Sometimes
what's offered is enough.
Sometimes
what's needed is less
than you anticipated
and you can live
with yourself after all.

The ground work
The art work
The craft work
The hard work
The life work
of a working poet
works on long after
the pen rests
and the mind drifts
to pouring wine
and making dinner
at the close of the journal
at the close of another
working day

The words dance on
The mind works on -
fermenting
gestating
wordplaying -
while the pen
and the journal
lie in waiting
ready for the release
of fresh ink
at the start
of another working day

The exchange of smiles
The greeting nodded
We return to our papers
No words needed

This is me.
Fully, and only, human -
a human conditional
on compromise,
a very human contradiction
with a human capacity
for good
or ill,
but only as far
as it is humanly
impossible for me.
And then to turn
to my maker
and leave room for Him
to make all things possible
after all.

My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better

How I wish to disappear
completely, to unplug fully,
til I shut down-deep-withdrawn
and there focus on something
that's more internal
and less commercial,
less self-evidently marketable -
something less brand
and more a brand new venture,
out of sight, of mind
and of a sense of duty
to myself,
to the me I left behind -
somewhere less,
somewhere small,
where the music inside
was clearer
and nearer
to the first bars
of the first song
when I first sang along.
Oh, how can I disappear
completely and get myself ready
for my next swan song?

Some boys know what it's like,

to have straight teeth
to have an infectious laugh
to see the girls smile
to look forward to PE
to have a blazer that fits
to feel his hair fall back into place
to raise his hand in class
to find the right words
to hand homework in on time
to be hugged by his dad at the school gate

and some boys don't.

How many anarchists does it take to change a light bulb?
You don't change it! You smash it!

How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?
Only one, but it must want to change.

How many poets does it take to change a light bulb?
Two.
One to hold the ladder.
And one to tearfully consider the transitive nature of existence compounded by the tragedy of the assumption of replacement without true celebration of the individuality found at the heart of the mass produced and the beauty that can be found in a frail light fighting against the darkness inherent in an unfair world.

Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares

God waited in my margins,
in my discomfort
of being close
to the edge of others,
and invited me to
intentionally trust
incidental strangers,
because there He resided,
in my threshold love,
in each adjoining reaction.
So I went to my margins,
to the verge of my comfort,
reached out
and got closer
to my marginal,
cross-border God
and there I found
the small moments,
the quiet places
of gentle surprise
and true challenge
that heralded adventures
beyond my ken,
outside my norm,
but within His plan
for this day.

Stop
Sit
Rest
Share bread
Drink wine
Remember together
And celebrate -
Because - I'm - coming.

I concentrate on being me,
observing attention deficit,
wanting someone else to see
the view from where I always sit.

I turn and then begin to chat
to the person that I'm facing,
surprised that from where I'm sat
I find them almost fascinating.

Very soon I realise
that the person sitting there
is seeing me with two fresh eyes,
blinking through each tear.

I left time at the door
with my shoes and my plans
and I let go of expectation.
I settled down with my mug
of concentrated calm
and I centred myself
on my mother's withered world,
while she continued to rage within.

Am I still me?
Am I still m
Am I still
Am I stil
Am I sti
Am I st
Am I s
Am I
Am
A
Am
Am I
Am I s
Am I st
Am I sti
Am I stil
Am I still
Am I still r
Am I still re
Am I still rem
Am I still reme
Am I still remem
Am I still rememb
Am I still remembe
Am I still remember
Am I still remembere
Am I still remembered?

Give a man a round tuit,
so round he can't get out of it.
Give a man a round tuit,
they'll be nothing he can't do with it.
Give a man a round tuit
with no reason for him to lounge or sit,
cos once he's got around to it
it'll be done, and that'll be it.

The full, ****** moon
didn't feel that super.
It's powers of persuasion,
the pull of its personality
had ebbed to an all time low.
Oh, how it ached to make
its return journey,
to head back to the light,
to resist the draw
of this lesser sphere
and to answer
the greater solar call.
Each crator craved
to add that greater gravity
to its own
and together give rise
to the highest tides,
to monster surfs
that would daunt
the most arrogant of Canutes.
No amount of talk of waning
would deny this moon
it's rightful place,
turning it's far, dark side
to face the warmth of the sun,
and orbiting on,
into a crescent
of nocturnal renewal.

