Ethics In a Box

By Graham Norman

It's customary in foreign climes
For men to seek, though seldom find,
by travelling penniless and far,
through inner peace, this world's design.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244612580

Book preview

Ethics In a Box

ETHICS IN A BOX

GRAHAM NORMAN

Copyright © by Graham Norman

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN 978-0-244-61258-0

Monkeytalkspress, Southampton UK

Faith in Charity

"The greatest of these is charity. And now

depart with God’s love in your heart and mind."

Some did as told.  I sat and wondered how

such words could mean so little for mankind.

For charity means love of fellow man,

that noxious creature spreading as a plague.

"I can’t be bothered, don’t know if I can

find love for every other - far too vague!"

While incense led the congregation out,

I stayed, boned by this pew and thought

on earthly love and what it was about,

for what I’d found was not as I’d been taught.

I loved my parents; that meant different things

at different times. Dependent baby love is true

for mother and for child. One cries and clings;

one gives as best she can. What else to do?

At other times - felt little, nothing strong

or lasting.  Liking, respect and duty made

notation up and down the staff, gave song

to my blank page; love exited unbade.

Now that they’re dead, I love them not at all

except as memories that slip away

like ghost ships on grey seas; they’ll surely fall

right off the edge of earth one misty day.

Who told me love was a special, necessary thing,

something to search for, a prize when found?

What gave it colour, how did it take wing,

to beat through air like silly joy unbound?

Who told me I could lose it, like a shoe

left on a sand dune, the one alone no use,

no purpose, nothing, nothing left to do

but limp awhile, smile grimly, find excuse

to sit indoors, quietly, and watch the kettle boil,

wait for the postman, fiddle with my thoughts,

define love by its absence, play by toil,

an absence of crosses, a plethora of noughts?

Yes, whose idea was that? Whose spluttering pen

wrote the Book of Love, who took such pleasure

in saying, ‘Marry in haste’ - I did - and then

forgot to add, ‘Repent, you fool, at leisure’?

I look up to the fan vaults for direction,

look to Blue Mary for a comforting soft hand,

look to the east for resurrection

of hope and charity and faith, that band

of idiotic losers. No, the cold dust on the floor

has more sense; it rises in sun beams,

blows helpless, outwards, through the door

to a new day, new foolishness, new dreams.

There, a grimace from a gargoyle gives

my head a laughing, aching twitch;

a fairy looks out from the lime green leaves

promising, oh yes, it’s love, but which

of many faces will it show? Or shall leaves fall

before the end of summer, shall I see

a hooded raven eating bitter gall,

see brave new buds or canker in the tree?

You want an answer don’t you? So do I.

It is not here, where priests and sinners frown.

Cathedral stones are cold, the Bible dry.

I’ll fill my purse with dust, walk out of