I believe in choice.
I believe in the power of choice.
I believe in the God-given right
to freely choose
what we choose to choose.

Freely choosing -
Freely making -
Freely selecting -
our choice.

Freely taking
one of the options
offered to us,
freely declining
to take the others.

Freely deciding what we want,
what we will,
what we'd like
to choose.

I believe in our free will.
I believe in just one-more-
before-I-go
slice of cake.

I sat in front of the mirror and reflected on age and plans and paths and happenstance. And as I reflected, my reflection faded and I looked inward and found a new road, a narrower path and an older way, leading me to my paths-maker rather than to my path-dictator and to my next choice on the adventure that my maker had made free and had made ordained, one and the same.
And as I looked, the dark fell and the light rose and reflected well on our choice. And so I too rose, and we walked on.

Take your own life
violently by the scruff,
and LIFT.
Once you have its undivided,
wholehearted attention,
stare it straight in the eyes,
and say 'Enough!'
'This is a self-interest intervention.
'Get over this,
shake yourself free
of this mid life need
for a preoccupation
by hostile thoughts
and self-absorbtion,
put to one side
self-indulgent fictions
and get real,
get serious
and get a life
that is true to the person
you now are.
And start by ending the comb-over.
It's a non-starter.'

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet, square in the threshold, charged with a ready welcome and ruddy face.

He stood with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor who too stood in a similar red coat and sore shiny feet and with his own style of smile.

He stood until he fell one March morning, in his thick red coat and his sore shiny feet and with a heart that failed to live up to the responsibility that came with the threshold and the coat and the shiny feet and instead chose to take its rest.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet square in the threshold, charged with a duty to smile with an open face, with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor.

And he stood.
And he smiled.
As charged.

Never learnt anything
from a swing of a cane
but fear
and resentment
and that pain doesn't last
as long as the scars.

"A grain of madness is the best of art."
Second best is a handful of heartbreak on a base of isolation with a drizzle of self-reflection.

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He sings for his milk,
he sings for his lunch
and he sings for his afternoon tea.

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He gives lots of love,
he gives from the heart
and what he gives, he gives for free.

can we skip the bit
where I'm not sure
what it is you feel
and if it's the same
as the feeling
that I'm feeling is possibly real
and possibly how
someone as amazing
as you is feeling right here
right now?

- can we dispense with the fear
that what appears
to be actually here
is actually just a figment
a fiction based on
a misread permission
to stay this close, mistaken
like a ghost of a reflection
in a tarnished mirror
that hides the terror
of being seen this clearly
by another.

- can we move on
to the unguarded laughter
and the freedom to touch
the surface of your face
and the assurance
that we've reached across
a safe place,
a within-our-reach shared space.

- can we stay in this moment
for as long as this path lasts
and can this path
take us from our past on
into a future without-masks
where we nurture
each other to greater
and to deeper
laughter?

- can we do that?

I've been singing high up in my head
not aware I have a choice
not knowing in my heart of hearts
I've got a bigger voice -
that breath by breath, beat by beat
I'm able to release
in time with my heart's moving
the next movement of my suite

That as I breath in deeper still
using my whole body
my body becomes one instrument
growing in capacity
to compose something of my own
beyond my quiet moans
the music of my origin
and of scores I don't yet know

"All the stuff in our veins is the same." Guy Garvey.

Some stuff is the same.

First school,
Graduation

First pet,
Grief

First bicycle,
Grazes

First kiss,
Heartbreak

Some stuff is only yours and makes you.

"Listen!
I'm neither - not either!

"Not left, not right
Not black, not white

"Not red, not blue
Not the many, nor the few

"No, neither you
nor any other political tribe
will bribe my alliegence.
No one can expect
my adherence or compliant silence!

"I've no tribe but kin
and my kin can come in any skin
and will come and go again
this close to the rim.

"So, no -
I'll not promise to sing
from only one sheet of hymns.
I'll not sign up to this week's
with-the-tide swim.

