'Of biblical proportions',
a once in a generation
full flood and lasting devastation.

'Of biblical proportions',
an inheritance double portion
from love given in the first person.

'Of biblical proportions',
a full to the brim immersion
after a throwing off of caution.

'Of biblical proportions',
a holyspirit-father-and-son
embrace of all that you have done.

Of biblical proportions
sweeping-up-anything- head-on.
Come Holy Spirit, come.

[We have a biblical proportions kind of God.]

Hannah has her cleaning boots,
they're really rather fine.
They match her rubber cleaning gloves
and her yellow cleaning sign.

We're all writing stories -
some in ink, some in blood,
some are less well read,
some become well-thumbed.

We're all writing stories -
some for laughs, some in tears,
some soaring sagas,
some stuck in first gear.

We're all writing stories -
some in first person, some in third,
whatever your perspective
take care with each word.

Perch up here on this stool so we can judge you, analyse and season you and so help redefine you. Let us make-up for the blemished you, whatever the level of damaged you and so apply a brand new layer to you.

We can enhance you with a new shade of you, we can sponge, brush and fill-in you, conceal the less-than-perfect you. We can blush you, highlight and contour you, fade you and blend you right into the crowd of our just-like-yous. We can make-up for the real you and ensure noone ever gets a clue as to the essence of the beauty of the original true you.

Just perch here and let us re-make you.

Believe in more than
you can imagine
Believe in more than
you ask to happen
Believe in more than
what you have seen
Believe in more than
what you have been
Believe in more than
your faded label
Believe in more cos
your God is able.

Immeasurably more than
all we ask
Immeasurably more than
all we imagine
Immeasurably more than
what we deserve
Immeasurably more than
mere human passions

Immeasurably wider
Immeasurably longer
Immeasurably higher
Immeasurably deeper
Immeasurably more
full to the brim
Immeasurable love
to the fulness of Him

Each day I pray for an ear that will hear
above all the noise clearly His voice.
For while sometimes it's best to be serving with zest,
sometimes it's better to sit for a breather
and wait in his presence and enjoy this true essence
of sitting and being before going and doing.
So while sometimes I'll Martha I know that I'd rather
spend time being Mary, in less of a hurry,
for there at his feet I'll be more complete
and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

Joseph is a bit of a dreamer,
you might say a wayward thinker,
but that's not the lot
of all that's he's got: -
He's the son of the great Creator.

So dreams wake up as passions,
passions bear fruit in actions
and soon you see
what only he dreamed:
God-made-man creations.

I met a bold painter
With no brush to his name
He held up his stylus
And happily explained
It's all about screen time
It's what you install
It's the choice of the subject
And this one is bald.

The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.

The now and the not yet
looked on
while the now and the no more
looked back -

both hesitant
both tearful
both hopeful for peace
even without reconciliation
while both conscious of the tension
between all that was
and all that is
and all that will be

- and they parted
in hope

A Psalm:

It is fitting to praise you with joyful song.
It is fitting to make stringed music to you.
It is fitting to sing new songs to you,
to play skillfully to you and to shout joyfully to you,
our God and Maker.
It is fitting to hope in your unfailing love,
to hope in your help and in your shield
to hope in your fearful, unfailing love,
our God and King.

It is fitting to praise you in the kitchen
with spoon and saucepan
with smart speaker on full volume.
It is fitting for the family to worship you
with loud bellows in the car,
with all the windows down.
It is fitting to praise you in the congregation,
in the Town Hall, in the parks and in the university,
in places of further wisdom your people praise you.

It is fitting
to play skillfully to you
to play with drums and cymbals.
It is fitting
to play with bass and keyboard,
to play with gong and cymbals.
It is fitting
to fill the Weston Halls with praise
to fill the corridors with the prayers of your people.
It is fitting
to stand together with your people
with both arms raised to you,
with our hope in your unfailing love.
It is fitting
for your people to praise you,
our God and Redeemer.

At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start

With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls

At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge

The song meant nothing to me, but spilled brim-full of faint meaning to more attentive ears than my own.

The song meant nothing. While I stood bemused with my less than perfect pitch and my imperfected sense of rhythm, both played out imperfectly through my stubby finger tips.

The song meant nothing. I was only too aware of the thesaurus of love, but the language eluded me, all the more at the opening bars when it would have been most useful.

The song meant nothing and I resorted to the clumsy sign language of childlike affections and smoke signals signing hesitant expressions of late-conceived emotions.

The song meant nothing, its meaning remaining an octave beyond my range, stave after stave.

The song meant nothing, but still I sang.

[Proverbs 18:13
To answer before listening—
that is folly and shame.]

