To make a long story short
Is to make a poem

A life of self-censure is life
on a knife’s edge,
balancing, filtering,
hesitating, holding self back,  
placing pitiful tack over ruthless honesty,
hedging truth seeking to closet self
and not out of self-modesty,
but honestly, out of self-doubt,
coupled with arguably
some reluctant scam artistry.

A life of fearful self-censure
is no life at all -
I think you’d agree.

Like buying Irish tea bags in the 'World Food' aisle
I like to take my jeopardy close to my native Isles

I do buy silky underwear, but only M&S
- trying something sexier will only cause me stress

I stick to those experiments with familiar ingredients
You'll never mistaken me for some sort of deviant

I like to take my journeys only slightly off track
I like it when the menu includes a Big Mac

Don't judge me for my caution,
you’ve no idea what it's like
when my mother keeps on telling me,
cosmopolitan is hype

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about bumps and scrapes
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs with desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving with more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
least there or thereabouts

The paper weight will hold
my ink down
in a way my fluidity never could.

No matter how violent
my metaphor, how heady
my imagery, how blistering
my narrative - it will hold
the reader's attention,
ensuring my thoughts reach
each reader's own resolution
a little before the weight shifts
and the burden of their eyes falls
heavy on the turn
of the page

and then their eyes will lift,
burdened with new meaning.

This morning tomorrow won't be as expected - it will be far from this tonight and nowhere near as planned.  There's no telling when it will be back to its old self.  So for now, we'll make do and sleep and dream of another yesterday, because today won't do.  It never did.  It never would.

Easter will be late this year.
It's still cold and the blossoms
shine pink,
carpet bombing indiscriminately.

Easter will be late this year.
March paces itself
striding to the end
of the tax year, the start
of price hikes and a train
of trans-continental refugees
from some god-awful war
just spitting distance from Lidl.

Easter will be late,
but Mother's Day will bring
a distraction of blue elastic bands
bound around barely blooming daffs,
happy in damp sticky hands.

And then they'll be the anticipated
crucifixion.

Resurrection
can't come soon enough.

When I am seen, I flinch within.
My self makes a choice
between fight or flight
and I'm no fighter
and flight is a risk
that I'm not in a fit state for taking
so I freeze in place,
hoping the sight of me
won't cause offence
or, worse still, curiosity
and, worse case, sympathy.

Just pass by me.
Nothing to see here.

I realised with momentary surprise
  that my mirror was stuck back
  in 1985
back when I knew I knew how to smile
  and believed in my peculiar sense of style
back when my lower back was furthest from my thoughts
  and I thought my hair was the peak of good looks.

My now flipped face frowned at the trick of time
and at my lesser hair’s climb
  down,
bringing myself back to my present face
  and to continue with my routine head shave.

The best poems avoid eye contact.

Just before you find their rhythm,
catch their direction,
they dance away,
and you watch their beauty,
leaving

you full of wanting
wishing
you knew the steps
hoping
you might keep up
wondering
where they led
leaving
you to tap your feet,
missing
every third or fourth beat,
kidding
yourself that you too
could be sliding, shuffling
and maybe grasping the sway,

but they dance away,
and you stay,
while your eyes follow.

I never chose my chromosomes
I never chose my genes
I never chose my race
I never chose my skin

I never chose my name
nor any of my family
I never chose my native tongue
nor my nationality

I never chose very much about me

But I chose the ones I love
I chose you for me

"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"

So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection

If he was not tortured
If he did not hang
If he did not die bloodily and tearfully
If he was not buried in darkness

If he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels
to angel-splain what the disciples saw,

If he did not reveal himself and walk and touch
and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend
as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,

"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory."

The truth and power
of our faith
hangs on the cross,
on the height of sacrifice
on the lengths and depths
Christ was willing to go
from holy conception
to physical resurrection
from passover supper
to Emmaus meal
to fish on the beach
to the promise of a feast
at his Father's high table.

The truth on which we stand
hangs on God made man
and on us made new
all due to our LORD Jesus Christ,
God's Son, our Saviour,
our once and for all time
holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power
of our faith
hangs on His cross.

Extremists
tend to regard themselves
through a prism,
one of their own making,
faking exceptional,
answerable only
to their own scope for irrational
through which they see crystal clear
and consequently do not require
the inconvenience of relational,
the distraction of negotiational,
or those blind to their unique brand
of remarkable.

And occasionally, sadly,
they can sufficiently
fake credible to become
President
(which is not the same
as presidential).

Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
Nice is cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest

‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss it
lest it attract your notice
lest it presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence

Love is not like that –

Love pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption

Love defies convention

Love carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Love perseveres all the love-long day

Love doesn’t delay

Love is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts

Love confronts
Courage is her currency, kindness her language
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms

Love transforms

Love weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Love pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms

Love perfumes

Love is not 'nice'  
Love isn’t in this for the likes
Love bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Love never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight

Love is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
Love is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble, End-Game-level
monumental

So, don’t be nice
and I’ll say it twice
nice is a vice that will never suffice
And let me end by being more precise
follow Christ’s advice:
love one another
every day and every night
with all of your might
and do it in a way
that pushes
way
past
‘nice’.

