Is it as I get older that I become less sure,
more inclined to explore,
looking for words that better call
for open minds and open hands
– letting our stones fall
to give room for embrace.

Is it as I get older that I sadden
at the confidence (arrogance?) of those
who fashion words as weapons
who channel living streams into moats
with no thought to building boats
with all efforts on draw-bridge defenses
less our certainties be conquered
by those with much bigger shields
and sharper swords.

Is it as I get older that my bent prayers
creak louder and are prone to deeper pain
and I better appreciate why Jesus barely contained
his despair at ill-disciplined disciples
and the divergence of their words and actions
because I am Peter and John – I run
with more questions than answers
but with tears at how he manages
to love me after all.

The bigger my heart,
the greater I hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I think.

The greater my reach
the more I need grounding.

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

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the harder I weep.

Can a mailbox truly expire
or does it simply get archived?

Can a text really be deleted
or does it move to another folder?

Can I simply log off and shut down
or do I remain partially connected?

When I manage to restart
I hope I retain some memory.

‘Once upon a time’ -
that’s not the first line
not the start of this plot
it’s not where we start

no smart-talking mirror
no scheming stepmother
no frog in a pond
no magical wand

‘In the beginning’
and again
‘In the beginning’
That’s the story we’ve got -
us and our God

the ground beneath my feet
soft grass that’s fresh with dew
cold with deeper warmth

the air that I breath
fresh breeze warming inside
rising to long strength

the hope within my dreams
wide and filling my morning
building fresh foundations

what could be harder
getting up before the dawn
beating a lone path

climbing into your cold cab

what could be cooler
sitting high above the snow
clearing a shared path

I miss my little brother. Especially at harvest. He was a hard worker – strong back and long reach. The kind of brother you want around.

‘Course, there was much more to him than strength and size. His art demonstrates that. He used to love experimenting with oils in his down time and had a knack for vivid battle scenes.

They say you paint what you know and not a year went by when he wasn’t called up for service. They would come to the farm to say the king needed him, and there was no refusing that call.

What he saw on the front line haunted him. So much was expected of him of course, but I think we overestimated his ability to cope with the ordeal of combat. Folk mistook his stature for a propensity for violence that needed release. We knew different. He was happier in the fields.  

I heard dad talking with him while he painted. It was clear my brother knew the value of a champion. The lives saved. The men who got to go back to their farms and families. The gods had gifted him, dad said. But when I see his canvases, that’s where I see the gift. Lasting reminders of the trauma that lesser men can wrought. Reminders of the suffering one man can save us from.

I miss Goliath.

He was there, just where you wouldn’t expect him – typical Jesus. There he was selling the Big Issue while chatting with mates. I was just walking round to Sainsbury’s to pick up some milk.
I couldn’t stop, I had to get back for my 2 o’clock.
If I’d known he’d be there I’m not sure what I would have done – maybe gone the other way. You know what it’s like, you just want to get on, but he has this way of getting you to slow down. It just takes up your time.
So there he was. He knew I’d seen him, even though I kept my head down and kept walking, checking I had a carrier. It really bugs me when I forget and I need to decide whether to buy another bag for life or act casual with a two pint-er hanging from a finger, despite the numbing cold. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or guilty that he didn’t call out. I could see he was busy. It’s no big deal.  We’d catch up another time.  
As I queued for the self-service, I wondered if he’d still be there, and if he was, would it be impolite to just nod and keep walking. I had that meeting. I’d said I’d be back in time. And I really wanted to have enough leeway to make a cup of tea and get my head in the right space.
I was just thinking through my options when he popped up beside me as I swiped my nectar card. ‘Hey, matey,’ he smiled. ‘Can I walk with you? I know it’s a working day, so I won’t slow you down.’
I felt like he’d read my mind – maybe he had.  I made a neutral sound, something like a casual agreement and we walked. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t end up taking all afternoon, so I thought I’d best say nothing.  
He kept his word and didn't slow me down. We walked and he talked about the stabbing. Everyone was. Noone I knew. A guy in his thirties just outside Sainsbury’s. He had walked to the Grosvenor, and they tried to help but it was too late for him. The police camped out all the following day.
I nodded, not seeing the point of adding anything. Like I said, it wasn’t like I knew him.
When we got to the corner, where the police tape still floated attached to the lamppost, he took my shoulder and made me pause. Then he gave me a hug.
You know his hugs – like warm memory foam. I really needed to get back for that call, but instead I stood and sobbed, like he knew I needed to.
Blast. That really messed up my plans for the afternoon.

Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that slow and speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap and climb
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that fully embody
Lines that wholly embed
Hope

“You’re big and ugly enough,” he did mean it kindly
as he passed me a wrench and continued to guide me.

“You’re big enough and ugly enough, to handle this truth.  
It’s now time that you learned that it’s just what we do.
We take on the rough along with the smooth.
You will learn that the world expects this of you.”

And so, year upon year I took on rough truths,
until cold battered hands were no longer smooth.
I grasped the sharp nettles, and I braced for disputes
until strong opposition conceded to move.

I ignored muscle pains and maintained my strong grip,
all the more tighter when I felt my hands slip.
Through gritted cracked teeth, expletives might slip
but I beat mounting odds with dull cries of relief.

Now a few decades on, I’m still big and I’m ugly,
but I’ve got a light touch for words that hold beauty.
There’s a time for raw strength but space for what’s lovely
and the lovely gives strength to meet daily duties.

My dad did mean well when he passed on his insights,
but there’s much more to my strength than winning each fight.
I’m no longer a big, ugly stereotype -
The best part of me can be found when I write.

Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.

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

No mind left behind
No-one left deprived
Of love and joy and song
And knowing we belong

When bad motives are assigned to your art
When you're perceived as trouble in the making
When your audacious is seen as disruptive
That's when you smile and keep on writing
[painting, making, drawing, singing...]

I am a poet
Anything that you tell me
May become Haiku

"What have you got there?"

"A few particles of joy and this.  I found it hidden when I last looked in my quiet."

He opened his hand tentatively, not sure if it was safe to do so. He had unknowing saved a small remnant of his original soul.

We looked at the torn corner resting in his palm. It was more than anyone could have hoped for for someone who had remained in London.

"How have you kept hold of that?"

"I'm not sure. It might be from my old prayers. I thought it had been used up years ago. Is it worth anything?"

"It just might be worth everything."

We’re told to watch the body language
that it may be subtle
and difficult to decipher.

But in the right hands
it cries out in its fluency
it sings in its inflections.

In the right company
you can’t tear your eyes away
from the clear meaning.


We’re told to watch the body language
so we watch his hands, his feet
each pierced to make a point.

We watch the words hanging there,
terrible in their eloquence
accentuated by His sacrifice.


We’re told to watch the body language
because in the right hands
actions speak so much louder than words.

And His can still be heard.

I laugh at the young light
and gift colour full rein
cover the ground at speed
flex the holy spectrum
into deep infernal textures
boldly release hinted hues
hidden to the casual eye
stroke my rivals into life
created at the break of day
capture unnatural advantage
in this leg of the human race
to reach God's rest
at the creation's edge

The men of God met together
early in the morning
Would 4 dozen eggs stretch?

The men of God cooked together
early in the morning
Would Pyrex or Crackpot be best?

The men of God planned together
early in the morning
Would Barney remember the chives?

The men of God sat together
early in the morning
Would Logan allow open fires?

The men of God prayed together
early in the morning.
Would Jesus prefer bread and fish?

The men of God laughed together
early in the morning
Could anything ever beat this?

The Last Priest smiled his blessings
indiscriminately, bridging,
building a new priesthood
beyond borders, across tribes
ignoring gender, discounting class
blind to race, snubbing rank,
denying privilege and preferring
a new holy nationality
for refugees, for stateless souls
like mine
- like ours

Which road did you take?
Emmaus or Damascus?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

What brought you here?
Breadcrumbs or beacon?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

What meal did you share?
Flat bread or feast?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

It's the one you meet.
Not how you meet him.

