Had I been born a Welshman

Had I been born a Welshman,
my mam would have called me Dai
For Wales I’d have played rugby
And at Twickenham scored a try.
I’d be in the Pontypool front row
A half ton of blubber from head to toe

I would have had a golden voice
And sing in a male voice choir
To be a school teacher would be my choice
But be mistook in the street for Max Boyce
With his dark curly hair and sideburns
But alas, not the money he earns.

Had I been born a Welshman
My granddad would have been a miner,
I’m sure he would have known Lloyd George
And I would always vote Labour.
Yes, I’d carry the torch for my valley
But vacation each year in Miami.

Of course I would speak such perfect Welsh
And pronounce those difficult long names
And I’d know the best way to cook leeks
And be glad we had Welsh language telly
To keep the language going we must try,
Though I myself would always watch Sky.

The coal mines are all gone you see
And we’re not much good in a factory,
Only the grass for our sheep is now free
I’m going to have to become a Tory
And the evil EC with that crafty old Kinnock
Would have the whole place as a tourist resort

Such chapels and churches I’ve never seen,
They’re scattered o’er the land like confetti
Here for the revival you should have been
But did it leave us a legacy?
We should be the most Godly place on Earth
Instead we’re just a spiritual dearth.

So keep a welcome in the valley
When I come home to Wales.
‘Cause I have a good job in Bromley,
And good pay from computer sales
Yes I like to visit the Rhonda
But I’m glad I don’t have to live there.

Making me a very lucky husband

It is Grace's birthday on Friday. Still young at heart, ridicoulsly healthy, full of energy and keeping busy. If she ever dies (which I doubt) her body should be donated to some university to study just how she could keep up her work rate for 100 years.

My best ever poem?

I love writing poetry - always have done. This one might be the best I have written so far:

LOST VOICES

An Englishman and a Refugee.

The Englishman

Some want, they say, to win the West for Allah?
But most just want to live in a place without squalor.
But why are we so surprised and what is there to fear?
We went to their land long ago and now they have come here.
We did it with a mighty sword, and with a gun and bow.
We went to reap a harvest there, and one we did not sow.
We took the Lionheart’s so-called Christian cross,
But our main aim was worldly gain, but for them just loss.

The Refugee

There’s wealth o’er there, so we must go, and take ourselves a share.
Live a life worthwhile, and in some comfort, without care.
We are despised here for our race, and even our ethnicity,
We live in fear of tyrants - evil men who know no pity.
Let’s start again in the English World, that world we know is better.
Go West young man and dig for gold, in a land without fear or fetter.
We are the brave, and it can’t be worse, than staying here with hate,
So we must go, goodbye dear ones, no danger is too great.


It was for gain and not the cross that took us over there,
With pious words from pious hearts we said the hypocrite’s prayer.
We took the cross with Livingstone and many other good men,
Who packed their clothes in coffins – they went to say their final ‘amen’.
At Port Harold on the Shire, the saints came in and slaves went out.
Freetown became a garbage dump, we failed it without a doubt.
Our missionary cry has always been ‘Where’re the sun’.
Now ‘Wind of change’ has blown them all, from here to kingdom come.


The delta-like tendrils of the sad Ref-highway,
Leak souls along its troubled and doubt-filled way.
Night crossings over frozen hills on ancient shepherds’ trail,
Terror on boats not worth the name, we’ll try again if we fail.
Balkan village and urban slum - but somehow the weary paths of most
Converge of course, on Calais’s weary, troubled coast.
The conman’s twisted smile that says he’ll always ‘See you right.’
No other place for us will do, its to England with all our might.


‘Would Gracie Fields still sing, ‘There’ll always be an England’?
Or Touber, ‘Gather lilacs in the spring again’, if now they saw our land?
They sang in days – now long gone – when Britannia flexed her muscle,
And we believed that truth you know: ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle,’
Have we built Jerusalem, in this green and pleasant land?
Second to none, or so we thought; built by God’s own hand.
We saw everyone right, with largess great, is anything wrong with that?
The way we are we want to stay, and keep our welcome mat.

