I had watched his glow go down
and I saw the hole swallow him whole.
I now watched his light rise
and I saw his eyes rest on mine,
newly ascended.

A life can be told from different angles
A different moral every time
A fresh perspective from greater distance
Puts the truth to familiar lies

The certainty that gives
the clarity to see
a path lies beneath
the current uncertainty

These are not ***** words,

Accord
Concord
Detente
Engage

These are European words.

More than a pick-up
Deaf to a chat-up
Happy to pass-up
Chances to hook-up

Bruised from my ****-ups
Smart from my break-ups
Wise from my make-ups
Still time to grow-up

Ready to pipe-up
Bolder to speak-up
Willing to stand-up
At long last to man-up

I feel like I should say
something of substance
something of meaning
something of the moment,

but I remain empty.

Curating multiple identities
Creating original content
Time on social media
is ( * ) time well spent

* never / rarely / always / dinner

The bigger my heart,
the greater my capacity for hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I need to think.

The greater my reach
the more grounding I need.

------------------

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the more my heart weeps.

The bigger my heart,
the greater my capacity for hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I need to think.

The bridge character
is essential to the narrative,
it's just not HER narrative.

And later,
as if because the readers
have asked for more,
as if something about her
caught their imagination,
prompting fresh fan questions,
she features again
and the panels frame
more detail,
more of her back story,
her motivation
and perhaps we learn
her true name.

In a few years time
it may be that
a reader develops into a writer,
or perhaps an editor,
and a story is commissioned
telling HER history
with colour,
with space
and we see, at last,
her scars
and at last we see
the essential essence
of how she came to be.
And we identify
with HER.

But one night
when we look back
when we read again
that first appearance,
we realise that there remains
some unexplained detail,
a few missing pieces of her jigsaw

and as we put the final touches
to our too tight cosplay,
we wait, with hope
for her OWN title
that just might reveal
her full narrative.

Open both eyes
put on your slippers
and carry on

Take a bowl
lift down the cereal
and carry on

Angle the mirror
pull a face
and carry on

Choose a tie
polish your shoes
and carry on

Walk to the corner
buy a paper
and carry on

Return home
sit alone
and quietly, carry on

This is what I have observed.
This I have seen to be true -
You are not responsible
for their unhappiness,
nor for their disappointment.
These are their's.
These are from older seeds.

This is the greatest lesson.

The next is like it.
You cannot control
whether they are happy
whether they are content
with the answer.

So what can you do,
but what you know to be right,
what is said to be fair?
Do not test this
by their response.

This too is wisdom.
This too is a sadness.

Too little of this is false
Too much of this is true
I'd love to dismiss all of this mess
as just some more fake news

Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds.
'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'

He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses ****** out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she ******
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

by Ted Hughes

Movies are
at their best
tightly scripted
bravely casted
boldly acted
richly promoted
highly rated
Poetry

Don't be quick
to stop and search.
Do slow and speak.
Do stop at the curb.
Do sit.
Do commit to shape
a future city nation
where more space is given
to a wider conversation
with a newer translation
that's truer in comparison
than any black and blue
blunt force confrontation.
Stop.

The apple sits
helpless
and waits
and once its mates
have given it up as past it's best
once the rot sets in
and it starts to lose its ripeness
that's when the aroma rises
the fruit flies arrive in droves
and they feast on what's left
as the apple dreams
of pressed cider sisters
as the flies persist
in their feast
and it sits
at its core oblivious
of the fermenting opportunity missed

They were a common or garden,
run-of-the-mill variety
of right weird bleeders.
Individually, nothing I'd not seen before.
But oh boy, together -
it was like the circus had passed through and their apprentice scheme had got left behind.
Mind you,
you could see what they were attempting,
and give them a few years
I'm sure they would figure out a style
and colour scheme
that worked.
For now,
well like I say
- right weird bleeders.

Settle down please.
Today you will be trained in Level 1 crucifixion.

First, the nail. Please pass the bag along once you have taken one nail each.

You can rely on these nails.
Each one is forged by hand, hammered out and shaped with skill.
'You can nail it with one nail,' as they say.

Nails can be used to fasten almost anything to wood. Choosing the right nail for the job can make a big difference in hold power. As there is no need to conceal the nail head and we require maximum holding power, we have chosen common nails for the job. When the nail is temporary and will be pulled out again, as with crucifixion work, we have found that a double-headed or duplex nail is the best choice. However, due to cut backs, we have reverted to the common flat headed nail.

