His stillent, smally whispers ooze into my mindconscious like a dusk-sweet hotchoc,
like a mocha sunrise welcoming wide with embracements louder than fearage, not instructioning, but come in mending,
pushing enlightenmentations, praisements and incouragabilities that I inseep onto my naked black and bruises. 
I tremble-wrap his echo within my born-worn soul but he stainleaks through my weak cardio when I bumpbrush against heartbeatings as fraggi-brittle as mine also.
His hushed shade cools and breaths an enveloping:
"I understand."
And so I restilax in his softly stronging arms.

The Speakers for the Dead raise their head
and speak softly and measuredly
So to be better heeded
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead dress modestly
Not drawing attention to themselves
So that the living listening can focus
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead inform themselves
Of all aspects of the life of the dead
So not to drift into speculation
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead aqaint themselves
With local language and idiom
So no misunderstanding should arise
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead
Ensure that we can be heard
By the living and the deaf
And so to ensure that the dead can be answered.

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

"Come!", and again we say, "come to the Kingdom":
The Lion of Judah has triumphed,
The Lamb of God is encircled
With the mighty voices of his angels
With the floods of tears of his saints
With the climbing praises of his people
With the rainbow prayers of the nations.

Every creature sings, "Come".
Every angel shouts, "Come".
To He who is enthroned,
To He who is King,
To He who reigns forever.
This is His promised Kingdom Come
Sign-posted, sealed and now delivered
To you.
"Come."

Step over the threshold
And through the front hall
Full of shoes and possibilities.
Come to a kitchen table
Able to shed the cold
And unroll your soul
Against it's worn and warm knots,
Flavoured with cookies and coffee mugs
And echoes of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.
Let the love that pools here soak
Into your marrow
Put aside tomorrow
And so launder your heart clean of fear.
Our home is your home,
Come pull up your chair.

My debt-ridden past,
More than I asked.

The transactional present
Less pleasure, more torment.

An easy-payments future
More payments not fewer.

So many give-aways
At a price I can never pay.

It's new-consumerism
With the soft bite of fascism.
And I'm badly infected now.

God of mystery?
I don't think so!

A God who
Embraces
A transformer
Defender
Affirmer
Way clearer
Stand by you whatever-er.

A God who
Endures
A giver
Kisser
Hugger
Commender
Showing favour no matter-er

A God who
Comforts
A deliverer
Protector
Forgiver
Builder-upper-er
Never put downer.

A God who's
Proud of each of yer
His followers.

Step over the threshold
And explore the front hall
Full of possibilities and shoes.
Let me lead you into a kitchen where
You can meet the family
and greet the mutt too.

It's warm and smells
Of cookies and coffee mugs
Of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.

Let the pool of love
That regularly floods here
Soak into your bones
And so wash out your fear.

Our home is your home,
Come pull up a chair.

A crack of hope through the gap
Telling me to hold on,
Nudging me to knock on the door
And so to be let in
To his arms-open-wide
"Welcome-home!" embrace.
Putting darkness behind
And reaching just a little more
To ensure I cross the threshold
And get to be held longer in his arms
So that I might laugh and sing
At last bringing peace and rest
To this troubled mess of a heart and soul.
 --- I'm home.

A lack of foresight with
A limitation of imagination.
An aptitude for apathy and
An inability to emote.
An incapacity for chat as well as
An impatience for punchlines.
A distrust of discordance shackled with
A flair for unforeseen offence.

Alone
And a knack for nothing else.
Here I can relax.

Sometimes biiig
Arms-open
Welcoming

Ocassionally cold
Camera-quick
Calculating

Now urgent
And a mile wide
But always far
From his cobalt-blue eyes.

Lord, depose our Apollo,
Be our true Lord of Poetry
And so give us poetic licence
To fulfil,
To craft,
To create
With a God given palette
In your own imagery.

Blaze a trail from your heart
To the spirits of men,
Taking captives and setting them free
To feast on your words of life,
To move to your music of love,
To emerse into an eternity of dance,
To celebrate and so to reflect
Your devine Artisan Soul.

'Under God' is no longer comfortable.
How can it be, with the company?
Spiritual Laws cannot precis
morality with integrity.
Sunday Prayers can't contain
all the complexities
of humanity's
Spirituality.

The tolls imposed
on primary roads to righteousness
cause an exodus
to less exclusive paths
where a moral minority
seek a more patient deity.

As I mature
I'm getting so much better
at distinguishing
between the inspired ideas
and the drug-induced ones.

