You might be
blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Instagraming, Messaging
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
or good old fashioned
rambling Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again and again
the might of your words
over any old persitent swords.
Words of love over words of hate.
That's right - words that reconciliate.
Ignore the can'ts, hear the cans
Hash-tag: 'wordsaremightierthan'.
Facing those fears,
shouting through tears.
Redeeming the years
thought lost in arrears.
Letting them know
you're letting them go
and no longer able
to live with old labels.
Finding the roar
to voice who you are.
Finding the words
to blunt those old swords.
Thumbs at the ready,
hands nice and steady.
You're free men and women,
with a brand new beginning.

Blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Face-timing, Instagraming,
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
Messaging, Pinteresting
or good old fashioned
contemplative Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again
the might of the word
over the keenest, lunging sword.

Like-minded
Christ-minded
Like-Christ-minded
(Not small-minded)

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.

I grin my stupid grin, noting the green flecks and the hard to get at strands of meat, relishing the deep booth, the just loud enough too loud music, the familiar smile dishing out the platters, the laughter of being the first to the shake and squeeze of the red not quite ketchup between my hands, the almost fit of the dripping burger in my mouth, leaving a lick of a stain on my lower lip and a longer lasting comfort blanket layered in my stomach from that meal and a half, once in a while treat of my family, sandwiched together and perfectly reflected in the wall mirror.

A slow English Sunday must include
a brewing *** of Darjeeling tea,
hot toast with Anchor butter
and plenty of smoked Danish bacon.
Oh, yes - and Heinz tomato ketchup.
It makes you proud of your heritage.

Like a piece of my jigsaw
Like a block from my jenga
Like a bridge for my song
Like a love forgone

You are missing from me

I miss my mother most
when I'm in her frenetic company.
Such an angry fragile woman
in the shadow of the mum
she used to be.
Lost and alone, wanting a way home,
one woman against the world
with no old friends
only fresh new foes.

She can identify every shifting lie
sitting scared with no escape
from a hundred shifty eyes.
Stalkers criticise every mistake
watching her practice looping moves
cornering her as if to prove
that we're all conspiring
each trying to rob her
when the screaming truth here
is that her fleeting thoughts
have already gone where
we can never walk
not even in our tears.

the colour of the place
is what I remember
the scent of the laughter
the echo of the sweet wine
on the green
on your breath
in that long moment in time
and whilst I expect I have that photo
somewhere
you rise like a mist
unbidden
unexpected
as vivid
as strong
as clear
as that summer

I see you there, keep looking at me
but I'm not sure what it is you see

I’ve no canvas, I’m left unframed
so let me help you with my name

I'm no-one's 'boy', I'm not 'hey you'
my name's Mister, it's 'Mister New'

I've got old scars, raw scars too
but I'm not sure, it's clear to you

wounds can only go so deep
there's only so long that they can bleed

you see me ‘wounded’, black and blue
but save your pity - that's all about you

I've grown taller through broken skin
my roots sink deeper than you've ever been

when you're up close you'll see it's true
my fresh healed skin's a real break through

I've got a name, so I'd thank you
when you address me, say 'Mister New'

(A person known by one name)

There's a place for gifting a name
One to be known and addressed by
One to answer by
One that speaks of family
One to be adopted and sometimes adapted
But one to affirm from birth.

There's a place for picking up a name
One given casually, possibly accidentally
One like Ace and Rock, Smarts and Giggles
One that captures a grain of the truth of you.

There's no place for names given in distain,
names of derision, laced with hatred,
names to reject, even if stated in jest.
There's no need to repeat these here.

Ultimately, there's a perfect place
for a secret name, known only
to you and your beloved,
given in a moment of tenderness,
given in a language of love,
given to say you belong.

A name to be whispered
in the quiet of eternity.

One name worth waiting for.

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.

'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.

How much more
- passion
How much more
- protection
How much more
- affection
Full and overflowing
Unconditional
Demonstrable and
Lavished on each of you
Will your Father in heaven
Give to those who ask

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.

The great tree stood waiting
until he got there -
as far as there
at the appointed time
long before the promised time
before the arrival of offspring.

And the trees still stand
in anticipation
of the greater remainder of the promise.

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

Do you see a puzzle?
Or do you see a game?
Something to deduce?
Or something we can play?

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

God given songs to angelic tunes
Holier anthems for reflective moods
Soul searching music with eternal themes
Songs from our hearts that harbour old dreams
Movements in light, emerging from dark
Sunrising symphonies, the thrush and the lark
I welcome the chorus here at my dawn
I rise and I stretch and then I press on

I'm never alone
Not with my thoughts
Not with my dreams
never an excuse to be idle
never alone
I'll always have you
to intrude,
to distract,
to enlighten
shining your light
alerting me
greeting me
never letting me be
a moment alone

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

Take your bible out.
Thaw at room temperature
with a bedside prayer.