We must attain this promised land, where all are housed and free,
Medicines and homes and warmth and Social Security.
And sympathy for strangers with foreign tongues and foreign dress,–
We know you owe us not a thing, except the milk of human kindness.
Where no one hungers; hospitals free, and babies safely delivered,
And if we should be so blessed, the love of Christ to souls so favoured.
The gold that paves your streets, taken for granted, by naïve native,
And wondered at by wide-eyed strangers, who come here just to live.


This sceptred isle,’ so blessed by God, has long and proudly always been
Safest place you’ll find, for Tutsi, Gypsy, Serb, Koren, and anyone in between.
Tamil and tribally disenfranchised - the Afars and the Issas,
The Khorsa, and all the Hottentots; from Zim and Zam and Cong and Mal,
And Moz and Som and Alg and Ind and central this, and eastern that,
And outer we know no where. There’s even some from Monsurat.
Its our ways and hard-won rights that you must learn,
We took you all and saw you right, asked little in return.


The train now standing… holds more than meets the eye.
Articulated transport beckons – is the price too high?
Hard borrowed cash for economy class, an airport like a city!
Remember now to lose your docs, and be cast upon their pity.
‘I’m stateless, homeless, paperless, speechless, hopeless,
But surely not worthless - world citizen am I in deep distress.
Can’t understand a thing you say, patient words on me are lost,
I’ve learned to say the least I can, and I’ve learned it to my cost.


Its changing us too much you know, we’ve gone the extra mile.
The temples and the Mosques – some full of hate and bile.
Why can’t you play our game? - Accept our political stance?
Here we pay our income tax, and National Insurance,
And live in homes all clean and smart the best in all the world.
Is it too much to ask, that you love our flag unfurled?
If you can just but live like us, then we’ll be colour-blind.
And now you fill us all with fear, we who are to strangers kind.


But my home? by God it was forgotten! I do not tell a lie,
He used up all His goodness on you sir and left the rest to cry.
He gave you all you have sir, oh won’t you share with me?
Can you not show your gratitude and help me to live free?
Is ‘The quality of mercy strained’ in this green and pleasant land?’
I’m stateless, lost and hopeless now, O won’t you take my hand?
Can you close professional heart, to all my tears and woe?
How can you play it ‘by the book’ and tell me I must go?


There’s just too many, can’t you see, on this small piece of land;
Perhaps if you could go back home, with new wealth in your hand.
Be kind to them back home, as we were so kind to you,
And see them right, and isn’t this, the least that you can do?
This land was made for us you know, so thank you very much!
Don’t talk to us of a changing world, diversity and such.
Its just the way we are. So you mind yours, and we’ll mind ours,
Don’t bother us with change or continents full of wars.


‘Asylum.’ Is the only word, that I can speak to you,
I’m fearful and embarrassed, what am I to do?
I am your problem now sir; you have to see me right.
I beg you not to send me back on next available flight.
You are so kind to me sir, you do not shout, or sneer or push,
Or scold me, beat me, revile me, cost me, chain me, but oh I wish,
One thing above all these sir, will you not be my friend?’
Is this too much to ask sir, and have you love to spend?


Has God not seen the pagan hoard who dare to come
Over here and just don’t love, His one and only Son?
Has He not seen the government, and does He not take note?
Cynical, vying for their marginal, ethnic, bribed-for vote?
I guess He must have a reason, He rules all history.
We know He had a great desire for every tribe to be free.
We took the cross, but now they’ve come to us with beards and burkas,
And turbans and idols its all too strange, how can we match the love He has?


Would you not do the same sir, if your child cried hungry and cold?
If your house leaked rain and snow, I’m sure you’d be as bold.
Are we so bad, beyond the pale, that we have so little of such,
And are you so good, are you so good, that you have so much?
Where is your God, what colour is He? Does He speak my tongue?
Or know the name I threw away? That name of which I’m fond.
My father told me and my uncle too – as they sent me into the night,
That England’s powerful loving God, would surely see me right.