I gazed through the window
of missed opportunity,
considering the colour
of the grass,
remaining undecided
-  as ever.
But determined all the same.

There's no app
for job satisfaction.
No app for quicker
self-realisation.
No app for joy
and love of life.
No app to avoid
struggle or strife.
No app for meaningful
inter-relation,
for self-esteem
or bond formation

These each take time -
with patient dedication,
a repeated test
of your true determination.
These take quiet
contemplation
and louder considered
conversation.
A real-time flesh
interaction,
with authentic, humble
co-operation.
I'm meaning a dangerously
high contagion
with the risk of personal dissatisfaction.
These take sustained
concentration,
a firm hand on the neck
of your current situation.
These take more
than a one day binge;
you'll need to commit
to more than a fling.
More than a lazy
swipe to your right,
more than a stand
for just one night.
These take guts
and sweat and tears,
you might even find
that some take years.
But this is life
beyond the screen,
this is how
it's always been.
So lift your head
and take a breath,
we'll stand right here
and lend our strength.
All I can promise
are tears
and laughter
and friends who'll stand
closer thereafter.

I passed a small boy named Solomon Woods
deep in thought with a book
He licked a finger, turned a page
too engrossed to give me a look

I met a young lad named Solomon Woods
humming a gentle tune
He smiled and waved, shook my hand
and wished me a good afternoon

I danced with a friend named Solomon Woods
while he sang me one of his songs
What he lacked in skill he offset with zeal
and insisted I sang along

I sat with a man named Solomon Woods
glad of his still, gentle manner
His reliable smile and kind wise words
drowned out the usual clamour

I walked with a gent named Solomon Woods
glad of his confident stride
I knew for sure he faced the world
trusting God as his strength and guide

If you meet a man named Solomon Woods
he'll certainly stop for a while
If you have the time, he'll sing you a song
and leave you with a smile

Solomon smiled,
chanced a stretch and blew
the obligatory bubble
to the captive audience.

Solomon smiled
and formed his first proverb
of the day
concerning the foolishness
of worrying about anything.

Solomon smiled,
and after some deep,
wet-fingered thoughts
concluded that both love
and money
are best held on an open hand.

Solomon smiled,
and nodded along to songs
that he'd someday pen,
content for now to test his grip
on an offered finger.

Solomon smiled,
and settled into the joy of a hug,
in the warmth of a cuddle
and promised to anyone listening
that he'd live in the moment,
so long as it was a moment
such as this.

Father God smiled,
endorsed every thought,
every word
and promised Solomon
more of the same.

The last flag flying
over the last lady singing.
The last dance ending
after a last minute warning.
The last laugh fading
from the last man standing,
at long last seeing
that it's over bar the weeping.

You don't have much time.
No one does.
Time has never been
willing to be had,
to be spent,
- squandered.

It is
and it was
and it will fully be.
While it is the dance of your heart
that is finite.
It is your breath that will one day
be spent.
And you will discover
the depth of your squander,
the extent of your last deficit,
while time will continue on
to its appointed complicity
with eternity.
And in that apt company
time will run
at the speed of the last light,
remaining exempt
from any desperate attempt
to hold it in check.

But in your allotted splinter of time
relish its flight
and the oh so magnificent sights
that life hands you
for simple delights.
And rather than raging
against the inevitable last night
you might find at last
it's alright
to let the last grains
trickle through
with a life-long, contented sigh
having found time
for each gifted
timely good-night.

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes, my indecisions, just as I bear the bruises of long gone twists and turns.

The present continues to whistle by, blinkering me from any hope of reflection, of consideration before I'm blindsided by flashes of my maybe futures.

I try not to stumble, to stay in the present and steady myself, ready for the next silent bend, trusting intuition and an all-seeing grace as life roars past me.

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes.....

Proper good
Plenty loud
Mighty big
Deeply proud

Mega fine
Shiny bright
Scary close
Family tight

I love a portrait,
how it contains a moment.
- So many layers,
of the one sitting.

I love a song,
how it resonates with each voice.
- So much eloquence,
captured within a refrain.

I love a cloud,
how it moves with such grace.
- So majestic,
weather permitting.

I love the sea,
how it takes no prisoners.
- So wild and untamed,
tethered to the moon.

I love your eyes,
how they dance with mine.
- So revealing,
laden with secrets.

I love a window,
how it changes.
- So full of life,
so far away.

