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.

The yet expressed won’t stay repressed, won’t rest until we find a way to say out loud what lies within our still breathing, beating breast – grieving and weeping to attest to the love we feel even now though we can no longer confess that love to the one we miss but nevertheless can’t stop but manifest in our words, our deeds and indeed in our tears

- staining our chest where once we held them close and long to hold them once again.

I am a man
a man who writes poetry
that’s who I am.

Do you see?
Do you see what I see?
A different world
A gift of the future
where promise lies in a whisper
forever
for whoever sees.

Upon the third resurrection the lower of three buds bloomed,
I say three buds, but there was also an attempt at a fourth,
but nothing that could be called an actual bud – more of a high blemish.

Upon the third resurrection, the bloom had kept its family colour,
a repeat of a pink shade of purple with a white heart, flaring wide
toward the light, shouting the promise
of further offspring -

the future promise of beauty visited to the third
and perhaps to the fourth generation.

They say that it’s the thought that counts ...
and I wonder how He counted the cost,
from the first conception of His salvation plan
to the final arrival of God made man.

What were His first infant thoughts?
What did He think of His mother’s first touch?
And the assault of the cold, the earthy smells?
And perhaps the chime of several cow bells?

Each chime heralding this greater gift,
out-giving even a mother’s first kiss,
or the gifts from shepherds and eastern kings.
This God-gift out-gave all they could bring.

They say that it’s the thought that counts
and I count this gift of Immanuel,
this Godly-conceived first Noel
as by far the Greatest Gift of all.

This is more than a friendly fraternity
This is our Father’s fearless family

We are Holy Spirit descended
We are chosen, adopted kindred

This is our tribe of His gracious choice
crying ‘Abba Father’ in infant chorus

Hand in hand we stand as His clan
fruit of the original Abraham plan

By his blood we are kin
not distant cousins, but eternal siblings

We are adopted by His choice
fellow heirs with Jesus Christ

We cry out loud and then sing louder
We sing together: ‘Abba, Father’

She played music -
music you’d leave your windows open for.
She rolled into rooms you’d forgotten
and soaked into your cellar until your childhood
floated right up to today and stayed for your tomorrows.

She was like that – building new foundations,
or maybe bridges
between now and then,
leaving pathways your feet could find even
once the last note has finished for the day.

She made music that stayed and stained,
leaving her trace, so you could find her again,
like when you returned from years away.
She had an authentic taste, softly unique
and hard to forget.

I remember one song that ran high,
almost out of reach,
then reaching down into my outstretched eyes,
filling them to overflowing and blurring
the pain for a while.

She played music -
music you’d leave both eyes open for.

brother elder
brother younger
brother blood
brotherhood
brother arms
brother guards
brotherly love

Making sure
she kept to the right
of her best misdemeanors,

Rising slowly,
incrementally above her
sub-basement failures

Looking for all
the world like the world
owed her a life
time of favours

Striding unnoticed
past her past
jailers, her angry slavers

Throwing her chains
into the back of her dark
red Daimler

Passing sixty
screaming for privacy

Dying for worthy.

What’s the rush, Joash?
Why’d you arrive so early?
Not that we’re complaining,
you know we love you dearly.

Why the rush, Joash?
Why’re you so eager
to join the clan Hamilton,
for us to get to see yer?

Why the rush Joash?
There’s truly plenty of time
for you and Reuben, Mum & Dad
to find your rhythm and rhyme.

Why the rush, Joash?
Just rest and feel the beat
of four lives loving in unison,
a quartet truly complete.

Triumph with diversity.
Not knee deep in
Not wading
despite the extra gravity.
But with - taking it with me
on my journey making me
who I am building, i.e.
a stronger, fuller me
triumphing in the company
of those who walk ahead of me
who know what it will take me
to more fully glory
in my whole me.
Come with me.
Let's triumph with diversity.

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

Our Lord of life gave life
to the winds, the waters, the flames.
Our maker birthed them into being.

What hands have gathered up the winds?
What arms have wrapped the waters in a blanket?
Whose feet have walked these flames?
Only the Lord’s.

But when we look around, we wonder,
what’s going on?