If only politicians could do the same.

Writing my autobiography
under a pseudonym

Feet flat, knees level, he takes the position:
wrists and forearms relaxed
and shoulders loose.
He begins with a quick combination,
flying like darts from his fingers,
while looking for advantage.
More alert now, he ignores obvious feints
and scrolls swiftly down,
shifting his stance to maintain balance.
He considers his strategy - and then,
sweeping away block-proof pretenders,
focused on his target,
he exhales and executes a precise killer 'CLICK'.
Smiling, he takes a well-earned bow
to sup his scalding coffee.
He's a Google-jitsu,
early-morning Master;
know him and fear him.

There was a young woman from Richmond
Who dreamt of playing James Bond
She posed in her mirror
With the look of a killer
While her baby just giggled and yawned

Storm-stilling fury and wreaking ball laughter
Lie still now,
Encased in his pale, goliath frame.

Harbouring agony rather than giving an inch,
He faded a morphine-dose further,
Withdrawing himself as only a father can,
And made his last withdrawal.
Finally releasing me
to follow no model but my own.

We're the New Levites:

We're the early risers and cable layers,
sound checkers and coffee makers.

We're the greeters, the good to see-yers,
the washer-uppers, the kids' teachers.

We qualify by turning up,
with willing hands and open hearts.

We're the New Levites and refuse no-one
so step up today, the rota's open.

Arthur met a confounding god today.
A maze of a god,
with Arthur in the middle.

A god not hemmed in by history,
not bound within Arthur's worn, white bible;
beyond understanding, as promised.

Arthur met a god outside
his tarnished creed,
a god too slippery for certainty.
An untidy, script-ripping god.
A god who hovered beyond
the borders.

Not a guiding light, but a blinding night.
And blind, Arthur recognised little through his tears,
as his father slipped away,
as promised.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 
sacrificially.

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

I wasn't flirting,
I was simply being polite,
Is that so unusual?
Can't a guy hold a door,
Offer a seat,
Give a compliment,
Smile with warmth,
Give a hug,
Kiss a cheek,
Hold a hand,
Walk arm in arm,
Buy dinner,
Have a few drinks,
Go back to her place,
Massage her feet,
Fool around a little,
Stay the night,
Enjoy a lingering brunch,
- without it being made into such big deal?
Women! They blow things out of all proportion.

O Lord, my Saviour, my spirit rejoices in you, for you....
-
Oh, Jesus. This isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
Oh, my son, my child, my beloved child
- now my Saviour.
My whole being worships you, and yet
in my heart I still treasure those times when it was just you
and me.
Holding you close,
hearing your first words,
shepherding you
as you took your first steps,
watching over you,
binding your first scrapes - you were sooo adventurous;
it was always a challenge keeping you out of your father's workshop.
-
And now you watch over me.
-
-
Jesus, my heart still aches
when I recall your body arched
in pain, bleeding.
Your cries still haunt me.
It's hard to shake the image
of your lifeless body
wrapped in cloth and lying
- in a tomb.
-
Forgive me, dear son;
I almost lost my mind with grief.
I was blinded with my tears,
and in my fear
I didn't understand.
All I could feel
was the sword
piecing my very soul,
just as old Simeon promised.
-
And then,
when I saw you again,
whole, restored....
Oh how I loved to see that smile again, to feel
your arms around me once more, to hear
your laughter, to draw in
your warmth as we shared a meal,
just like we used to.
-
But you were taken again so soon.
-
I know you had to go, but
oh, how I missed you.
-
(Deep breath)
-
But I'll tell your story
- so many want to hear my story.
The boys promise to write it down,
but I'll still tell. It thrills me every time I tell it,
for how can written words capture you, your love, your presence.
-
-
You spoke of a gift.
Well, as you probably know, it arrived
right on time.
You said that if we waited here in Jerusalem,
we would be bathed in YOUR Holy Spirit.
And now I see.
I almost weep with joy when I hear
young John and the rest of your friends
speaking in your name.
-
I recognise your voice, you see,
I recognise your heart,
in their words.
It's -
it's just like you're still here.
Thank you for not leaving your old mum alone.
I'll see you soon,
my Jesus.