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
or how tall the border wall
how faint their call
no matter how great the chasm
between you and them
between your point of view
between your world view
and where they have taken their pew

- Listen

don't write them off
as blinkered
as closed minded
as none-so-blind
and don't be so quick
to assert you're the more
20 20 vision kind

- Listen

don't shame them
or be all too ready to belittle them
don't be dismissive of them
with no respect for them
and for what has led them and theirs
to their honestly held position

- Listen

assume their good faith
and in a space that's safe
assume a position
of good natured
mutual consideration
and seek mutual revelation
of God-given wisdom

-Listen

and as you clear
that common ground
you are bound to build
a safer compound
a creator-shared hallowed ground
where the heard are found
while bound for wisdom
together

Welcome iron on iron
and words to the wise
Accept kind rebukes
and reject foolish lies

Sit with your father
Listen to your friends
Review what you're seeing
through a God-given lens

Get in the habit
of accepting hard advice
and soon you too will be
counted as one of the wise

Kiss
Dry
Try
Miss

Kiss
Wet
Met
Lips

Listen and Learn
from
Insight and Wisdom
giving
Instruction in Prudence
producing
Knowledge and Discretion.
With thanks to
Mother's Inspired Utterances.

When is a stray fleeting thought
a senseless young fool's distraction?
And when is my sudden idea
a true sage-like inspiration?

No weight of long experience
No number of tried and tested
No diet of **** it and sees
seem to provide me true wisdom.

But then I slow and I listen
I daily make time to wait
I consider what it is that God has to say
and Wisdom opens her gate.

[Proverbs 4:6
Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you.
Proverbs 7:4
Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,” and to insight, “You are my relative.”]

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

I prefer to listen,
I'm learning to wait
and hear from she who is wiser.
I've made some mistakes,
but I'm learning from those
who trust the Word as adviser.

As I sit and I read,
as I ponder and pray
my sisters begin to make sense.
My sister is Wisdom, my sister is Insight,
my first and next line of defense.

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

Each dent should lessen the value,
but curiously deepens character.

When the Spirit's around
- that's the third of the Three -
He regularly raises
fresh questions for me:

The sought and the seeker
the truth and the teacher
the help and the helper
the gift and the giver?

The breath and the voice
the chooser, the choice
the anointer, the oil
the peace and turmoil?

The joy and the cries
always there to baptise
the bearer of fruit
with fresh gifts to boot?

As wild as the wind
He'll breeze where He will
I've tried to contain Him
but He won't remain still.

I won't ever define Him
or assign Him a lable
just accept He's my God
and that my God is able

to be true to His Word
while resisting defining
He'll still leave me questions
but that's not surprising.

He kicked off creation
was around from the start
and I'm just the latest
to play my small part.

The kinetic energy
contained in this resting pencil
will soon be let out
in accelerated shouts and whispers
and the odd word of wisdom.
Just wait.
You'll see.

Jesus didn't hand you solutions.
Jesus didn't give you your answers.
Jesus asked YOU the questions.
Jesus was and is your answer.

He is the Way the Truth the Life.
He is the River the Bread the Light.
He is the Shepherd the Gate the Vine.
He is Human. He is Divine.

He is the Lamb. He is the Lion.
He is the Word and He's not lyin'.
He is the Servant. He is the Prince.
He is Love and I am convinced

Jesus came to seek and to save.
Bigger than a manger. Stronger than the grave.
Jesus came as God made man...

He - asked - you - a - question -

"What about YOU?

Who do YOU say I am?"

London.
What do you need it to be?
The Capital?
A powerhouse?
An icon?
Your career boost?
A short city break ?

For me
it's home.

It wasn't so much childhood trauma as it was a soap melodrama. But I wasn't the protagonist and I soon realised that I had become redundant to their narrative.

Part way into the 8th series I left to star in my own spin off at a boarding school set in the Chilterns where I had greater success. Oh, yes - there was the occasional well-choreographed cross-over, but nothing substantive; and I successfully developed my own independent brand.

Years have passed and we don't do cross-overs anymore, but they may turn up for the occasional, one-scene guest appearance.

I prefer it this way. It's not Made In Chelsea, but it's my own reality drama.

When is a fleeting stray thought
a senseless fool's distraction?
And when is my sudden idea
a true sage-like inspiration?
No weight of long experience
No number of tried and tested
No diet of **** it and sees
seem to give me true wisdom.

Your tears will speak for you
while your loss dries up all words.

The spreading tearstains
on my shoulder
are eloquent enough.

Promise me
not to promise me any more
don't say don't dream don't plan
any more
just show just do
what your heart
what your gut
what you want
and if you want me
you'll find me here for you
I promise

With a smile she built her man of the freshest snow with eyes of the coldest coal, - she laughed as she set his top hat at a song-and-dance angle and fashioned a fred astaire cane from a discarded broom handle, - she whispered her mischief, hoping for some reaction, but he kept his silence, with a marked chilled inaction - and as she began her dance, she couldn't help but be crushed by his stubborn hush and the steady fall of diluted coal dust.