We harnessed the winds and harvested the whirlwinds.
We dammed the waters and stopped the streams.
We burned the forests and they kept on burning.
What’s going on?

You breathed the winds, but not like these.
You sent a flood but said never again.
You lit the way, but this fire’s unchecked.
Lord, what’s going on?

You rebuked the wind – can you do that again?
You calmed the waves – can you speak once more?
You baptised with flames – can you tame them now?
Lord, what’s going on?

God of sun and hail, of arid plain and blizzard
Lord, come like thunder and earthquake,
Lord, roar like windstorm and tempest.
Lord, spread wide like a devouring fire.
Come, Lord, come.

Come on.
The Spirit of God has sown in our hearts
the beauty of this gifted world.
He fans the spark that remains of our desire
to care, to build and not destroy.
He refreshes our souls even as we grow weary.
He watches.
He watches.
Let’s go on going on.
Come on.

Look, we’re the victims here!
You said multiply.
Well – that’s what we did.

You said fill the earth.
Well, it looks pretty full now, doesn’t it.

You said subdue.
Well, that’s what we’ve done.

You said never again.
Well, looks like we’ve taken that out of your hands.

We’ve increased and multiplied to bursting point.
We’ve subdued this earth with a world-beating chokehold.
We’ve out-numbered the wilds into a final submission.

And no amount of talk about stewardship,
or responsibility, or choices and free-will
will change the facts:
We are not responsible for flawed design.
This earth is not fit for our purpose.

-

What?
What manual?
What users guide?

-

No-one reads that.  Have you seen the size of it?
It’s full of technical details -
I don’t know anyone who could understand all that!

-

What Quick Guide?

-

You mean Jesus!?!  
Okay – fair point.

But can we have our New Earth now?
Please?

There's power in skinny
In lithe
In nimble
There's beauty in less
In straight
In narrow
There's strength in slight
In gangly
In graceful
There more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

There's beauty in buxom
In curves
In convex
There's comfort in contours
In creases
In waves
There's strength in stout
In plump
In physical
There much more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

The first problem
is solitude, it's isolation.

It needed a befriending
It needs a communing
Not just with our maker
But also with one-another
with an attitude of a no-greater,
never failer, a coming along-sider.

It needs you and me
to greet with a holy kisser,
to bury and plant something
that will grow straighter
(perhaps sometimes leaning counter),

carrying, confessing,
praying and bearing with,
building one another
up into a more no-greater
love than this:
laying down ourselves
for our friends
no matter.

The first problem
was isolation.
So let's embrace a friendlier
God-given solution.

Let's be friends.

we don't get
that many things
to really care about

Maybe 3
Maybe 4
Maybe less

You made the right choice

there's nothing here
there's really nothing here

and that's pretty much it

The colour pops.
I love the contrast with the dark flecks
and the extended black seams.
The drape of the paler tails adds
to the sense of elongated stature.
And the weight feels just right in my hand.
Let's see if the next carrot is just as good.

Earth, it’s so good to speak with you again.  Come and rest here with me.

- Okay, but I don’t feel this is helping.

Why do you say that?

- I knew you’d say that.  Always with a question.

That’s because I think you have the answer.

- [SIGH] This is not helping because - nothing - changes.  If anything, it’s getting worse – in fact I know it is - You know it is.  And the disease is spreading faster.

Disease?

- Yes, DISEASE!  How else would you describe it?  The illness, the infection – the dis-order.

And what order would you seek to restore?

- What?

You said ‘disorder’ – that suggests that there was order that has been disrupted.

- Yes.  That’s obvious.

When was this?

- When was what?

When was this order?  When did the disruption start?

- We’ve been through this before.

Well, let’s walk through it again.  Perhaps it will help.

- [SIGH]
…
- [INTAKE OF BREATH] Okay.  You win.  I’m not sure when the disorder began, but I know we started fit and healthy.  When things were smaller, less crowded, less rushed and less - well, less – I don’t know how to describe it.  Less complicated.

What made it complicated?

- [Quietly] Choice.

What was that?

