He walked on into his shadow
ploughing into the dust
bearing the full weight of the sun
climbing deeper, further
from the warmth, closer
to the damp where light
is a mere rumour,
a seed's blind hope.

When I create,
when I build and make,
I seek a transfiguration,
a hope-full salmon-leap
toward the new creation.

I rise and dance beyond redemption,
I reach and pour the full fruits
of God's fresh fermentation.

I embrace God's ancient intention
for us to dream with His vision
taking us toward His now and not yet
new heaven and earth re-creation.  

When I create, I'm not just fixing,
I'm building with His blessing.

Sometimes I close my eyes tighter
Sometimes I hold that breath longer
Sometimes I lose count
before I can release
and breath again.

Sometimes I close my eyes
and take my time in my darkness
and I go anywhere but here.

Sometimes,
on days like today,
I have my eyes open,
my vision light bright
my arms friend heavy,
my memories fresh made
and saved for future reference.
And I stay right here.

I've got all my ducks in a row
Turned out 1 is rubber
2 are decoys
And the other 4 are vultures
But they're definitely in a row

We are each floating, and so it is right and kind to notice and greet those floating along side us - we are each driven by the same flow to the same sea but within our own stream (some main, some minor), but all heading down and meandering, slowly slowing, unless we find resistance and find cause for rejuvenation - and of course, we do.  We all do.

Interrupted and focused
on rare lessons of life,
punctuated by the full stops,
of death and of the loss
of childhood and childish dreams.

An education in sheltering,
dodging shrapnelled questions,
in bursts of splintered lessons
in how to button down
triggered emotions.

A wartime education
with faint hope of graduation.

I'm in my grandchild's bedroom.
She's not here yet
so I get to sleep beneath
a floor to ceiling green forest
and within arms reach of shelves of fairytales
buttressed by well-read tigers,
ad I hear Sheer Khan ask me to choose
my character - the grandad I would aspire to be -
A bare necessities Baloo?
Or nearer to a prudent Bagheera?

So I ask myself,
what would Baloo do?

The choral fraternity
breathed coordinately,
perfectly quietly,
and (crucially) sequentially,
so that the consequent silences
went largely unnoticed,
fortunately.

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we disguise Him,
camouflage and mask Him -
how do you sneak Him in?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
give Him some acceptable spin?

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we conceal Him,
hide and obscure Him -
how do you slip Him past?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
keep Him from being unmasked?

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we impart Him,
stealthily bestow Him -
on those still on their search?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
and release Him back into His church?

He left me with a London Kiss
along the length of my body
deep enough to cost me
long enough to teach me to be careful
whenever I left myself exposed
and chose to be vulnerable
in this city of disputed space
and contested dreams.

He left me
poorer, but wiser.

The man of God slid through my door and up the stairs,
sliding out of his shoes to settle on the sofa,
eager to sup and to share a little cheer, a little truth,
laced with honesty and vulnerability.

He reminded me of the season and the reason we gather,
with song, with prayer, and why we rise refreshed,
ready for the Advent, for the King’s coming kingdom.

The man of God left something of Christmas in his wake
and I rose to lift seasoned cheer from my cupboard,
better ready to greet this Advent
with a strengthened smile.

Intimacy is not physicality.
Intimacy takes heartfuls of risky honesty.
Its essence is vulnerability -
an ability to offer the key to deep dignity
and entrust it by degree or in its entirety.

And listen carefully:
It's not limited to matrimony.
It's a delicacy available to anybody
and without it friendship is hollow
and fully half empty.

Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
waiting for M&S dinner.

The TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.

The toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.

The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, she can't relax,
her whining is remorseless.

Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.

Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.

Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.

Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster Tesco trolley.

For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.

Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.

Some do sing of Jesus
in half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

And there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.

But He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
And he waits for you who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Christmas can be a time
for each of us to choose -
Our Christmas King stands waiting
Will we worship Him in truth?

Today is a first draft day
With no re-write on its way
I’m at the messy stage
the unstructured phase
with a faint promise of better
or maybe just more neatly arranged.

I’m a first draft
and on days like today
I feel it.

No shadow
before light's warmth.
No sadness
before joy's kiss.
That's the way it is.

