my head, sinking into waves of lace, I don’t want to move from this place. The darkness of the blackened glass, Allows a journey to a distant space, Silently meandering into wandering thoughts, Memories of goodness, blessing and grace, I don’t want to move from this place. Now it’s time to stand, a caller takes my hand, It’s time to move from this place. I’ll come here again, for five or even for ten, Minutes of solace, moments of space. I’ll come here again, come back to my place. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
Shame
The early evening shadow lengthens the dark places of my mind, Pulling back on the lens of disgrace. Clouding a day spent happily in the sun, Promising to occupy the night to come. I love you. I’ve heard it every day of my life, accepted it, I think, and yet – Can it be true? Should there not be a consequence of the rejection I chose when living in sin? A confiscation of that which I loved more than Him? The light, suddenly switched on, burns from retina to spine. Turn it back off: I cannot go there. I will stay in my despair, where the familiar covers the flame with broad brushstrokes of oily paint, daubing the mistakes gone before in compliance and restraint. The day comes: crawling out of early morning shadows to face it, They diminish as circumstance, familiarity, routine and endless smiling faces crowd around, forcing the darkness to retreat back into its haven of humiliation (until the faces are faded, and I’m alone with imagination.) I’m coping, when – into the daylight – a word intrudes. Causing a flush: a scraping of fingernails upon the blackboard of my soul as the assurance written there is marred in vertical smudges of distortion. Block it out. Smile it off – did anyone see? They have all moved on, none discovering the fear under the glee. Breathe. Child, my child, my little one. Why do you doubt my words? What more could I have possibly done? Step back into the light. Declare it. Discharge it. Trust me. For you, freedom was won. © Natasha Woodcraft 2022