In the beginning, John revealed the light
and said, "Let men repent."
And John's Aunt Mary saw that was good.
-
And John declared to the crowds, "Behold
Sin is taken away by the Lamb of God."
And there was water
and over the water there was the Spirit
hovering;
heaven tore down, and Mary saw
that this was God.
And God was well pleased.
-
Then
Jesus called Andrew
Andrew called Simon
Jesus called Simon, Peter.
And there was evening and there was morning, a very full First Day.
-
Jesus called, "Follow me, Philip".
Philip saw the Law and the Prophets fulfilled.
Philip called Nathaniel
and after a bout of doubt
and a lesson routed in a fig tree
Nathaniel came to see
a teacher and his God and his King.
-
And there was faith
and the promise of a great adventure.
More than enough for the Second Day.
-
-
There was a wedding in Cana
and Mary nudged her son:
'The wine has finished
This - is - not - good.'
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'.
-
And Mary said
'Listen to your mother.'
-
And Jesus sighed.
-
And Mary told the servants,
"Do whatever he tells you."
-
Then Jesus saw that it was no use to argue.
And he said, "let there be water".
And they rolled across the stone jars in front of him.
-
And Jesus said, "let there be wine".
And it was so - very - good.
-
And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this,
and whispered to Jesus:
'This just the start you know.'
And he did,
and it was.
-
And there was a Mother's faith
and there were gallons of glorious wine.
And Mary kept on smiling, so proud of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom
with this original third day, rolled-stone, miracle.
-
And there was a party,
and singing
and there was much laughter,
and the Son danced
with his mother through the night.
-
There was evening and there was morning,
a Fine Third Day.

A kiss takes a moment while hugs keep giving wraparound comfort and room to weep in your sleep when spooning as a means to keep skin to skin tenderness in the state of undress exposing vunerableness sighing long and deep and long and deep with contented peace whispering sweet somethings and never having to release
and to kiss
goodbye.

There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;

legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.

Why so smug?
Seems those pygmy dreams
bore fruit long before
you left safe harbour.

Come back home
once you have defeated
land-locked fear,
hurdled every heaving horizon
and found the stars.

Come back and show me
your war torn scars
and deep wild bruises.
Show me a worn down ego
and weathered soul.

Then you can boldly enter
eternal harbour.

All those distant dying stars,
all his aging battle scars;
their blemished pasts still with him,
slowly, bitterly, fading,
and each discharging one persistent question:
'Any regrets?'

I aspire for the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring.
Ambition to realise her passion:
providing
serving
loving
learning
teaching
and persisting all hours
with no reflection on reward
but for the pleasure of the pursuit
of her God-given trust
- and so to serve royals
and her King
with contentment.
Then uniting with Him after a life well lived,
with lives better lived for knowing her.

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
Is Greek needed
to depict God’s vision?

Can repositioned prepositions
confuse the divine?

Will mislaid iotas
smear godly wisdom?

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
The Truth’s been guarded
regardless.

Repositioned prepositions,
jots and iotas
all serve to convey sacred wisdom.

Shielded in Met. blue
I shoulder my silver numbers:
a Papa-Lima protector
on south-east London streets.
Riding shotgun and
fueled by adolescent adrenaline,
I scan the A-to-Z grids
for grateful victims,  
and bury my delinquent doubt
beneath the cool blue strobe.
-
I'm a juvenile constable,
thoughtlessly abandoned
to law's sanction
to bully, to bruise,
and perhaps to scar
for good.

Thank you for preachers
and Sunday school teachers
for childhood friends
and for youth leaders

for Christian Endeavour
and Boys Brigade
for holiday club
and weekends away

for memory verses,
for hymns and for choruses
Thank you for songs
that set out your stories

Thank you for pastors
showing compassion
Thanks for memories
that still give direction

Thank you for roots
secured in your Word
I rely on them still
to provide daily food.

Thank you Lord Jesus
for building in me
a strong foundation
that helps me stay free.

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold.
He stirs in me
in more ways than one, wonder.
I gaze into his face
and I can gauge his grace
in the way his body moves
with mine and by how
he embraces me bone and soul.
His gentle, generous whispers
infuse within me as he strokes
my spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed
in gifted innocence as I’m sated
by his thick milk and the sweet fruit of his vine.
- - Together, we sway
to slow angel-song
and he tutors me in timeless arts,
teaching me sweeping steps
and arousing in me
ancient senses. 
And so, hand in hand
I’m released,
liberated to know him
and to run with him
and to dance in step
- for – an - eternity.

No climate
No seasons
No expectations
No turn or tide
Just what the weather decides
To bring to my garden.
Get used to the change -
This is Kent, the Garden of England.

The grieving wind led our solemn steps,
and screamed through the ranks of sodden planks,
each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
fervently recalling local lives lost.

