Sunday Morning

                   Sunday Morning


Not a working day, historically a “day of rest”

A day made sacred by the opportunity to worship

That illusive God, hidden, yet deists say all-pervasive

Perhaps in the peace today we might discover Him

At the appointed hour the remnant of adherents

To the faith of old, gather in their sanctuary

Not really full of expectation, but hope still rises

Perhaps somehow the Presence will be manifested

Why do they still gather, why follow this threadbare custom

Why not clothe their lives with a newer vision?

Because not only habit dies hard, but deeper longing

For comfort, for peace, for forgiveness still lingers

Forgiveness for what? For their sins, of course

Do these fragile bodies bear the scars of carnal sin?

Have they not lived out their lives in love and service?

Yes indeed, but echoes of Augustine’s doctrine still haunt

All have sinned, even these kindly souls, and in their hearts

They must confess, and seek reconciliation with their God

Surely they will find blessedness and comfort

As they open their hearts in prayer and confession

But they come together not only to expiate

They gather to bring their worship and adoration

On the lips of young, but mainly old throughout this land

Praise still rises from lips to that God who loves each one

And the hour of worship affords us time to hear again

The reading of the ancient scriptures, the wisdom,

the poetry, the stories of God’s peoples down the years

And the message of His sacrifice and saving grace for each and all

And as the time of worship draws to a close

We bless each other in the benediction

And the calm order of the service gives way

As we commune in joy with tea and cakes!


The Wonders Of Wales

The Wonders Of Wales


From seaside strand to crumbling pile

This ancient land displays some style

From country lanes much overgrown

To rippling water smoothing stones

To touring cyclists on their bikes

And walkers following Offa’s Dyke

And others lazing in the shade

Rarely from the high street strayed

This Cambrian land has much to offer

And to the visitor can proffer

Rural treasures there abound

Yet urban pleasures still redound

One feature sometimes overlooked

Which we might think is gobbledygook

The Welsh language is widely spoken there

But so is English – don’t despair!

The Principality extends its welcome

Its hills and vales will surely beckon

This land of song and gentle charm

Will all resistance soon disarm

Ken Fisher

The Robot

The Robot

(Now republished)


Is this the future of the human race?
Biscuit tin head with smiley face
Metal frame with cogs and levers
Up-shot of design endeavours

But let’s not jump to quick conclusions
This is not just some mad delusion
The pundits who predict ahead
Claim robot life will be widespread

They say that it makes common sense
With routine tasks we should dispense
And make the robots do our share
Even if that is unfair

But if we let them do too much
And they grasp all in metal clutch
Our own jobs might disappear
And for our living we will fear

The best way for our own survival
Creative thought will bring revival
Humans should do what they do best
And leave the robots to the rest

But are we sure what best we do?
Despite all the knowledge we accrue
We fail to show that human touch
Which yet might change this world so much

Ken Fisher

[The Boston Publishing Group predicts that by 2025
up to a quarter of current jobs won’t be performed
by humans any more. Also on 29 Dec 2016 a major Policy
Analysis group predicted that in the UK we may lose up to 15 million
jobs due to developments in artificial intelligence and robotics]

If Typists Were Poets!!

If Typists Were Poets!!


If typists were poets what would be the effect?

Not a single ‘typo’ would you ever detect

The spelling and syntax all perfect would be

And correct punctuation I am sure you would see

But there’s more to a poem than neatly typed letters

If its words are intended to make us feel better

The emotions expressed or the ideas portrayed

Are greater than ciphers however displayed

So let’s never forget when to verse we resort

Lack of good grammar should not ever thwart

Our attempts to convey what comes from our heart

Our stumbling attempts to turn words into art

So if you aspire as a poet or a bard

Of course you will find it is often quite hard

To ensure that your words cause no great confusion

Or your readers bemuse by some obscure illusion

So as you reach for that keyboard have the spell-check to hand

And with your ideas your world will expand

But be careful to type well and present a clear case

And even take care as you choose a typeface

Ken Fisher