Experience and common practice calls for driving the nail through the thinner limb into the thicker timber. For maximum holding power, the length of the nail is such that it passes almost, but not quite, through the thicker timber. 

Take a careful look at the illustrations provided. As depicted, for best results lay the condemned on the crossbeam and bind the arms in place on the timber before nailing. I refer you to your ropes and knots training last week.

One nail is sufficient for each upper limb if placed between the forearm bones above the wrist. You will find that some limbs will have been subject to a break beforehand. If this is the case, we advise that you use additional rope to bind the limb to the cross beam and that you select a site for the nail further up the arm if necessary.

Now you are ready to secure the feet. Place the feet together one over the other. Hold them in place while a colleague drives one nail through both feet. Please hold them steady and resist any attempt by the condemned to frustrate your task. Keep steady pressure on the feet while your colleague hammers the nail home.

Before lifting the crixiform into the hollow, ensure each nail has been driven in securely. Once you and your supervisor are satisfied, lift the cruciform in one swift movement ensuring the base slides neatly into the hollow. Two or possibly three of you are needed for this.

This is the greatest test for your handiwork. The impact of the timber landing at the base of the hollow will cause the body to jar under its own weight and place additional strain on the nail. In the event that a nail comes loose, you are advised to lift the cruxiform out and to use a second nail on the unsecured limb.

In most cases this will not be necessary and the condemned will hang securely long enough to allow the body to die, even if this takes several days.

Once death has been confirmed using the accepted method, lift the cruxiform down, remove the nails and inspect them for damage. If deemed reusable, rinse and dry them before storage.

If there are no questions you will now each be assigned to an experienced colleague to assist with a crucifixion. If at any time you feel that you are likely to *****, please use the bucket provided. There's no shame in this, the first time can be quite shocking; there is usually more blood flow than you initially expect. However, you will soon learn how to complete the exercise with skill and professionalism. I have complete faith in you.

Please keep your nail, you'll need it later.

I find humans fascinating.
Confusing, frustrating - yes,
but fascinating.
Take a look next time you're out.
Watch them carefully.
They are
- fascinating.

I work with a lady named Nicole
Who thought it ever so droll
To switch off her phone
When resting at home
So she never heard from a soul.

God writes straight with crooked lines.

He zigs and zags out of compassion,
out of recognition of our fragility,
our inability to walk aligned to the sun,
our preference to shun the glare of the bright
and to tolerate that light only from the gloom,
but God makes room to write straight with His crooked lines

and so He completes His story.

It's not the scale it's the detail.
It's not the breath it's the depth.
It's not about how much you gave.
It's more about how much you kept.

Did you give when you had too little to share?
Did you stop when you had no moment to spare?
Did you feel the difference to your rainyday fund?
Or did you budget to ensure there's enough to go round?

When you gave this month, did it cause you to pause?
When you stop to do more, do the angels applaud?
Have you learnt the habit of living on less?
And fostered the gift to give to excess?

All I'm suggesting is a little more thought.
Look at your spending, at what you afford.
Is there more room for a little adjustment?
Would your life be the richer with greater investment?

Next time you stop
next time you give,
is there room for some change
in the way that you live?

The lies sleep in shadows.
The lies sleep in those out the way places.
The lies sleep fitfully, studiously forgotten.
The lies sleep
lightly.

And once they stir,
twice they rise,
they yawn from beneath the bedding
and in one swift movement
they swing both feet out
onto the cold wood floor.

They refuse the hurried attempt
to bundle them back under the covers,
and they emerge from the 15.0 togged duvet
limb by long limb.
They stand, uncovered and,
keen to catch the morning light,
they pick up their waiting palette.

Undaunted by the challenge before them,
they face the twelve by twelve canvas
and with confident, sweeping arcs
create a vivid pain-scape,

their striking detail draws attention
to each scar,
to each blemish
which for so long hid, masked
by a thin white wash.

And as the lies paint their picture,
they sing.
They sing a ballad filled with beauty,
with sadness
and hope.
And, once heard, every word
becomes absorbed into each brush stroke,
bringing new depth to the colours.

As the lies paint and sing
they appear to radiate a warmth,
inexcusibly bringing new light to bear
on our carefully composed story,
a story once tailored to cover our shame,
but ill-fitting now.