- CHOICE!  You gave them CHOICE.  You let them CHOOSE to do this to me.
…
- It’s like you knew they would ***** this up and that I’d pay the price.  It’s like I’m just a pawn.  It felt so good back in the garden, life was simpler.  There was balance.  You were there, you must remember how my eco system was just right – you loved your walks in the cool of the day.

You know I still love you.

- You’ve got a funny way of showing it.

You know I’ll make good on my promise.  That I will make you new.  This is a season. 

- But you left me in their hands. You gave them authority over me, to do with me whatever they wanted.  Couldn’t you guess how this would go.  The abuse, the neglect, the greed!

There are those who still take their stewardship seriously.  My people are still active.

- Not active enough!  Not re-using, re-cycling, re-pairing enough to off-set the stench I have to inhale, the filth I have to absorb, the poison!

I hear your frustration, your groans, your pain.  Redemption will come.

- And what happens til then?

Until then, I have placed your fate in the hands of my children, that’s true enough.  Let’s hope that they appreciate the gift that you are and that they grow up quick enough to turn the tide.

- They’d better hurry up.  I can’t take much more of this.

You and me both.

I need a freedom from cynicism
from male chauvinism
embracing a softer masculine
an absence of sexism
and an embrace of a different manly-ism
one seen through a more unmanly prism
a less than bearing the whole weight of the family
and more like living as a 'we' community
not necessarily a man that's handy
but one who is able to more gently
lead by an example that's differently
fully
compassionately,
unmanfully
me.

My memory – a thing of yesterday
My memory – repeat if necessary
My memory – not always trustworthy
My memory – I miss your company

You have memories
to look back on,
on-this-day ago
one year, three years, five years
ago, all-your-yesterdays

fade, perhaps repressed
or once carved with care
to exhibit the best
to omit the stuff you'd rather forget
and so the sculptor shaved

keeping with the grain
until the rather-not-dwell-ons
fell before the sweep of grace,
each scrape joining
other eliminations
to be gathered up
and cast into the fireplace.

The sculptor sanded, polished
and revealed the much loved
gargoyle within
proving once again
the effectiveness
of shaving away the best
forgotten.

Memory in tension
with expectation

Which wins?
Which informs?

And why do we settle
for either?

Sometimes
just the nod is enough
to acknowledge
the common struggle
and to impart
a spur -
a spur to go on

I am
shoved down, safe in the dark
waiting until I’m needed, wanted

I know
I’ll be looked after
- in a pocket
- in a wallet
- in a drawer

in a sock drawer, where it’s soft
and warm
and dark
until I’m needed, wanted

I know
I’m valued

Place the pen on the page before inspiration hits – that’s important.  You write – that’s what you do.  
And as the pen moves, a combination of memory and new ideas combine, they interact with the catalyst called inspiration and you’ll find that the further the process is allowed to progress, the more the New takes hold and memory drops to a whisper and before your mind can comprehend the words, you find an unexpected theme.  This time it’s about the evil of memory and how it needs to be subdued / reduced, put in its rightful place so that the New can breathe / can grow / create a new memory that will one day abdicate space to the next generation of New.  
One day we might find there’s no heir, no one who cares enough to continue the line, but until that day we’ll have generation after generation of New - each slowly growing old, gradually fading thin and becoming a memory that knows its space and gives way.
I pause.
That’s always a mistake.  
To Pause.  
That’s when memory sneaks back in, raising itself above its whisper, giving pause to the New and raising an appetite for a brew which lifts the pen…
Is blueberry jam on madeira cake wrong?

I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
- But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is truly God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last line of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.

God creator, God enthroned,
God in heaven, juxtaposed
with a green hill
not so far away,
but still a long way
from a throne room,
and just a day's walk
from Bethlehem,

a God walk beside us
a God walk with us,
a God walk like ours,
and now enthroned,
- still with us.

He leads me by waters of rest,
waters bubbling with competing song,
each voice heralding restored souls,
flowing down perfect paths through the greenest pastures
where our master-shepherd has prepared my rest.

Even in deep darkness,
I need not fear
for His rod and staff protect me.

Surely steadfast love follows me
as I return to dwell in the house of the Lord all my long days
and there I shall feast at my Lord-Shepherd's high table
forever.