Jack of all trades,
master of none,
but oftentimes better
than master of one.

That bumper sticker
is only two lines away
from found poetry

Rosa Isabelle is a splendid sixpence,
Shining silver, bright and smooth,
Rosa reflects love, joy and the pride
Felt by family between budding and bloom

Parenting is a statement
of belief
in our future
in our potential
in our intent
to grow
and to change.

Parenting is a statement
of faith.

You glance up once again
from the rediscovered photo,
sellotape stained and saved
for this future finding.

You hold me yet again in
the honesty of your peaceful smile,
in that shared perfect moment
catching us all unaware.

But that was just before our fall
into confusion, into the fog
that suddenly enveloped you
and robbed us all completely.

But now you return to mind
and I can return your smile
once again.

When fighting your monsters
- watch yourself
less you become monstrous.

When fighting your monsters
- watch yourself
and arm yourself with virtue.

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

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

Little lies.
Purposeless perhaps.
Arguably with little effect,
but nevertheless, flowing
off the tongue and keypad
with little thought.
Born of habit.
Born of a child's need
to be on the front foot.

Little lies,
building up into a facade
behind which I hide
my ineptitude.

I wanna that moment of rhythm in an embrace.

I wanna those few steps across the floor
in the arms of someone who loves me,
accepts me, doesn’t want to change me,
can’t wait to see me, and see me grow,
hear me sing and laugh and dance,
someone to join my song,
someone to follow and lead me
across the uncharted floor into hope
and the joy that’s found by two hands
clasped in the dance.

I wanna that.

[not Walt Whitman]

Begin with questions
Lead with both ears
Dig for honesty
Don’t freak out at tears

Listen for the truth
Seek the 360
Never assume
Don’t judge so quickly

He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves.  So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass.  That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him.  Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay?  You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell.  It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend.  Bring him some water.  Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.

You can only weigh the smoke
after the ashes.

You can only measure the man
after the tears.

There's a home I know where you'll find a hallway
Full of shoes and possibilities.
And an at-the-door a greeting leading to a family
Of amazing abilities, excelling in humility
Which I think is key to the near lack of hostilities
(given the number of siblings).

There's a home I know, crammed full of creativity
Exhibiting an intensity of ability
To fill the week's itinerary with spirit-led opportunities
To reflect their creator-charged curiosities
Feeding into gifted virtuosities
And long stretches of physical activities.

For example: you can taste it in the culinary.
Sense it in the musicality.
Hear it in the scratch of poetry.
See it in the smiles of story.
In the sighs of reading deeply.
In the care of cutting edge art creatively.
In the assists that deliver with accuracy.
In the allotment, tending their nursery.

You can see it in the inter-connecting
Found in faithfully praying
Hands holding, heads bowing,
Tears intersecting while seeking
The Father's counselling
And while boldly telling
Of the sudden joys and blessings
Encountered in everyday living.

Here's a family I call family
Who quietly live passionately
With no apology for the sincerity
Of their love and their daily seeking
Of their Father's leading.

Here's a family living godlily
Pointing to a greater glory
With the church-wide family
Where we'll all be feasting
At the great family wedding
Eternally.

Still yourself. And this time
look the poem straight in the eyes.
Don't let it stare you down.
Face its challenge head on.

Show respect, yes. But show no fear.
Still yourself, calm yourself
and offer yourself as a friend.
Give it time to close the distance,

watch how it softens under your focus.
Slow your breath, synchronise
and only then - gently, patiently
reach out and let it engage.

Let it come to you.
Still yourself in its majesty,
it may surprise you.