I never loved
Til I did
I never loved again
Til when I did
And then I never did again
Until maybe now
I might

so much splendor we cannot picture
waving beyond our spectrum

so many hymns we cannot hear
pitched outside our range

so much love we cannot bear
unbearably tender

but one day we’ll see more clearly
hear more keenly
and love more fully

one day …

The rabbits sit smoking their pipes
content in their shared space,
like there’s nothing that can move them
unless they acquiesce,
like they have no better things to do
than do exactly what they’re doing
and they’re doing what they do best

- contemplate the next word, the next refrain,
the next sweep of their pen, the next throw of the clay
and the colour they have chosen to inject into the next page,
the next dye, the next stitch, beat, thread, chapter, adventure
that their maker has placed in their minds eye

and it’s then that I realise that in every moment together
they’re carefully holding a myriad of holy inspirations
and contemplating their ordering
so that beauty may abound
so that their beautiful God
may breath out yet more of the Creation.

He set out the long, round table
Sufficiently spatial for a up close wedding supper
with the family reclining,
face to face, facing the King,
with room for eternity

I don’t do sides
–--- I’ve chosen my side
at least not yours
–--- and it’s not yours
They’re too far apart
–--- I choose peace
and no thread will mend
---- it’s not yours to decide
the chasm you defend
---- this choice is mine

The invisible, red chair
sat screaming, pleading, bleeding
and a priest walked past on the other side, preferring his pew.
So too, a curate saw the chair and with a moment’s pause
moved on, and unfolded a meditation stool.
Then later in the day, after many had almost seen and chose to pass,
a red-ribboned refugee stopped and saw
and she wept with the chair til sundown.

I've collated my various poetryverses on one website nottoopoetry.com

Oi! What you doin’ sat over there,
cold shoulderin’, ignorin’ your mates?
Oi! Cephas! I’m talkin’ to you.
Who you impressin’ with your pious handshakes?

Why you pretendin’? Are you forgettin?
You trying to ignore just who you are?
You sat down with Him, saw who ate with Him
You saw up close what He stood for.

You know He didn't care who’s been snipped.
You’re not closer to Him sittin’ there.
We all are equally, fully forgiven.
So ain’t it about time you just grew a pair.

Tell the truth to your chums -
Pull up a chair.

I want to live right up to when I die
and through, beyond the finish line.
Not with a gasp and an ugly stumble,
but run straight on, strong and triumphal.

I want to live right up to when I die
with au revoir and not goodbye.
I want to live with real expectation
and run on into the new creation.

There’s something pure in the dawning light
A hint of a greater, holy light
That flames and warms,
Particularly when reflected in a daughter’s eyes
Shining with perfection, reflecting
The warmth and the beauty
Found only in God’s resplendence.

A woman walks into a bar,
alone on a Friday night,
daring assumptions,
orders a pint
and gets out her book.
That's it.  There's nothing else to write.
What?  Not clichéd enough for you?

Who do you invite as a lunch time guest?
Who do you embrace, give space to?
With all due respect, do you connect?
Who do you pick for your table?

To whom do you assign more of your time?
With whom do you breakfast and banquet?
With whom do you offer good food’s aroma,
and space on a cramped picnic blanket?

Do you reach beyond your thick outer marker,
beyond your community sphere?
Do you risk the discomfort of social faux pas
or play safe and stick to your peers?

Do you feast with a loud and generous heart,
starting early and finishing late?
Do you share more of your time, taking your time,
giving with God-given grace?

With whom do you share a long, good meal?
Who are you a good friend to?
Who do you eat with, laugh and be real with?
Tell me - who do you pick for your table?

The Last Priest smiled his blessing
indiscriminately, bridging, seeding,
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

I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.

Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.

Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.

I love solos.  
The courage to stand out front, in front of those consigned to the choir, acknowledging the support they provide with a gracious wave, but not afraid to take the acclaim justly due, front stage.

I love solos.
They celebrate breakthrough, on cue drawing attention away from the typical duets, the quartets, the ensembles, tempering a tendency to celebrate humble, to focus on a singular achievement and an agreement that this is a voice worth listening to.

I love solos.
So step out, take a bow
and make it loud.

I don't do seasons.

What's the point?
Mother Nature pays no attention
anymore - no adherence
to long established norms.
Unreliable, like the rest.
Incomprehensible at best.

So why bother?
Why consider
this season's wardrobe?
Why plan life around the calendar,
when you need any-weather clothes?

So I don't do seasons.
I don't do disappointment.
I don't do expectations.
I just plan for the unplanned
and weather the summer storms.

I'm a man for no seasons.

I envy the equine fly twitch,
the contraction of muscle, the shudder
triggered by the fly’s tickle -
the irritation dispelled in a moment.
I envy that gift to dismiss the torment,
as I sit through another pointless argument.