The wind, he said, is lost
laughter.
Breathe it in and glory
in the joy it brings
in the forgotten smiles
of another age
and make your home.

The wind, he said, is dispelled
tears.
Let it in and as it meets your eyes
it will cool and condense,
re-creating past sadness,
distilling until the salt stings
with ancient lost glories.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me how much it would miss
me how much it depends on my
little choices
my small voices drowning
out the others and nudging
me to stay away.

The world doesn’t know how much
we depend on a little lack of leadership.
How much more devastated the world would
be with a little more co-ordinated lawlessness.

Little do they appreciate me,
appreciate that random acts of disfunction
are preferable by far
than my hordes of regimented devastation.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me to stay here
and not get involved.

The world doesn’t know how much
it needs me.

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

Good your journey
true your road
wet your mouth
loud your song

Good your journey
true your friends
wet your eyes
loud your song

Good your journey
true your road
your friends
your heart

Diverted, never Defeated

rushing like water into its misted future
crawling like moss in a camouflage of the past
giving lie to our tiny present

a passing shadow of day-creatures
flit for their designated eight minutes
failing to fully grasp their moment

while the trees stand watch -
still present, pointing to a future only they see

Diverted, but never Defeated

A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.

I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.

The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.

- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse

The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.

The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley

to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave

- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.

Layer by layer
the wailing wall
still weeps
leaks life
still happy
to receive
prayers to gods
who no longer reside
no longer invest
in their attempt
to subdue
a fierce people.
                  And the river offers up her long laughter below.

If my second brain is my gut
and if my gut presents as a she,
does that mean that it's best that I think
that my head best thinks as a he?

And when I want to follow my heart,
does it flutter somewhere betwixt
that path that she feels down deep
and the path that he just can't resist?

When I find myself at a fork,
and it's not at all clear which ways mine,
my gut, my head and my heart -
they'll figure it out just fine.

But if ever I find I'm in doubt
which voice it is I should heed,
I just have to ask myself this,
- for which path I'd be happy to bleed?

Within a few years of it being established, the Tree Keepers decided to lock Richmond Park between dusk and dawn, for the Trees of Richmond Park were known to hunt at night.

By day they sunned themselves and smiled, and seemed contented with their well rooted existence, but they hunted at night. So, although hemmed in and tagged by curious men, after sundown the Trees of Richmond Park hunted freely in packs within the Park’s walls:
Oak was the largest tribe (slow but relentless), then Beech (clever in coordinated assaults) with hangers on, Hawthorn (quick on flat ground), Blackthorn (vicious in attack), Birch (a graceful, brutal warrior) and Hornbeam (clumsy, but tolerated for their tough temperament).

The Trees of Richmond Park prided themselves on their stealth; slothful in appearance, apparently careless of the game around them, but they hunted at night. They granted a place for the birds to nest, yes, that’s true, they lulled them into a false sense of safe space and even allowed them to nurture their young. This replenished their stock, their lively larder, but - they hunted at night. The slower, tastier, ground nesting birds were the easiest prey - the grey partridge, the reed bunting, stonechat and meadow pipit all succumbed - their brittle bones breaking easily against a well-placed low swing of a gnarly bough. The swifter raptors repeatedly evaded the hunt and gloried in their survival and so the Trees of Richmond Park grew to tolerate their lack of veneration. Not so for the rabbits and squirrels of Bone Copse who were far too foolish to grasp the danger they danced with and they assumed too late that their burrow-nests were impervious to a delving nocturn root, to a dawning yawning crevice - to population cull.

There was talk of young deer disappearing within the Queen’s Saw Pit Plantation, but nothing was ever proven. Rumour also had it that the trees were responsible for an occasional missing child down in Gibbet Wood where a bad-tempered Blackthorn resided. That was hushed up and the parents were persuaded by the generous Crown compensation scheme which had been established and maintained for these and similar incidents. However, it remained true (at least in the main) that the Trees of Richmond Park hunted at night. It was in the dark that they pinned their prey. It was in the damp dark that they ****** their fill and nurtured their own, silently, stealthily filling every branch with their hungry young. They regularly sent their emissaries to claim yet more of the dark, with scant regard for the territories claimed or boundaries drawn, by come-lately, day creatures. And so they established outposts outside the curfewed walls, securing first rights on any and all nutrients further abroad.