By morning you'll find
every page will have suffused
ineffably.

The sacred have kept
their biblical pro-portions.
Savour each mouthful.

All your 5 a day.

We see the strong supportive woman you have always been,
- Now it's our turn.
The unselfish way you have liberally spread your time on us, right to the edges,
-Now it's our turn.
The generous helpings of patience that seemed to come so naturally, with seconds for those who want it,
-Now it's our turn.
You're guiding words seasoned with kindness, so full of flavour,
-Now it's our turn.
The unconditional love you have always poured out on us, full and overflowing,
-Now it's our turn...

Please can you write down the recipe?

I aspire to the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring. 
Ambition to realise her passion: 
Serving and providing
love without ration.

I aspire to the love of a mother:
teaching and persisting
with no reflection on reward,
but for the pleasure of pursuing
a calling she can’t ignore.

She aspires to serve God’s children 
entrusted to her caring. 
Until united with Him 
after a life of faithful praying,
with lives better lived 
for loving and knowing her.

I sit in my Edward Hopper moment, my half started keepacup of green tea cooling,  staring at the chess board floor while my mind slows, moving down the gears after A1-driven shenanigans and I mindfully let the beat of Magic Radio fade back into the 70s while some seldom used lobe recalls a blue wide-wheeled mini van (replete with an A-Team overthetop stripe) on other journeys North.

I close my eyes and focus on the duties and joys of single granddad-hood and try to ignore the give in the one-size-barely-fits-all plastic seating beneath my oversized frame. My eyes refocus and I'm struck by a three-gen family arguing over Burger Kings, and I hate their voices forcing me back to 1984,  RAF Scampton, forcing down a much-too-early, much-too-bleak breakfast ahead of a slow day taking stick from families of maddened miners.

I close my eyes again to breathe my regrets back into place, and I sup and look ahead.

Find what you love
Live it, hold it like a long note
Behold it like still-wet art
and it becomes beauty to you.
It becomes magical.
Like family.

The sensuous snow layered soft flakes over her long limbs as she reached and raised the deep red cloak from where it had slidden, chiding Nicholas for his haste, while inwardly relishing this moment of personal pleasure in the back of the now spacious sleigh.
"Happy Christmas, dear," she whispered.

An early walk with the black dog
Can tire the beast.
And for a while
He'll sleep at my feet
And leave me be for another day.

By evening he'll awake and place
His muddy paw on my knee,
Demanding my undivided attention.

Give me a grain
of gravity, in a moment
of space time, tied to a thread
of string theory,  soaked
in one long figment
of my fantasy

and I will give you
a multi-verse.

She'd said
she'd buy the flowers herself.
She knew what to get.
She'd found a reliable florist.
And she had the time
to select the perfect arrangement.

That's what the Funeral Director
told us at the Co-op.

And on the day, we all agreed -
the flowers were lovely.
And no one was left
in any doubt -
she'd have loved them.

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.

Mum was never happier
Than when supping tea with friends
Sharing well worn wisdom
Seen through a mother's lens

I can't deny I was a teary child
And when mum heard me sobbing
She'd make dash, be there in a flash
And smother me with hugging

Mum'd appear when needed most
She had a mother's sonar
A way of sensing where and when
We would really need her

Mum had a knack of persuading dad
That it really would be best
To not shout, to let me be
And let me stay half dressed

Mum would know where to find me
When it was time for tea
And it was worth being found
Not staying an absentee

Fish fingers at least once a week
Followed by artic roll
Bangers and mash, bubble and sqweak
Don't expect a finger bowl

Mum made each birthday special
She knew how to stretch the budget
She'd sit each month with my dad
And work out how to fudge it

I wouldn't be this man today
If it wasn't for my mum
Her care and warmth, her smile and love
Gave me my foundation

So this mother's day let me say
If your mum is still around
Make sure she knows down to her toes
Just how much she's loved.

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

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing,
   Lord, rudder me through to calmer waters.
Your words secure my departing,
   Lord, restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me tales from our voyage together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.
   Lord, ready me to weather this course
To its end.