Taking simple pleasures
drawn from simple things
Making simple treasures
from all that life may bring
Taking simple measures
to make me a little slim
And through whatever weather
I'll find just cause to sing

She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

She opened her eyes
smiling at the memory of what was
laughing at what had been
looking back with thanks.
And thankful, she sang
And thankful, she shouted
with echoes of healing,
of growing,
of climbing -
to the Here,
to the Now,
ready for the Next,
anticipating the Not Yet
and prepared for all that is promised.

But for now
she looked back
with thanks
and she - just - sang!

She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

The winter miracle of having enough settled with a smile next to the ample blessing of sufficiency and the happy gift of needs met. They chatted contentedly under their tailored shelter as they watched the prize of satisfaction coming up to meet them, bringing with her the familiar rumour of future plenty.
Oh, how they laughed.

Camels and kings
shepherds and sheep
come round the crib
to get a clear peep

each would recall
the smells and the sight
of God made a child
and donkey *****.

I miss his deep bellow
 from the front hall as he went out the door.
It wasn't loneliness.  It was a familiar emptiness
and he always came back.

I miss the dark grease
 on his clothes in the wash. 
It wasn't an imposition.  It was part of the routine
and it usually came out. 

I miss the dank stench
 he brought with him at the end of shift.
It wasn't much different to dad's.  It felt  right
and it didn't fill the house for long.

I miss the certainty
 that he brought with him.
But it's hardly sad. 
It's simply the end of something.
He's gone.

The corner story-yeller
held her eye to eye
and told her with a cry
"If it's worth telling,
then it's worth yelling

and if it's worth yelling,
then it's worth having
a listen.
So listen, why don't yer!
This is the moral of life:

If yer don't look after yer feet
then yer feet won't look after yoo."

And with a throaty 'harumph'
the story-yeller limped away
dismissing her audience
with a spit and a sigh
ready to launch
at the next passerby.

Make your unwanted advances
- on the ****** predators.
Place an uninvited unmistakable hand
on the casual grazers
the brokers
traders
*** negotiators
anyone who assumes
his entitlement
to sate his primal appetite
by right
anyone who
coaxes
cajoles
coerces
controls
in order to pick away
at a vulnerable soul.
Now's the time to shout
to call him out
and expose him
to unforgiving light
reversing the shame
in bare plain sight.
And there you'll find
you don't have to fight alone.
No, he'll be shown that
you were never on your own
and together
we can show society
that we stand defiantly
claiming the right
for all to live beautifully
free of each and every
pathetic
*** starved bully.
Come out now
and claim your life
and live it truely fully.

Oh I see.
The real person living
is the person that I see.
The real person living
is the friend that I need.
The real person living
is the one who pays heed
to the real person here
who's ready to believe.

May the seasoning of the season
stuff you full of all that's holy,
all that's holly
and all that's homely.
May your sudden new year
surprise you with a new sense
of living fully,
resolutely
and purposely.
And may the Christ of Christmas be present meaningfully daily.

Lost and confused,
like the first snowflake:
uncertain, but unknowingly
the harbinger of a knee deep, silent night,
the herald of a new carpet, crisp and white,
not destined for alone-ness,
but, in concert, ready to reflect
a glorious night of moonlight.

Like the first snowflake
you're destined
for something
glorious.

May you live in interesting times
May you lounge in sunnier climes
May your roads be thrilling and clear
May you always find froth on your beer
May your friends be faithful and honest
May you fulfil most your promise
May you always be singing new songs
And may you truely know you belong

A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.

Not too old to dance
Not too big to rumba
Not passing up the chance
To feel a little younger

Learning brand new steps
Hearing brand new beats
Sensing strange new rhythms
Finding both my feet

Using unused muscles
Controlling my meander
Feeling a new freedom
To release the inner dancer

Old friends say they knew
The dancer sleeping there
They recognised the steps
From long forgotten years

So whilst I can't regret
The years I waltzed around
I'm pleased to take these steps
And retake my long lost ground.

I believe baubles have way too much glitter,
That another new year won't make it all better.

I believe turkey tastes bland without stuffing,
That my secret santa was better than nothing.

That rich Christmas pud needs plenty of cream,
That thin paper hats are as cheap as they seem.

I believe parties can get out of hand,
That still silent nights need to be planned.

I believe Christmas can bring people down,
That relentless fake smiles hide many a frown.