"You can't assign me
based on a tick-box whim.
I'm no man's synonym.
I'm no easy pseudonym.

"My vote has never been
and never will be
ANYBODY'S easy win."

She stood at the door poised with her pen.
'Okaay... Is that an 'Undecided' then?'

on saturday morning we grace around recycled rustic tables, lowering our heads over gluten free brown toast topped with gently scrambled free range eggs, adding soya milk to decaffeinated, ethically sourced coffee, self contained in guilt free reusable cups -

and still we fret.

Reputation - what they think they see
Character - what you prove to be

Image - what is seen from afar
Substance - what you truely are

The difference is what makes a man
a sure and steadfast gentleman

What's up, Xavi?
What do you see?
Where're you going
when you're running past me?

Why're you so happy?
Why the big grin?
Why don't you care
when your brothers crash in?

What's it you're seeing
when you're flat on your back?
Why're you relaxed
when your head gets a crack?

It's cos that deep down
you know that you're loved
by billy goat brothers
who love with a shove!

She opened the window above his bed
(How else will his spirit rise?)
I could have said
that his is a spirit that defies convention -
domestic or foreign -
his spirit would not wait for our permission.
But instead I smiled
at the February chill and the gas bill
that would have made my dad shudder.

I spent my day breathing life into my memories.

I often walk or sit with them.
I give them the attention they ask for
to maintain their roots.

I administer the moisture they desire
to retain their colour
their scent.

I know they aren't what they used to be
but they grow with me
and give me hope for more
more beauty
more life
and more to live for.

I spent my day with my memories.

Extract maximum energy from every day
Turn you face towards the light
Turn away from the shadows
and at dusk
rest
ready for your dawning.

Whether Noble by name or noble by nature
this man is for you no matter the weather.

Whether noble in thought or noble in deed
I need to be vocal that this man's in need

of a woman who sees what's hidden in me
that I need a woman who truly believes

that together we're whole and separate were less
that together our God our family will bless.

I'm thankful my God was gracious to grant me
a woman as noble as my lovely Ivy.

Not horrible, but incredible, not nasty, but dynastic - some fantastic stories (I'm talking histories) - that pre-existed our weary scurries across this all-the-worlds-a-stage, so pay attention to this sometimes sage narrator and you'll be glad you did later on when you find that the story's on repeat and despite calls to the contrary lessons are rarely learnt and once burnt doesn't lead to twice shying away from the danger of descending down frequently encountered pitfalls, so pay attention and you may hear a history that lends itself to self discovery and avoidance of common snares and having to ask - "haven't we passed this way before?"

This is my lament for London and its young lives lost:


Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

Do you get me?

No shame, you know.
Just small self doubt
a violent chin
and contention for identity
for happiness
for unafraid space
with a smile and Stanley.

Do you get me?

He had a well stocked mind,
but with little stock taking
and with little order,
and so with little hope of finding
just a little rationale
for what sounded a little like tripe.

I sit with you, mutually leaning comfortably as we tremble on the sofa with Adam ******* filling our evening with laughter and I breath in your aroma - that bouquet of shampoo that you prefer to all the other scents offered in the ad breaks.

I'm no good at remembering brands or labels and your bottle of choice doesn't appear on the screen anymore in any case, but I know the smell of you fresh from the shower,

and you fill my head with happiness.

I took a breath
and I dived
deeper.
I pushed down til I saw the dark.
I reached down
dusted off my sea bed
and took hold of my bedrock.

I embraced to my chest
what lie there,
and pushed up,
retrieving, reclaiming,
bringing it to the surface light,

and once scraped free of neglect
it was seen
and noone would again wonder
what lay beneath.

I dived deep.
What choice did I have?

