Remembering Abdur Razak

Memories.

One thing I always loved about Arab people is their culture. They have the innocence of Children yet the tenacity of hope. Unlike us, very cynical brits.

On the corner of Edgware Rd and Sussex Gardens London W2 during the 2000’s Abdur Razak from Libya was always on this corner defending Islam. It was a summer mission post for Christians to offer free resources to the Arabs and it became a great place to exchange thoughts and religious ideas.

As the Christians had set up a book stall, Muslims set up their own table to defend Islam right next to it.

He went on to preach at Speakers Corner every Sunday but his voice changed after an operation.

After the 2006 tube bombings, the tables vanished. The picture shows that large empty space. In these covid years its unlikely they will ever return.

I never knew what happend to Abdur Razak, maybe someone can tell me.

Poem About The Bing (Fudstone, Kilbirnie)

The bing was a huge mound of gravel and stone which was left there after the housing estate was built in the 1950s. It was replaced with a kids play area in the 1980s. The other Warriors bing in the Largs Hills was presumably called that because of where the Battle of Largs took place,

O the years upon the bing, with cousin Margaret children played,

Climbing up with all our power by Newhouse drive where people stayed,

Amid the thorns and grey cement there seemed a moment, time well spent,

And sliding down the gravel slope, I skinned my knees without a hope,

My grannie waiting at the door, with borax, plasters by the score.

O the hills we thought were steep, when now an older life we keep,

Mountains, slopes upon our minds, perhaps a bing of different kind,

Climbing o’er our darker thoughts, just like the thistles we did trod,

Lessons from the bing well learnt, of my granny’s soothing balm

O how that Love returns to me, and brings with it a sense of calm,

And behind the trees sat Warrior’s bing, perhaps a sign of future years,

With bigger slopes and hills to climb amid the darker fading years.

Snow in Paisley December 2020

And comes a pure white blanket laid

around the river Cart

Across the darkened thoughts of man

a Love which does impart

And o´er the bogs and swamps there´s ice

up to the Abbey door

A voice says “Man with all your cares

be still for just an hour”

The darkened views of waning health,

exchanged for winter cheer

The snow reflects a gentle calm

upon the town so dear

And on the braes the deer are seen

walking proudly by

For no man can touch their safety now

upon their mountain high

Upon the tombs of rested men

lies layers of icy sense

Reflecting that the One great Mind

preserves their innocence

Calling Freedom – A Poem for Scottish Independence

Notice how strongly the fire begins to burn, fed by the air of Freedom
Who has ever fought against our Freedom and won?
See how it burns away bad opinions, and the water of our burns flood
For our betterment, our blood and our places, the water rises.

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Leave our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

The courageous gun and sword laid down before our enemies
Shining and moving in museums of a time long ago
Quaking and shaking of cannons in castles
Water and fire is what defends us now, ancestral whispers, Fed by Freedom´s breath of air

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come, to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Let our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires, be,
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

The Hawthorn – Kilbirnie auld cemetery poem

Daniel 2: 21

Upon the leaf of hawthorn green appears a drop of dew, with spiders webs reflecting frost upon the bush´s hue.

And comes an Angel staff in hand, reflected in the drop, where Lord and Lady Crawford lie, with sticks and lollipops.

As the sun does take a turn, the whited ground turns green, the Angel walks towards the gate and light shines in between.

And as the dew dries for the day, a sign that autumn comes, as well as days where dew will stay till sunset has begun.

And as the Angel´s shadow moves along the back kirk wall, acid rain from steel work days the people do recall.

Her sandals bare, they leave a trace of markings in the clay, where snowdrops rise beneath her feet on snowy winter days.

And to the gate she slowly walks, her staff upon the ground, with every turn a splash of white can surely here be found.

By the sign of service times, a smaller crack appears, a line upon an ageing brow brings a grandson´s fears.

And as she leaves, our minds are changed but not filled up with fear, her coming speaks of life more meek with passing of the years.

#Poem For Our distant Cousins

Romans 8:17

In every year thats passes by, there’s friends from overseas, visiting a little town with dreams of family.

Perhaps Place castle some will say, or found in Walker Hall, perhaps a line of great descent, behind Tianna Falls.

Walking streets which long since gone, with hopes of names or face, wearily they pace around to find the slightest trace.

And when we ask about the task, the answer’s never clear, identity or Grandpa’s home or memories they hold dear.

Still there is a waiting wealth, which passed through every line, a joyful welcome and a smile to all who take the time.

And legacies of golden bowls surrendered long ago, exchanged for joy preserved in time, for future folk to know.

Heirs of joy, and stewardship still, which lasts beyond our peers, kindness, smiles remembered still throughout the passing years.

If today a search does come to wanton lonely minds, think not of watches or old clocks to search for back in time.

Instead to know their sense of joy, is shared today by all, a random act of kindness do, instead of searching halls.

For welcome, joy and happiness was theirs and ours today, there is no forgetting acts of Love which fall on minds today.

Make your mark for future lines, by random acts of good, remembered more by other folk than silver, gold or wood.

Rain at Jock’s Burn, Kibirnie

(John 5: The Pool of Bethesda)

An angel clad in white winged robes with hands upon the pool

A surge of water gushes forth, clear, transparent, cool

Children watch upon the bridge with raincoats, darkened caps

My mother calls me not to fear, the bridge’s missing slats

Like needles dropping in the stream, rain pierces to the ground

Raising thoughts in Children’ s minds with every plopping sound

And as the Angel, golf course walks, the clouds clear with his step

Revealing brighter thoughts for man with every place he treads

By Crawfurd’s castle, blue skies clear and children move away

Their raincoats filled with water still seem strange in Summer’s days

Shadows clear upon the fields and hope again appears

Within the showers, sunny glades where man has nought to fear

Long after Angels hands descend or sun upon Man’s dreams

Still the pool, it gushes forth pushing all upstream

And on the Minds of local men an Angel dares to tread

Stirring healing loving thoughts upon the dying bed.

For Paisley and it’s Places

Perhaps upon the River Cart or by its dwindling streams

We feel a heart that’s beating power without another means

A power that turns the waiting tide and waters plants and flowers

Turning students to their books in every waitng hour

A power that lights the morning dawn and dusk a gentle glow

A power that hold each swan intact as waters gently flow

A guiding light which simply “Is” with no demands on man

While preachers loudly scream and shout that all the folk are damned

A power that needs no words nor praise to move within it’s place

For it has the world for man to feel it’s gentle guiding pace

And if by chance an apple tree should spring in Barshaw Park

Or nestling feathers after flight, you see a morning lark

Look upon its shining beak or feathers black and pure

Worship not the image, mind, but the power that it endures

And when the apple tree no more, holds up it’s greenish fruit

Look toward the power in Life for all things absolute

Only the real stands up to time, with majesty and robes

All else disappears from sight, with pain and anxious throws

And so the real in everything is found not in the clay

But in the power of Life itself which opens up the day

Dwell not in things which are not real but look behind the eyes

There you find the real idea of all that Love implies