That without the real Jesus it's a real waste of time,
That if He was here He'd call it a crime:

The way we ignore those under our feet,
The times we brush past the poor on the street.

Jesus just cries to see our behaviour,
So far from the path He set as our Saviour.

So this Christmas ask Jesus to soften your heart
He'll give you forgiveness and bring a fresh start.

You can live with new hope and sing with new meaning,
Dont waste any more time with any more dreaming.

Happy Christmas to all and to all my best wishes,
May your Christmas be more than merry wet kisses.

May the Christ of this Christmas visit this year
And give you good reason to be of good cheer.

Michael said to Gabriel
"You know the Old Man's tetchy,
have you got your **** together?
Have you got your choir ready?"

Gabriel said, "Just **** out,
have you got that star in place?
I don't see it in the sky yet, 
have you booked the allotted space?

"By the time the magi notice 
and start their journey west
the party will be over,
so I think it would be best
if you tell Him they'll come later,
that the vibe will work far better
if we go ahead with the shepherds 
and then have the kings come later."

Mickey was a little miffed,
but he knew that Gabe was right.
He'd been distracted with the detail
to ensure the star was bright.

So Mickey went and told the Boss,
"It really makes more sense,
cos once Jesus is a toddler
he'll enjoy the frankincense."

Peace broke out
with a rash of shepherds
Peace broke in
while most were asleep
Peace broke out
with a choir of angels
Peace broke in
with the bleat of sheep

Peace broke out
in a backyard stable
Peace broke in
and beggared belief
Peace broke out
in the stink of a manger
Peace broke in
with a cry of release

Peace broke out
to a child breast feeding
Peace broke in
to a mothers relief
Peace broke out
in the hearts of believers
Peace broke in
to the middle east

Peace breaks out
to those who believe him
Peace breaks in
to the hearts of the meek
Peace breaks out
here in Ealing
Jesus breaks in
as the Prince of true Peace

Like an urgent *** on a winter's day
Like an expelled guffaw as I turn away
Like a released church **** as I say the amen
Like a line of poetry as I reach for a pen
Like the first slice of steak from a full warm plate
Like a longed for kiss at the close of our date.

That's the pleasure I feel with you on the phone:
The hope, the promise, of soon being home.

No cavalry
No rescue
No care
No balm
No dressing
Just an open sore.
And salt
- lots of salt.
Where can I find refuge?
Where does my comfort lie?
Oh Father,
My shield
My strength
It's only you.

Goodwill to all
Men
Women
Children
Family
Neighbours
Those kids on the corner
Fellow commuters
That bloke
who takes my parking space
Workmates
My boss
Competing shoppers
Nodding acquaintances
The woman down the road
with the 6 dogs
Complete strangers I see each day
The family who just moved in
over the way
Refugees
wherever they are
whoever they are
whatever their origin
- to all human kind
Heaven-sent goodwill
and God's grace
to you all
by my hand
and by my voice
Raised in greeting
Raised in support
Raised in defence
All year round
and never tiring
- Merry Christmas.

Not too big to weep: A poetry anthology https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1549894706/ref=cmswremapa_8MWfAb6PF8Z0F

Oh, grant me a new song.
A start again afresh with no regrets song.
One with a bridge to a new accord,
a song with which I can get on board.
Something that strikes a stronger chord
with those who like me
long to be
fully
factory
restored.

A song with a fresher melody
(and I definitely need a different harmony),
something that's part of a wider symphony
maybe with an occasional solo part 
for me.

A song that I get to sing with gusto,
maybe to a slightly quicker tempo,
a step up from my imposed Adagio,
closer to a brisker Allegretto.

Oh Lord,
you see me.
You see that I long to sing.
Can you please
wipe me clean
and write a new song with me.

Simple isn't the same as easy.

Waiting isn't the same as staying
 awake
Hearing isn't the same as heeding
 commands
Walking isn't the same as staying
 dry
Shooting isn't the same as hitting
 your target
Advancing and isn't the same as dodging
 the bullets
Fighting isn't the same as killing
 men.

Simple isn't the same as easy.
Living isn't the same as living
 with your memories.
Dog, Easy, Fox;
an uneasy company of brothers.

Here's a favourite poem of mine:
https://m.poemhunter.com/poem/chocolate-cake/

And here's s poem of mine that it influenced:
 https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2174519/the-love-of-money/