He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 1st anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

He opened his eyes well after he woke,
not wanting his touch to be proved a lie.

So he lay still, hiding his fears behind
the pink morning glow though eye lids,
holding his excitement under her breath.

And then she moved her hand
from his arm to his cheek
and she whispered, ‘I’m still here,’

and his joy bubbled up into a grin
as his eyes gave proof to touch and sound.

I love the weight of your hands,
they leak your love
generously

I love the depth of your eyes,
they betray your heart
brilliantly

I love the strength you hide,
you lend it out
liberally

I love your slow presence,
always within reach
intimately

I love your joy and laughter,
both swamp the room
and me.

Bouncing back is a young man's game
while we put our mind to shuffling,
a little stumbling, but still climbing -
each foothold, each handhold
taking us up,
but no bouncing, just selecting
the safest, the least
arduous route back
and while we may not quickly reach
our past heights
we gain enough to preserve
our perspective
and perhaps gain a new one
while we hold on
to what we have.
But no bouncing.

So where is your peace?

Where is your place
where you face-to-face yourself
and greet your peace?

It may be found in solitude
or within stories spread long
with long-standing friends.  

It can be seated in the quiet
or threaded in your deep tread
through the roar of the pier's end.  

So, tell me, where is your peace?
And where did you last know its company?

I watch the rush of our trees,
their impatience,
their hurry ignoring seasons
running full pelt at growth
and fast forwarding their budding,
their fruit bearing,
in good time to take advantage
of the recent resurgence in the 5-a-day.

I watch and blink.

The storm was predictable,
but not as heavy as its counterparts,
and it was swiftly pushed aside
by the August sun and gusty winds.

The storm was predictable
as most are - eager,
but half-hearted
and susceptible to whim
and winds alike.

The storm was predictable,
but not as dependable as His words,
which quiet any storm,
calm any fears
and deliver us to the far shore,
ready for our next adventure,
whatever the weather.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

Rowing isn't for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.
I'd rather raise my sails,
for rowing isn’t for me.
I prefer to let the winds prevail
whether light draft or force 10 gale.
No, rowing isn’t for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.

I carry my bags beneath
my no longer baby blues,
partly framed
and closer to grey

The bags darken with their weight
and they unwittingly pull
the eye down
from the splayed crows feet

I carry my bags

I’m getting closer to someone I used to know
I’m getting within an uneasy grasp of his shadow
a recognition of him beneath the scars
trusting the healing, the tender tissue
letting me feel beyond first sight and fading sound
reaching deep down to what has always been
inside

Sometimes when I look into the storms, I see Jesus.
But sometimes I just see my fears
competing for the pleasure of being the first to swallow me.
It's typical of me to see more of the slap of the waves
hear more of the thunder clap
and miss his soft song.
It's typical of me
to stare too long into the jaws of the gale
and to miss the arms that bring calm
- to listen too intently at the fury
and miss the whisper of his promised peace
- to sail deep into the shadows of the storms,
catching the detail
and not share in the warmth of the rising sun.

Sometimes when I face the storms, I see Jesus.
Sometimes.

I can only see half your story
in the part sunken stone
in the cracked and faded words
chosen by those you loved.

I can only see in part
what was no doubt a full life
with deep loves, long summers
and shared travels ending in West 7.

I can only imagine the rest
from my cracked path’s prospect
in the silence of ancient trees,
and the laughter of early birds.

No need to thank me.
I mean, what are bullies for?

If not to force you
to face the unpalatable.
To confront you
with the cruelest kindness.

To unrelent with unfair truth
leaving you no choice,
but to fight for your life
and strengthen your defence.

What are best bullies for?
But to boost the beast
for when he's needed.

No need to thank me.
You'd do the same for me.

What remains of the day
is of greater value due to
its failure to yet emerge,
its ability to yet be known
and it's there that lies
its potential
to not fail to meet
its true potential
- unlike the past

It’s early – the dominant sun rises, giving
a growing warmth as the urgent seeds dive deep
and the faithful sower dips his head,
dips his hand on repeat and sweeps his graceful arm
away from his small stomach, from his shrinking satchel,
trusting the seed to the sun
and working his way back to the feast.

Thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Not too low
Not too high
Just the right level - enough
to warn me
to give me pause
to prompt questions
to seek answers
before I step forward
instead of bowling past,
passing through, regardless

Pain thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Too high and you'll burn, oblivious
Too low and you'll freeze
in place, never crossing over
into fuller life

Thresholds are good