‘Lord, if a Prince from Africa, can take and wash my plate,
And hopeful, want to love me as his long-lost mate.
With a smile as wide as Kansas, and cheerfully embrace,
If God can take his anguished loss, and wipe it from his face.
Then surely I can hear God’s voice and feel His heart for you.
‘God save the queen’ and all her kin and all her subjects too.
Lift scales from eyes and help me see, the harvest all around.
And may the stranger echo long, those words of Madam Gyon:
‘All scenes alike engaging prove, to those impressed with sacred love,
Regions none, remote I call. Secure in finding God in all.’

John Miles 2009

Keeping up the old skills

Disgusted with the cricket, I retired to my shed, where I am building a dolls house for Kira, my youngest granddaughter, who is not yet three. I built one for the older two many years ago. That one has crossed the Atlantic twice! In a previous life, I built dozens of dolls houses - I earned a living at this with my friend Brian, who has long been promoted to glory.

This one is more challenging than the previous ones, because it has to come apart (not accidentally) to be flat-packed and taken on an aeroplane. All good fun.

We now have our first grandson, Isaiah. If I am going to maintain my excellent record for gender stereotyping, I must build him something like a fort or a garage, or both. However, he is only six months old so I have plenty of time.

Sierra & Kaeli - gorgeous granddaughters

Keeping busy

NEWS

Our work in Africa is at a lower level than before now that we are supposed to be 'consultants'. Perhaps people don't have much confidence in us because very few consult us! Then some that do, ignore what we say.



We have been in contact with long-time friends in Romania, where the ministry first began. They are begging us to make a visit soon. We will try to do this.



In October we are going to Turkey for two weeks with Paul and Kate. One week will be a conference and one week holiday.



In November we have been asked to go to Moscow. John is one of the UK board members for the Institute for Bible Translation, and he will represent the UK board at their annual gathering in Moscow. The IBT operates from a monastery on the banks of the Moscow river. A large team of translators work on the 150 non-Slavic languages of Russia. Forty million people in the east and south of Russia have no Bible in their mother tongue. One resident was given a scripture portion in their own language for the first time and said "God speaks my language". Another said "I thought God was a Russian".



It will be our second vi st to Moscow. We were there in 1988 for a different reason - but still to do with giving people the scriptures in their own language. We are looking forward to a more relaxed trip this time. Unfortunately, Lorna, Paul and Lucy will not be with us this time.

Its all very confusing.

Still trying to learn about this blogging life

Tour De France - go Cavendish go.

Time

Oh time, that subtle thief of youth,
Has scant regard for the eternal truth,
That eventually, will come the day,
When he, at last, will pass away.

Hurrying on through allotted span,
His mocking flight from finite man,
But God is your master, He alone,
Can your headlong rush postpone.

He has no pity on youth’s fair show,
Cares nought for summers bounteous flow,
His patience long through autumn’s haze,
His cold reward, is winter’s grave.

His friends are few and far between,
Like Greenwich, and quartz and ‘might-have-been.’
Diaries and deadlines, the ‘morning call’.
‘Last chance’, and clocks, cruel tyrants all.

He marks each man’s appointed hour,
To bloom, then fade, like summer’s flower;
To wither as the sun-bleached blade,
Of grass, short-lived and doomed to fade.

So much would I achieve each day,
If time would cease his rush and stay;
I’d do good deeds, great mountains climb,
Enrich the world, if I only had time.

A rich man would give all his wealth,
For one more year, enjoyed in health,
What good his wealth? It will not save
That man one hour from the waiting grave.

Through Christ I can escape his pain;
Through Christ, the locust’s fill regain,
Redeem the wasted years ill-spent;
Each moment now, a gift heaven-sent.

Each day’s potential, who can tell?
Its trickle flows to eternal swell.
Eternal life’s great flowing course,
Begins in time, its opening source.

O come the hour, that is the last!
When sun’s last shadow o’er Earth is cast;
When cease the morn and daily chime;
And this tired Earth runs out of time.