Now Joe's too big for his bed
But never let it be said
That this would prevent
Some time well mis-spent
Watching TV while outspread

We're all sound artists now.
Walking through our chosen concert halls, with or without walls, listening through public spaces, in personal places, curating our own shapes of combinations, constructions, concoctions of sounds and visions, an unwitting contribution to the contemporary audio visual world of sonic art installations.
We're all artists now.
And we're in charge.

One step at a time
One punch at a time
One round at a time
One fight at a time

And when life throws
all it has at you,
all at one time, then
every step
every punch
every round
every fight
that leaves you standing
is a win

and every time
you hit the ground
only to rise again
that is a victory
that is worthy
of the champion that you are.

Who do you wish to be?
Who do you wish to die as?
How will we remember you?
As joyous or as pious?

There's only one kinda respect
that matters
That's self-respect,
respect from you.
It don't matter how it looks
to others -
what matters is how it looks
to you.

So take a moment,
make your choice
and no matter what they say
make sure your choice
is true to self
and that you don't betray
your inner self, that heart of self
that's waiting in the basement
the self you hid, but can't deny
that it's up for reappraisement.

Your basement self is restless
it's hungry for the fight
so feed your self
some self respect
and step into the light.

bananana and cinnamonon
betray a lack of discipline
while gingerer on melonon
shows tasteful imagination

It's in the sequence
within the space
on the slow turn
at the touch of the page

it's more than the optic
less than didactic
much more tactile,
less than merely mercantile

it's more immersive,
deeply collaborative
a match that's unconventional
beyond art, words and materials

avoiding any deference,
embracing our difference
flicking 2 fingers
without fear of irreverence

it's greater than the sum
of its many surprising parts
more than what was found in
the inspirational, original art

and whether it's deliberate
or accidently incidental
these are books as art,
beyond the coffee table

God has no chromosomes
so don't get caught up with gender
He Genesised you down to your genes
and delights in your full splendour

You wear the mask
that gets you through the day.
You close the door and tear
and tear the mask away.

You wear the mask
that gets you through the war.
You close the door and swear
there is no better way.

I need a strong yin
to rein me in
to be by my side
kicking my shin
when I need to restrain
my under their skin
to pull me out of my dive
and control my fast spin

it's then that my watson,
my bucky, my tonto
comes into their own
and suppresses my ego
So don't go when I strut
when I trigger disgust
just stand by my yang
and balance me up

I've been
right in the thick of it
wanting to stick with it
just for the hell of it
up front and close to it.

But now
I've had my fill of it
done my fair share of it
time to slow down a bit
and exit before Brexit.

The parent said to the child,
"Just you listen to me -
"Do as you're told, you'll be fine;
you need to wait and see."

The child smiled at the parent,
relieved to have someone in charge.
Their worry had been overwhelming
with much that couldn't be grasped.

The adults looked on, both curious
at the exchange that they'd observed.
They continued on their journey,
sharing all that they had learned.

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew.

Parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.

Winter parties, summer trips
a massive paddling pool,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.

Common homes and gardens,
a street in open-plan,
more than simply neighbours,
one big, street-long clan.

Tough as a girl
Loud as a boy
Big on dreams
and bigger on joy

Quick with laughter
Slower with spite
Happy to hug
and happy to fight

Short on patience
Longer on play
First up in line
and last to give way

Shorter than me
but not by much
Likely to smile
and not hold a grudge

Sisters as siblings
are harder to bear
Sisters as friends
tend to be rare

Countless paths
Alternative routes
Only one guide
can see you through.

I'm not talking frenzy
I'm not feeling fury
Although it's not fiery
I'm still feeling angry

Its root's in frustration
a hidden foundation
of deep indignation
from silent vexation

I need a new outlet
to offset this upset
Something to attack
to reset my mindset

So while poetry is helping
to sort out my feelings
I'll punch out my raging
as part of my healing

You have greater worth than you suppose.
So, please listen to what I propose.

Don't default to self-less,
but be more deliberate in your selflessness

leaving space for a little selfish too.
Dont settle for less. Don't just make do.

Learn what makes you happy and then embrace it.
Recognise what makes you angry
and carefully express it

without being cranky
confront frankly and talk.
Don't just shut down and walk.

And accept the help your friends offer.
They wouldn't have offered if they couldn't be bothered.

Your friends have an investment in your friendship,
so don't let those friendships slip. They too benefit.

When you make contact, know you do not impose.
Because, it's true, you are of far greater worth
than you have presupposed.

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition
I'm even sometimes partial to
a suggestion by omission

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes
and silly with alliteration
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhythmic lunacy

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it

So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this

not rooted,
not foundational,
but transitional,
I mean - tabernacle.
Following cloud and flame,
and restless for Jordan.

not stilted
not intellectual
but relational,
more than routine ritual.
Led by spirit, filled by flame
and restless for Jordan.

Stones and Seeds -
Whatever you hold,
lay them down
and unfold your empty hands