Planting -
a memory retention
an attempt at reparation
a small mitigation
an intrinsic notion of good
a wooden blessing
a happy healing
- a tree

Do you ever escape your grief?
Do you every find release from sorrow?
I can’t say today, perhaps tomorrow,
but today I’m growing round my loss
- not diminishing its presence, but recognising
that my present is not my finish
and that I add to this grief
my joy, reminiscence, and celebration
of those who are no longer at my surface,
but remain my foundation.

Do you ever escape?
I think not – I hope not.
For they are not a shackle,
but where I found my feet.

Where do I dance?
I dance in the margins
within my boundaries
where I left myself space
to choose my partners with care.

Where do I dance?
I dance in your arms.

Think twice before you take
Take only what you need
Use everything you take
Take full charge of your greed

Great tea
boils down to a tender leaf
cultivated slowly on small trees
watered liberally by long rains
reaping a full fragrance
harvested from high estates
packaged to be picked
and infused without fuss
or ceremony
in a warmed ceramic ***
for two
to draw out the deepest flavour.

Cup of tea?

The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then away and seems to circumvent the gateway to better, to truer and rather it dips and, for some unfathomable reason, detours through bone aching drivel which we sit through lest we cause offence and in defence we smile until someone offers a glass and we can distract the conversation to something real and relevant and alive – preferably with alcohol.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then it rainbows, so you’d think that there’d be no excuse but to look up and wonder at the way in which each colour blends, leaving no distinct edge, no start or finish, leaving you in no doubt why spectrum is an apt term to capture diversity with harmony, and leaving you staring curiously while the world walks on, heads down, focusing on the familiarity of their grey, woollen comfort zones.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
the other side, it crosses divides, where bridges were long fractured, and diversions had left the land desolate - and now we can repopulate, reconnect and proliferate something that binds a kindlier fraternity wedded to justice indiscriminately.

The arc is long,
bending, not broken.

Today will depart on cue
Tomorrow will arrive on time
Let's get this straight -
the future won't wait
for the perfect rhythm or rhyme

And when you lead,
start with the feet.

When you lead,
you need to get down low
with a towel and a water bowl

For when you lead,
you'll find your honour
not over, but under

not higher, but lower 

not first, but last.

So, when you lead,
don't wait your turn,

but push your way
right to the back

where you'll find
nothing to prove,
nothing to hide
and nothing to loose,
but your pride.

Yes, while many will disagree,
when you lead,
bleed his example:

Undo a sandal
and start with the feet.

No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,

not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,

a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.

Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.

The most Holy Spirit.

I entered love willingly - and with a little trepidation,
but definitely with the intention to explore,
to gorge through each room in the home of my love.

As I dived deeper along the passages,
through the portals that beckoned us,
we laughed
and I found my lung capacity for faith grew
and my sense of direction only strengthened.

And as I climbed heavier, taking pleasure in the view,
taking breaths and trying to hold in
her high perfume,
I never once wondered where her flight might take me
knowing only that my choice took me
with her.

I entered love willingly
and not once did I fall.

We believe in one trans-national church.

We believe in an unbiased, inter-racial church of many nations.
We believe in one church of many traditions.
We believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

We believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
We believe in God-given racial differences.
We believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
We believe in a church that reflects her maker's love of difference.

We do not believe in uniformity.

We believe in the common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
We believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called to serve one God together, saved by one sacrifice once and for all time.

We believe in the promise of a resurrected church drawn from all nations and all generations to meet her bridegroom.
We believe in one eternal wedding feast which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.

We believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so that all his people can come and dwell together.

We believe
in God's Kingdom come.

Amen.

Sharing cracked living
and hard fried eggs
Re heated
Re purposed
Re deemed

But we were early to heaven
Higher in the rafters
And closer to our dead

A teddy
is a substitute satisfaction.
Like chocolate.

And that's okay.
So long as you know

what you're missing.

Take your place amongst the brave ones
The take-a-chance ones
The get-up-despite
and try-it-again ones.

Take your place amongst the daughters and sons
living post-lockdown
and let's run.

Vulnerable ain't weak
Hurting ain't broken
Pausing isn't giving up
Tired isn’t beaten

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
when it rages in the dead of day,
when it leaves you cold and empty -

that's then you long for ashes,
for an end to the flagrant flames,
for tears in their rightful lashes.

That's then you crave kin and friends,
voices of long affection,
words of kindness and remembrance.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
that's then you need a fresh flame.

Most of my closest friends
have a sort of ‘flesh’ colour to them,
- some pale, some brown, some a lot darker,
but that, I’ve come to shudder,
is a shallow, simply skin-deep measure.