Searching for a piece of the puzzle
Pondering the last cryptic clue
Rethinking your intended tactics
Selecting the right block to remove

Whatever choice you're facing
Whatever age you are
Remember that it's just for fun
She's still your sweet old grandma

God came in three –
they set aside time and space
for collaborative creativity

God came in three -
and in that 'us', 'our' and 'we'
they metaphor’d mutuality

God came in three -
advocated once and for all
a celebration of plurality

God came in three -
illustrated that all families
are a godly thingamy

God came in three -
they invited us, you and me
to join them for eternity

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the aroma,
the touch of love,
the echo of hearts
that rise to adore.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the savour,
the weight of feast,
the press of voices
that sing with laughter.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise Christmas
within the heat,
the fire and glory
of Christ's forgiveness.

Children understand Christmas.
Look to them.

Can soft and quiet sing loud and strong?
Can self-possessed burn hot lifelong?

Can serious hearts giggle delight?
Can gentle spirits fight for right?

Can loving souls know good anger?
Can wind-filled sails stow good anchor?

They not only can, but will again.
I've seen it within the clan Del Ben.

This month I call you Saviour.

Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.

But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity.

This month I address
my Hosannas to you,
my divine infant Saviour.

I had mistaken the embers for ashes.
I passed by, blind to the fire,
betraying the flames
and leaving the phoenix
for a more prescient pilgrim.

It was the first minutes of the morning after.  
The feast of Stephen boldly trod across the threshold
and waded through the leftovers
of Christmas delights and indulgences,
the echoes of family festivities,
and the discarded wrapping
still clinging to twists of Sellotape.  

The delights repeated,
the echoes faded
and all the discarded
lay deep and crisp and uneven,
even as we followed the heat
of the good King's steps,
into the cruel cold,
seeking the blessing of fresh fuel
for the wider feast ahead.

Always think before you move
This is no composition
Analyse
Strategise
Then move in combination

Always think before you move
Protecting your advantage
Concentrate
Evaluate
Take none of this for granted

Always think before you move
Always protect your king
Watch your flanks
Plan your attack
Push until you win

Then I woke

   The dream died
   like the faded marrow ache
   once the door closes
   and the fire invades
   to rekindle the embers within.

and my eyes adjusted to the light.

Can we skip the bit where I'm not sure what it is you feel
where I wonder if the feeling that I'm feeling could possibly be real
where I’m asking whether someone as amazing as you could be feeling it too?

Can we dispense with the fear that what appears to be actually here is
a figment, a fiction based on a misread permission
a tarnished mirror hiding 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
to reach across a within-our-reach shared space?

Can we stay in this moment for as long as this path takes us
from our past on into a future without masks
to where we nurture each other onto greater and to deeper?

Can we do that?

Herbie ain’t no herbivore
He’s more of a feasting guy
His taste buds are testy
His jaws are real itchy
For a succulent turkey thigh

No, Herbie is no herbivore
And when he’s in the kitchen
He’ll alway stay focused
Ready to show us
Food is much more than nutrition

Herbie is no herbivore
There’s more to life than greens
But it shouldn’t be said
That his mum and his dad
Haven’t taught him to love chilli beans

Herbie is no herbivore
This Christmas there'll be no doubt
He’ll feast like a prince
On pies filled with mince
And turkey and maybe a sprout

But are we the rabbit
Or are we the magician?

Oh, no, my dear
You've misunderstood.
We're the hat!
And there're many more wonders within!

Treacle-ly can be nice
Treacle-ly will be sweet
But never when making decisions
Don't treacle when we meet

When does a gift given become a gift received?
If a gift is not accepted, is it a gift indeed?
If a gift is left unopened is the gifting actually achieved?

(Is a gift not a gift if it is rejected?
Does it lose its giftedness when refused or neglected?)

Does the gift itself retain some kinetic gifted energy?
Or does it need the active catalyst of reception
to truly be the gift that its giver intends it to be?

This Christmas be sure to accept your full responsibility
to receive with a fully open heart as well as open hands
this gift I give to you from me.

(I've left the receipt in the bag.)

No, I'm not hungry.
But my taste buds are testy
for tasty
My jaw is itchy
for chewy
My nose is tingly
for the aromatherapy
of rich and meaty

No, I'm not hungry.
But my stomach aches
for feasty.