Yes, the trees of Richmond Park chiefly hunted at night. And as apex predator, they have gone unchallenged. They have out-hunted, out-delved, out-witted, out-seeded, out-lived all contenders and they still occupy the dead of hunted night.

But, Billy, they are still known to take the occasional child to feed their offspring. And that is why it was not a good idea to uproot that sapling. - Stay close, and let’s get back to the car.

I see a solitary windmill on the horizon.
I can't see its stem, but its petals are clear enough.
Moving apace.
Chased by winds unseen.

And as I watch, they seem to slow,
as if the wind has waned.
And I expect I told you so's will rejoin the fray,
damning the whole enterprise.

But I see the intent as worthy of patience,
worth my invested expectation.
I see the petals power on
and they slowly turn again.

turn, turn
     turn, turn
          pure, power-ballad, turn

I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.

I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.

Past and Future stabled together – both present, tethered, and unstable.

Kindred ghosts pushed-pulled by a hopeful anxiety,
agitated by the yet unknown morning, eager to be

free.  And once freed, breaking fast, bolt-bursting, in competition
– in unison,

leaving Present to peer from the darkness
– who will win after all?

I felt myself begin to fall
in love with you but
I arrested that emotion
and returned to the equilibrium
of my life for one
- adhering to unambiguous instruction
- thankful for it's simple
red amber green ration
- grateful that I had avoided
the flood of voices
that inevitably follows the falling.

I'll have to be more careful.

Inking an octopus
takes time and space
and detail-dexterity
with a sense of 4D
you see, their arms
flow
and your eye can't track
their deeply chronic current-cy.

Tell me,
how did you keep your heart?
how did you guard it under such relentless assault?
how did you keep it whole?
how did you keep it open?

'I had you.'

God came in three -
they set aside time and space 
for collaborative creativity

God came in three
and in that 'us', 'our' and 'we'
metaphored an identity of mutuality 

God came in three
advocating once and for all
a celebration of plurality

God came in three
illustrating that all families
are a godly thingamy

God came in three
inviting you and you and me
to join them
together for eternity

I stepped onto the wind
not knowing (well not certain)
of where it would take me

I was happy to walk on the wind
as the storm was becoming too predictable
a path

I stepped onto a breeze
(less predictable than the wind I find)
guessing where it would take me

My third step took me
at last
onto a faint resonance
of song
- it took me to the bridge

and I danced

A cup of promise
A cup of wrath
One cup he offers
One cup he took

Have you ever tried to tell the time?

I mean really tell it?
Tell it what you think of it –
where you wish it would stick
its incremental ticking,
its incessant tocking
its perpetual passing?

Have you ever told it to just STOP!

To get out of your face
To give you some space
or at least to try and relax and shorten its pace?

Well, I DID.

I told it to pick a side!
I told it to stand aside,
or we’d have to take this outside.

It didn’t make a nano of a difference.

I still have to sit and watch my own personal doomsday clock
I still can’t get my body clock to slow or stop.
I still have to go to my blasted birthday party
to celebrate a tick closer
to that last
tock.

(sigh)
Many Happy no-returns.

Nicodemus is a mate of mine
Known as Nick to his friends
He’s always on his laptop
But you know it can depend

On whether he's got wifi
Or maybe just 5 G
On some nights he's got neither
That’s when he goes to see

That Jesus, the new teacher
Who’s wiser than the rest
They have these late night sit-downs
When he gets stuff off his chest

Like why he needs to start from scratch
Why be born anew
When he’s spent a life-long lifetime
Learning what's truly true

But all his wifi’d searches
All his 5 G chat
Can’t teach Nick what’s important
More than just the facts

More than what he’s learned from books
More than simple knowledge
More like child meets Father
Not student at a college

So now Nick don’t need wifi
He’s fine without 5 G
Cos he’s found what’s more important
And spends nights on his knees