We trudged over those memorial boards,
sponsored grief borne by each grain,
as again salt dripped into the Mouth of the Severn.

At the pier head our tears contested
the callous grey waves
and lost
again.

And the Prophet stood before the people
(in his polo shirt and straight slim jeans)
And spoke, (and laughed, and sang)
and shared some of their Father’s dreams

“Step out and be unspectacular
Leave the weird behind
God selects right royal mess-ups
And then renews their minds

“Think God-thoughts, glimpse your destiny
But be willing to get it wrong
Father rewards the risk takers
Not those wanting perfection

“The Spirit searches all things
Even the deep thoughts of God
And we can grasp what God is saying
Because we have the Spirit of God”

Come, we have a guest room
where you can recline with your servant king.
He will bathe your sore, dusty feet;
and you can rest.

Come, commune; join his other friends
and together break bread,
give thanks, sing hymns
and toast the coming Kingdom.

Come to the table with honest hearts.
Come, and in his presence find mercy,
find forgiveness and new purpose.

Come, celebrate the covenant
that confers on us a Kingdom,
bought by the blood
of the one who came to serve.

Do this in remembrance.
Do this with eagerness.
And when you pray say,
'Thy Kingdom Come'.

I believe in one church.
I believe in an inter-racial and unbiased church of many nations.
I believe in one church of many traditions.
I believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

I believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
I believe in God-given racial difference.
I believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
I believe in Christ’s one church that reflects our maker's love of difference.

I do not believe in uniformity.

I believe in the Christ’s common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
I believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called by Christ to serve one God together, saved by His one sacrifice once and for all time.
I believe in the promise of one resurrected church drawn from all nations, from every generation to meet her bridegroom, Jesus Christ.
I believe in one eternal wedding feast at a table prepared by God which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.
I believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so all his people can come and dwell together.

I believe in God's Kingdom come.

In London
there’s a game of chess
with all the pieces white.
The board’s perfectly circular
and tilted to the right.

The grandmasters use strategies
that no-one’s ever tried.
They change their mind constantly,
but never break their stride.

Now, it's not the place for a pawn
to question that last move,
but I cannot help but think
I’m going to get *******.

Have I loved enough,
Have I denied myself?
Have I ducked the responsibility
That comes with so much grace?
Is mine a cost worth counting?
Is mine a cross worth lifting?
Have I reduced my discipleship
To a too comfortable pace?

Lord, I'm tired of this highway
With its crowded lanes and tolls to pay.
Let me live your love without speed limits
Along your narrow way.

Skin deep scars were easy to shoulder,
while the deeper ones each hardened my heart.
Life-long wounds still wept and smouldered,
carving permanent paths.

Hidden cuts wouldn't stop itching,
and beneath my smile shadows kept screaming.
Treacherous memories would sting
and bite right through my once thick skin
then slowly burrow, refusing to die,
spreading their cured lies ...

The scars are mine, the wounds are real,
the memories are with me, still
I was the haunted boy, the wild child.
I was the son loved, beaten, reviled.  
I was the dreamer. I was the drama.
I was the fiction that made me me......
--
That was then, but now see,
I have a new writing team,
a change in narrative, a brand new me,
a departure from my past continuity.

Now I have a team-up.
Now I have back-up.
And in this story arch,
I get a power-up,
one new ability:
His power to HEAL ME!

An outstanding old fool,
bulletproof from experience
and too old to die,
qualifies for life-time achievement
by virtue of his still beating heart
and stubborn, winning smile.

Later his tired talent lingers
in the executive departure lounge,
and watches fading reflections of past retrospectives.
leaving him to flee solo on a gulf-stream
over old territory littered with mottled headstones
of honours and moments past;
like rivals once luvved and soon forgotten
through fame and affluence.

The years stung with field gun smoke,
as the stench of accusations hung
among the aging towers of power.
Stark whistles pierced the mourning air
bringing tears to eyes spared any true battle.
And after a respectful silence, sodden with sacrifice,
the drizzled grandchildren turned away
for a Starbucked start of a brand new day.

On a late train
in the last carriage
within my hallowed silence,
I found a gentle rock of peace,
when a burst of blue laughter ricocheted
and pierced my hazy bubble,
killing any hope of snatched sleep.

Love me a wisper louder,
hold me a squeeze tighter,
and kiss me with care.
Tread tenderly and
listen liberally
for tonight I need you to lavish
wrap-around comfort
and to let me fall apart a little more
in your tear stained arms