As the lies paint and sing,
with an unexpected grace
their naked truth stands,
brush and palette in hand
ready for a fresh canvas.

And overwhelmed
their father walks away
looking for a fresh shadow.

I'm pottering and napping
with no space for snap chatting
I'm reading and snoozing
with no online browsing
I'm just taking downtime
some space for just me time
I'll see you tomorrow
when I emerge from my burrow

The Son of Man came to serve
to seek and to save the lost
to touch and to heal the hurt
regardless of the personal cost

The Son of Man came to embrace
the full breath of the human condition
He sat down in utter poverty
with those too used to exclusion

He walked in step with the weak
putting up with ignorant derision,
He shared His gentle wisdom
in the face of studied indifference

The Son of Man came willingly
to trek in worn, scuffed sandles
to suffer with blood blisters,
sprained ankles and tough calluses

The Son of Man suffered much
though He lived without any fault,
He was a man all too acquainted
with aches and tears and snot

He accepted all of their beatings,
the abuse, the cuts and the bruises
But at the last He was willing to gasp:
'Father, forgive my accusers.'

I can't see above the frosted glass,
but I can see the dark smokey light.
I can feel the music
beneath the rumble of generations
and I swing one foot out of time.

Once in a while the doors thud open,
with a roar of wreaking-ball laughter
and I grip my lemonade a little tighter,
happier as an outsider.

The frosted glass remains,
but it looks cleaner now.
I push the door, the same dark red,
much lighter now.

The whole place seems smaller,
less of a mystery.
I order a lemonade shady,
feeling like I don't belong,
knowing I never wanted to really.

My By Day - or my By Night -
which secret me - do you like?
Whichever you dream of,
- it's fine by me,
- my By My Self is where I'll be.

'Though one may be overpowered,
two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.'

Though one runner may stumble,
two can steady themselves.
A team of three athletes is not easily overtaken.

Though a single note may fade,
two can harmonise in concert.
A song of three chords is not quickly forgotten.

Though a regent may lose his way,
two can guide one another.
A caravan of three kings is not easily distracted.

Though a child may feel alone,
two will laugh with mischief.
A gang of three children is not quickly bored.

Though one musketeer may fall,
two can stand together.
A band of three inseparables is not easily defeated.

Though one disciple may tire,
two can support one another.
A prayer triplet is not quickly discouraged.

The authorities in Jerusalem are appealing for the public's help in locating a missing boy from Nazareth (Galilee).

Jesus bar Joseph, 12, was last seen near the Susa Gate 5 days ago. We are concerned for his welfare.
Jesus who is described as a serious boy and mature for his age, is olive skinned, 4' 8" tall, of slim to medium build with shoulder length black hair.

He is understood to be wearing a brown and tan tunic and black saddles, carrying a small satchel.
Jesus is familiar with the area around the temple mount and with the mount of olives.

His mother, Mary, says, "Jesus, if you read this, please contact us. We are not angry with you, just very anxious."

Jesus also uses the name 'Son of Man'.

getting what they think you deserve
settling for less than what's due
becoming the person you're pretending to be
rather than just being you.

making the same mistakes as me
not stopping to figure it out
not considering who you could truely be
living with much too much doubt

perhaps these words seem familiar
do you get most of my meaning?
maybe it's time to take a fresh look
and live the life you've been dreaming

Busy with colour, the fast night shouted her down and refused to listen to her protests. Still she screamed across the square, but each syllable of her pain was immediately swept away and all that the tourists noticed was a mute nightingale cruelly pigeonholed by a half forgotton song.
And still she screamed.

PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT

[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]

We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.

Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.

The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.

The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.

The pray-ers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH. 

The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt!

But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.

This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.

KNOCK

And when you pray
- ask from your heart.

And when you pray
- seek from your soul.

And when you pray
- sniff around without ceasing 
through your tears
to find the doors
to brand new frontiers
that He has prepared 
for you, His pioneers.

And then
you're ready
to knock.

Sometimes reality is just too much and I pop out for a while.
I step into a story.
I make it my own.
A space shaped just for me.

Then I expand my space to accommodate my latest imaginings.
I push, stretch, build and take new ground with every new thought, with every fresh fruit of each branch of each path.
And once I've created sufficient space, I invite my friends, my close friends, my network family to join me and to join my story and so to enjoy the strange fruit of my imaginings.