When I look again
I see some carry a seven-sea travelled view
with a dark, deep-water hue.
Some have an earth-olive touch,
giving a life-tinted light to all they brush,
all they touch.

Some shimmer-touch, charged
with a hint of dawn-dew in their scars
giving fresh unasked repair.
Some show an indigo major
generating a bright electric flavour
empowering both friends and strangers alike.

When they arrive, they each add true colour
and I’ve found that their skin-depth is nothing
compared to the rainbow-canyon impression
that they’ve left on me,

my friends.

Enjoy this.
Give focus.
Take pleasure.

Ritualise
each movement,
each breath.

And then
repeat.

I've started.

I'm building.
I'm developing.
I'm giving.
I'm discovering.

They'll be secrets inside,
obviously,
- plenty that I haven't envisaged,
that goes without saying.

I've started.
I'm discovering.
And that's enough.

There's immortal.
And then there's
Eternal.

I've read of immortals -
I've read of their exploits, their battles.
They bleed.
They agonise.
They fall.
And one day
they fail to rise.

Eternal is different.

Eternal bleeds,
agonises,
falls
and dies
only to rise - Eternal.

I noticed the sudden silence
balanced on the off beat
of a carol left incomplete,
but after a while I found
- despite my long belief -
I was enjoying
the competing peace
a little more than the jingle,
the insistent hush
more than the chimes
the spreading rest
more than the dance.

And I put it down
to the close knit company.

He’s more than just an acquaintance.
He’s more like a regular, familiar companion.

We might go months without hanging out,
but when we meet – maybe for a drink -
we pick up right where we left off,
not having to explain or make excuses – just knowing

that there’s much that goes unsaid, but it goes without saying
that he’s there for me. He’s become familiar
with my thoughts and my turmoils
no matter how high the waves.

No, he’s not the kind I bring home that often
– he’s not great with the kids,
but I expect they’ll come to know him in their own time.

And on occasion, I meet a mutual acquaintance,
and once we realise that we have a friend in common,
it’s easier to bring him into the conversation -
and then there’s less to be said.

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Do Not Remind Me Again

I listened to the river’s babbling,
her competing voices,
none winning, none getting ahead,
ahead of the next bend, the next meander,
a departure from the mainstream,
taking the conversation in a whole new direction -
leaving the lies behind
and the truth high and dry,
to be banked, baked crisp and brittle, crunched
to dust under a heavy rockfall of doubt and disinterest.
But I listened still, for the following chorus,
the next controversy.

I didn't need to wait long - the new river babbled...

When the tidal wave came
I was looking the other way.

I knew the gentle Shuttle
had its shallow banks
concreted, walled, ready
for the diverted torrent,
but for some reason I was looking
North, thinking that way lay
the Thames and its barrier,
not knowing the wave
would follow the Shuttle’s
more meandering route

and I got it in the back of the neck.

Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies beyond
- all this my God beholds

A little delusion
going a long way
A little dreaming
bringing fresh clay

A little quietening
bringing me change
A little challenge
to my forces at play

God said, come now
and let us mystery together,
fire and phoenix together,
rhythm together, step together,
be danced and held together.  

Let us rest in my meadow,
feast to our pleasure
and pour to our brimful altogether.

Come let us be here together.

Yesterday was a bruiser
Today’s real contrary
Tomorrow’s undecided
But I’m remaining wary

So…
once the wrapping’s been wrapped
and the gifts have been given
once bells have been rung
as is our tradition

once the turkey’s a carcass
while mince pies remain
(and you wonder if salt
will lift that wine stain)

that’s the time to receive
the one Gift worth having
the Christ of this Christmas
the Gift come from heaven

the Gift that’s the Greatest
the Gift that kept giving
the Christ who stayed with us
the joy that kept coming

So …
as the carols’ words fade
don’t let this chance drift
welcome Christ this Christmas
the Greatest Gift

sacred to love
sacred to laugh
sacred to pray

sacred to dance
sacred to sing
sacred to pray

sacred to write
sacred to make
sacred to pray

sacred to play

When your back is backed up against the wall, that’s when
you know no one can sneak up behind you
you can focus on the frontal assault
you can defend yourself with undivided attention.

So, when you can’t back up any further
count yourself fortunate.
Brace your back heel against the foot of the wall,
raise both fists and smile.

[No, not ‘smile’.]

Set your mouth in a maniacal grin and giggle
deliriously and in that next half second
while your assailant pauses to shake their confusion
in that half second you have your chance –

Punch them in the gut!
Follow up with an upper cut
and kick
their
****.

Let's talk about your father.
How did that make you feel?
Let’s talk about that.

It’s okay, take a breath.

How did that make you feel?

Breath. That’s right.

Tell me more about that.
Did that make you feel afraid again?

Breath. Good.

Can you tell me more about how that felt?

That’s right, breath.

How do you feel now?
Can we talk more about that?

Deep breath.

Is that you?
Or just your memory of you?
There’re both real.

Breath.