I've found it's dangerous to be different
and that it's likely to offend
but I can't help my being me
and I no longer will pretend

that I'm the one who is at fault
that I owe an apology
when the truth is that it is you
who should get used to me

I don't mind your naive questions
I welcome every one
but don't assume that being different
makes me a source of fun

instead let's reach agreement
that we've both got lots to learn
and while I try to learn some patience
you'll learn deference in return

And when you BLESS
Be prayerful,
careful to be mindful
that God's presence is vital
if actions are to be blessful.

And when you bless
Listen,
just stopping and sitting
signals that you're willing
to be hearing
while your tongue stays stilling.

And when you bless
Eat,
yes feast over several courses,
invest is slower morsels,
be someone who pauses
to hear other people's stories.

And when you bless
Serve,
and not just in church,
but with imaginative verve
serve all of your neighbours
even those who are homeless.

And when you bless
Share,
yes dare to bare
a little of your story,
more of the messy history
that brought you here.

And, less you think
that you might have impressed,
be mindful that
we all put on our pants
one leg at a time
when we're each getting dressed, yes
we all equally need
God's ever forgiving kiss
so with no eye on who's looking
- just BLESS.

In this less than
a few rungs below
my idea of a perfect year,

in this off-cut cast-off
and near redundant cluster
of never quite within my grasps,

in this now,
but not yet of a year

I found a light
high in your smile,
a familiar chime
deep in your laugh,
a welcome rest
on the cusp
of our brief touch

and I found hope.

Before you take up your blade, Sharon
who do you see?
Will you be cutting to heal
or incising to free
some carefully hidden,
some up-til-now unbidden me?

When you take up your blade
and test the fresh edge
do you have an image of a me
fixed in your head?
Can you see in your mind
a kinda-me roughly out sketched?

When you make your first cut
do you have a clear vision
of what I'll reveal
have you made your decision
as you press down and carefully cleave
with loving conceiving precision?

When you lay your blade down
do you see I've appeared?
Do you know I'm complete
when the excess is cleared?
Or when you sleep do you wonder
whether there's a less of a me
maybe a more of a me
silently waiting here?

Can there be intimacy without proximity?
Empathy without vicinity ?

Can we live without touch,
keeping brothers out peripherally?

No, that path only leads deceivingly
further into living life more miserably

So rather than espousing self-sufficiency
let's discuss band of brotherly

A brother unity that unconditionally
maintains a mature masculinity

A unity revealing a core fragility,
yes - a humility that risks indignity

I'm talking about an increasing capacity
a growling capability
for actual manual connectivity

I'm calling for a comprehensive solidarity
that embraces fierce timidity

You see I stand against living artificially
I'm all for living purposely

Yes, I'm here loudly
Campaigning
Against anyone
Living
Miserably

If she says it is
then it is
poetry
and don't try to tell her
any different
cos that would be your lie
against her truth
and we've all seen
where that boot leads
- art reduced down
to out of 5 stars reviews
and the boo's of the many
smothering the true of the few
and that dilutes truth
for us all, including you.
So, if she says it is
then it is
poetry
and true.

Dive deep.
And push down
til you reach the dark.
Dust off the sea bed
and take hold of your bedrock.

If you don't
you'll sink anyway,
but without a tether
and without a way back.

So take a breath.
Dive deep.
And once you've got hold of
what lies there,
bring it to the surface,
scrape it off,
so it can be seen
and noone need wonder
what's down there.

Dive deep.
What choice do you have?

I don't think she'll hear you.
- I'll give it a try.
I don't think she's listening.
- I'll try it again.

Son,
I don't think she's worried
about the high tide
and I don't think she cares
about the late time.
She'll return when she's ready,
let her drift while she can.
Just give mum this moment
of peace on the Seine.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
less you become monstrous.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and arm yourself with truth.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and shield your deep innocence.

When fighting monsters
(and you must fight your monsters no matter the depth of the abyss)
- watch yourself
and let your whole self stand.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of options
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation for interruption
A deliberate contemplation
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A hearing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And unexpected peace

I've seen redundant heroes
Inked and fully formed
They're faded from a lack of use
Like blunted dusty swords

I've seen redundant heroes
With no questing quite begun
Unknowingly replaced by you
The hero player-one.