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

My dear Theophilus, I want to stress
that this gospel story is ever-present, continuous
and it’s by no means strenuous
to draw a straight true line
from the angelic choir’s ‘unto us’
through to the empty cross,

and yes, past the fall of Judas
to the day the lot fell to Matthias
and whilst Matt may have on occasion
felt a little out of place
and like us, have sometimes undergone
the syndrome that’s imposter-ous,
nevertheless, with the disciples he received Christ’s promise
of a collective Pentecostal renaissance

And so,
no, it’s not presumptuous for you, for us
to stand with Matthias and the rest
of the disciples of Christ Jesus,
to receive this same promise
and for Christ to continue
the same reconciling mission through us,
because my dear Theophilus,
we are, you are the one and present-continuous,
Spirit-filled church

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that there’s a path just beneath the current uncertainty.

My faith is a step, a one step at a time
not much of a leap, but me taking his hand with mine.
My faith is a day-by-day holding,
a minute-by-minute treading
of my boot in his footmarks left for me as a blessing.

My faith is choice that needs repeated repeating,
a daily seating at his feet,
it's not a fleeting feeling,
it’s a morning and evening both-knees kneeing.

My faith is a decision and decisions were made
to be made,
so pray,
take him at his word and take the next step,
but don’t be surprised if it involves you getting both feet wet.
Cos that is where you’ll find Jesus
at the point you find yourself out of your depth.

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that whatever my path,
my God has gone before me.

In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)

Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings

- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,

- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,

every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.

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

Most of my closest friends
have a sort of ‘flesh’ colour to them,
- some pale, some brown, some a lot darker,
but that, I’ve come to shudder,
is a shallow, simply skin-deep measure.

When I look again
I see some carry a seven-sea travelled view
with a dark, deep-water hue.
Some have an earth-olive touch,
giving a life-tinted light to all they brush,
all they touch.

Some shimmer-touch, charged
with a hint of dawn-dew in their scars
giving fresh unasked repair.
Some show an indigo major
generating a bright electric flavour
empowering both friends and strangers alike.

When they arrive, they each add true colour
and I’ve found that their skin-depth is nothing
compared to the rainbow-canyon impression
that they’ve left on me,

my friends.

I don't care what you think.
It works – just - fine.
Probably too well, all considered.
But that's a heart for you.
It breaks.
That's the way you know
it's fine.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me how much it would miss
me how much it depends on my
little choices
my small voices drowning
out the others and nudging
me to stay away.

The world doesn’t know how much
we depend on a little lack of leadership.
How much more devastated the world would
be with a little more co-ordinated lawlessness.

Little do they appreciate me,
appreciate that random acts of disfunction
are preferable by far
than my hordes of regimented devastation.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me to stay here
and not get involved.

The world doesn’t know how much
it needs me.

My third home is so unmoved.  
It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart,
with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts
of potatoes and withered veg,
an adamant replay of checkered tablecloths
and brown orange tableware,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was.
Close your eyes and hear the scrapes
of plates, the kettle.  
And that veined mug.

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

In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.

In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.

In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.

In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.

In this life, she was my mother.

While smoking my mother's ashes
in my father's stale pipe
I felt a curious high, which was strange
- the rest of the batch had been expectedly bland

and homely. I walked the aroma through her discarded bungalow,
into the kitchen, out into the bare garden following the line

of the absent washing over the sunken stepping stones,
ending in the cul-de-sac of her rock garden of heather and herbs.

I sat on the concrete steps of the dismantled green house
letting the hit of the ash fill my lungs, holding it there

until it filled my head, before very slowly
breathing out the deep memory
of mum and dad, shouting and laughing and l allowed myself

to float above the colour of the border plants, up out of reach
of the childhood sprawl until I was back in her smoke filled room,
full of her emptiness - chin raised in silent prayer for one last breath.

And still gripping the warm bowl of my high, I sang her songs,
knees-up with the best of them and with mum on both arms, chin raised high

with a chorus of belief in family and friends and neighbourhood
and how this was never going to end well,

but meanwhile we'll have a party
making sure the whole street knows they're welcome
- and all the more if they have grief to smoke and memories to sing
- surely this is a life worth living.

Put another record on,
there's tea on the ***, ashes in our pipes
and songs to sing.

I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.

I have several names.

My first was the name
my mother wielded,
but she later conceded
I had an earlier name,
a longer name
that my father gave me,
a name borrowed
from the long dead,
the name authorities
would know me by.

And later, you adorned me
with shorter, snappier names -
names loaded with love
names that could be sung
and in which I took comfort
and pride.

When as a student I arrived,
wheeling cases through customs,
I saw the linguistic gymnastics
reflected in their eyes
but I kept silent and smiled,
lest they felt they fell short
lest they sensed that I found fault
in their command
of each element of my name.

But the truth is I hold
my true names elsewhere,
in my place of song and friendships
far from these shores.

I have several names
and accumulate more each year
as I spare acquaintances
the shame of verbal stumbles.

I have several names,
but I know who I am
with you.