The truth is better spoken,
that's how it becomes the truth.
It's when you form the words and speak
that truth will be true to you.

Your love is better given,
that's how it shows its worth.
It's when you find someone to love
that true love will emerge.

Your life is better lived out loud,
that's how it is fulfilled.
Its when you truly live your life
that your life is truly real.

Lord, make everyone 6 years old
and while I'm being unusually bold
fill them with 6 year old wonder
and a 6 year old's hunger,
with 6 year curiosity
and a 6 year old's honesty.
Give them 6 year tenacity
and a 6 year old's capacity
for a 6 year old's need
at live at half-speed,
content to let life
be their daily delight.
Oh Lord, I ask that each of us might
keep a 6 year old's insight
and live this life
6 year old childlike.

ordinary is arbitrary
different is normal
fitting in means invisible
so avoid the conformal

distinct gets you noticed
so who wants to be equal
I'd rather be original
than anybody's sequel

you are of more value
when socially unacceptable
blending in is deadly
out of step is pref'rable

so when stuck in a crowd
decide what's more valuable
will you run with the herd
or dance to the eternal

Only 24 easy payments.
Well, actually
- 1 easy.
23 increasingly ****** difficult.

it takes an uncommon mind
an ability to think at an angle
someone who's not been a stranger
to an occasional maniacal giggle

a willingness to set your own pace
a relaxed approach to normality
if you can embrace all of this
count yourself part of the family

Forgotton memories stomped in like strangers at a funeral, uninvited and unwanted, smiling like they belonged, but no one recognised their songs. As they talked, as they drank and sang, as they told their stories they became more strangely familiar. We found their smiles infectious despite our resistance and started to recognise some of their tunes at their insistence. Faint but familiar laughter echoed from fathoms below and slowly our mourning began to losen its wet hold. Our sadness became tinged with a happiness long forgotton and scenes from years long gone rose from the bottom of our dark well of emotion, lifting our faces to the surface, giving us a glimpse of a greater hope and clearer purpose, to tell our stories, with laughs and tears finding an uncomfortable coexistence as we danced and shared this messy remembrance.

my mother has beautiful thick hair

she has dry still lips
and her chin is raised as if reaching
for that last drop of life
from an unseen glass

she has beautiful rich hair

her colours swiftly drain to grey
and to a colder pigment
but this does nothing
to dim her motherhood

my mother has beautiful thick hair
- that hasn't changed

Grateful, without a fight,
just a gentle sigh
and an answered prayer,
she stepped forward
and took the hand offered.

Go gentle, dear mother.
After your rage, after your fierce tears,
- go gentle, into that greater light.

The right way to say something
something important, something of emotion
is a gift and a craft.

The right way to tell your story
is your's to decide.

So decide.

It was a busy night with room only for small talk around the dark stained table.  She sat in half shadow, as still as bambi after the gunshot and just as alone. And they talked.

At her finger tips her glass brooded, part full of a rich emptiness and part of potential, the combination reeking of a love unexplored with a whiff of harboured regret.  They talked knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, all smiles and pork scratchings.

She sat and left her past week buried like old sorrow, glad to listen to those with less to say while despair trickled down her left cheek, unnoticed.   They talked, voices lost in the clamour of glasses and the void of wet laughter.

"You're quiet tonight, Silvi. Your Tom not around this week?"
"No, not this week."

She sat and they talked, knee to knee and miles apart.

You may know
cruise control is of no use off-road.

You need both hands
all four by four wheels
and good independent suspension
especially in your posterior region.

Cruise control is useful I suppose
when the road ahead is predictable
and you don't expect the unexpected.

It's not an option
that I've had cause to opt for,

but it's good to know it's there.

I sat, gripped
as my tears fought to tear free
from her vice-like stare
and her mother-strong hold,
each knuckle white with intent
and scabbed with rage.

I tried to prise her grip away
scared by the strength of her frail frame
but she bore down all the same
and her nails inscribed one indelible plea
for me
to stay.

Not everyone flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
you launch and take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a flyer.

Not every line flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall,
your thoughts take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a poet.

Not every prayer flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
your prayer takes flight.

Your spirit resonates with His
and you see His face.
And when you get to your 'Amen',
you see that you've got 
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a pray-er.