Not waving, but drying.
Not surrender, but hope.
Not a reckless abandon
to the uncaring elements,
but a careful reading of the gusts,
of the distant clouds,
of any sign of coming gales.

Not waving, but drying
by a canny application
of my mother's oversized,
double applied,
long-legged, wooden pegs.

Not waving, but drying
by lunchtime.

My familiar haematoma
was happy dying,
thinking itself resilient
and settled into the can't
of lasting scaring.

And then the green came
and grew through the wounding,
imprinting its healing,
its green growing with hope
of growth, causing my pulsing
to phase into trusting
for perhaps
a whole new colourful beginning.

Where have you found your Orkney?
Where do you find you're centered?
Where would you say your true self is?
Where can you best be remembered?

Is it in a familiar voice?
Is it in a sound?
Is it in a childhood smell
or is it more place-bound?

Is it when you're free to dance
or when you get up to sing?
When you pick up a favourite pen
and your mind has taken wing?

Is it as you walk or stroll
or in the pace of a run?
Is it when you find your chill
or when you're having fun?

Is it when you're home alone
or when you're there with others?
Is it found when standing solo
or within greater numbers?

Where is your Orkney?
Where are you centred?
Wherever it is you're true self is -
go there and remember.

A pen,
a notebook
and idleness

- the three requisites for the manufacture of poetry.

The journey,
The torque,
The chase,
The lap-time,
The playlist,
The company,
The view,
The joy,
The purpose,

not the destination,
matters....

- with thanks to T S Elliott

Poetry is the shortest way of conveying something really big -

you could call me Larry
you might call me Shaun
but I will look Eastward
and wait for the dawn

you may think me seasoned
you could call me spring
but I'm looking Eastward
while the morning birds sing

you could call me silly
you might think me dumb
but when I look Eastward
I greet the dawn sun

We each sit in silence,
punctuated by the scrape of canvas,
and while it takes a while for me to hear you,
to taste the essence of you,
- slowly your aroma filters through
your curves,
your creases
and I cease to see your flesh and instead
I see the palette of you,
embedded in the greying of you,
waiting for this, this view,
this interpretation of you,
while you sit in your steady state
of quiet undress

All dressed up and waiting for summer,
a summer as strong and as fresh
as this perennial dress.

All made up and ready for life,
a life as bright and as perfumed
as this fragrant woman waiting to bloom.

'Wake me when summer comes.
'Stir me when the sweet zest rises and the sun can kiss me as with the dawn.'

All heaven screams its electric hues
The sun explodes in chroma anger
The clouds reach wide to embrace the view
And the sea gives up reflected grandeur

My eyelids filter this grace of lights
My tears rejoice at sunlight's candour
My breath gives up its futile fight
And my face absorbs this heaven's splendour

If this wall could talk
If those eyes could see
If those tears could fall
would they fall for me?

If this face could smile
If those lips could part
If those cheeks could blush
would they claim my heart?

there's said to be some merit in me
and there's something to be said about mine
but please never let it be taught
and please never have it headlined
that I've ever done any of this
but with measured and deliberate thought
or time consuming and considered design
none of this comes easy
little of this goes smooth
we all think ourselves imposters
but some of us have pushed through
so whatever doubts you're having
however steep the climb
take the chances that you're offered
and give yourself some time.

I will love you
until the moment I die away
until my last words pass
until my last chord fades

I will be true to you
until the next track plays
until the playlist moves on
and we become forgone
unless you choose 'repeat' to replay

Ask now about the former days,
ask before praying
before this pause
passes

Listen now about the former days,
listen before rising
before this story
ends

Speak now about the former days,
speak before forgetting
before this memory
fades

I serve with a woman called Lois;
having her here is a bonus;
you know she is near
whenever you hear
laughter, loud and in chorus.