It wasn't so much childhood trauma as it was a soap melodrama. But I wasn't the protagonist and I soon realised that I had become redundant to their narrative.

Part way into the 8th series I left to star in my own spin off at a boarding school set in the Chilterns where I had greater success. Oh, yes - there was the occasional well-choreographed cross-over, but nothing substantive; and I successfully developed my own independent brand.

Years have passed and we don't do cross-overs anymore, but they may turn up for the occasional, one-scene guest appearance.

I prefer it this way. It's not Made In Chelsea, but it's my own reality drama.

The joy of early,
the smile
of taking the moral high ground,
never giving it up
to the jonny-come-latelys.
Giving me time
to sit,
time to ruthlessly ****
with my own bare hands,
striking each minute
into submission.
Never running.
Never running late,
but standing in stillness,
letting the time on my hands
run through my fingers
and pool at my feet
as I wait here
taking my own time.

My quick lie offered me
a knock-off respite, obviously overpriced and inevitably shoddy, but real and present and there for me even while it was dropping away like a slow knife, falling beyond my desperate dive towards the inevitable piecing of my carefully structured delusion, counting the cost of those few moments of delayed capitulation.
My quick lie lied to me.

my rosie
leaves, moves through pallets,
rises through the afternoon quiet,
strengthens, peaks,
reaches a crescendo,
a swallow of poured
perfection
and tells me
she is sweet enough

I left my other soul
in my late marriage
I'll be more careful with this one

I keep my spare soul
safe with my neighbour
in case I lose this one

My old soul has worn thin
letting in the cold
but also the sun

My first soul was reliably robust
This new one feels more fragile
and needs holding with care

My soul and I buried our differences
We now spend time focused
on what we have in common

I wouldn’t call us friends
but we’re close, intimate even -
they’ve known me longer,
know me better than anyone.

They read me, clearly see
the full back-catalogue of me,
understand me, often better than me
and they know just how to wound me,
seam doubt in me, refusing a stitch of mercy.

Sometimes I think them merciless,
sometimes merely vindictively honest,
but I cannot deny their knowledge,
their perceptiveness.

Nevertheless, there are essentials
that their words do lack
- imagination
- hope
- kindness
and the one furthest from their grasp
- forgiveness.

And so, I pay greater heed
to the friend whose words brim with love,
whose knowledge of me is greater,
whose patience is longer, and who sees
who I am in Him
- forgiven.

It was the taboo of the touch and although it was her habit, it still held the power to thrill me to comfort my distance.

We chatted as she scanned each item , especially the contraband cake, and it was as if we were conspiring, masking our planned insurrection.

I obeyed the card-only directive and, as the till printed the receipt in a flurry, she reached over, stripped it away and pointedly
held both hands out toward mine.

And just there – as I reached around the screen, she cupped my hand in hers and she gifted me her “Look after yourself, luv.”
- while I choked on my goodbye.

Stubborn love
faced down the years
of fearful hate
and stared intently as a child
from the stink of a manger
out into the poverty and
the oppression reflected
in captive eyes,
wide with hope
and wet with joy.

Generous love
cried out an almighty peace
into the dark stillness,
heralding a new start
with echoes of ancient promise.

Patient love
reached out with perfect timing
and embraced humanity.

Unfailing love.
Unfailing still.

I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there

This morning tomorrow won't be as expected - it will be far from this tonight and nowhere near as planned.  There's no telling when it will be back to its old self.  So for now, we'll make do and sleep and dream of another yesterday, because today won't do.  It never did.  It never would.

Samarian oil
Samarian wine
On open Judean wounds
Bound by a Samaritan's hands
Never felt so good,
A salve to the national shame
Burning through the traveler's head.

You're not who you were.
You're not who you will be.
You're part way up your steep frail stair
And always will be.

You're a part completed work.
You're perfect as you are.
You're emerging as from aged oak block,
A part-seen piece of art.

You're a faint chime in the wind.
You're a symphony by Brahms.
You're an orchestra tuning up
At last night at the proms.

I love you as you are.
I love all you will grow to be.
As I hold you in my arms
Lost in your newborn beauty.

Awake in the night listening to rain
Well placed ice packs when feeling the strain
Spacing those tents to ensure a safe distance
Getting it right aides coexistence.

Welcoming all with smiles and sweets
Giving assurance with replies on repeat
Directing the lost with maps and good grace
Shifting the freezers to maximise space

Finding the child who wandered from mum
Keeping kids safe while ensuring their fun
Spraying the sinks and mopping with vigour
Trying and failing to pull down that zipper

Queuing for showers at early 5.30
Teens these days don't tolerate *****.
Whenever you need them they'll sort out the flushes
And when the loo blocks they'll get out the brushes.

These are the heroes of New Day each year
Whenever you see them give them a cheer
Enjoy your time with us, have a real blast
We're all here for Jesus - the first and the last.

The new front ears
Are eager to hear
All that the Spirit proclaims,
Giving a scare
To the old deaf ears
Secure in their waxy domain.

The passage is cleared
Good news can be shared
The word of the Father is heard.
It clears the dull heads
Of all the misled
With a cry that can't be ignored.

Whoever has ears
Let them each hear
The words of the Son of Man.
They cut like a knife
But bring you new life
Come hear the man with the plan.

It's the age range that strikes me, sitting here in the semi darkness, in Norfolk, in the Show Ground.

It's the age of the sky - the view consistent with years past, but fresh each day, each minute, ever changing and ever moving through star-scapes which shift as we speed through created space, spinning and moving on on voyages into the unknown, through brave new skys created for us to stretch our legs: us little space people, tumbling with nothing holding us up or down.

It's the age range - the trees standing for centuries,  the insects breathing their last before tea time,  and human kind, kidding ourselves that we're in control of all we survey, when the truth is quite different.

It's the age range -  the kids in their first year fascinated by all they see; school age children, waiting to be amused and vocal when parents fall short; teens fascinated by themselves and curious about boundaries;  young adults finding what lies beyond is just as amazing and just as laborious as they imagined;

and then the middle (and not so middle) aged, sporting practical footwear, factor 50, and voicing their conviction that they've moved the facilities further apart this year.

It's the age range of the new day generation - stretching from nought to mid eighties, all under canvas or luxuriating in caravans that, like their occupants, have arguably seen better days.

It's the age range and God's infinite patience with all of us, as he guides our paths, through space, through fields and through our years seeking him and through what he has prepared along the paths yet trodden - whether in practical boots, flip flops or crocks.

It's the age range that reminds me that we're all one generation as far as Father is concerned, cos we're all his children with no room for grandchildren in this family of God, in this field, under this sky that he created for weeks like this.

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.

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.

Lord of life,
Lord of breeze, of warmth and softest light
Lord of song and answered cries
Lord of long days and sleepless nights

Lord of rest
Lord of this sacred space to reflect
Lord of this gifted stillness
I confess you caught my breath

Lord of promise
Lord who gifted this anointed child
Lord of mercy, of goodness
I weep in the sheen of this just-fed smile

I breathe a quiet celebration (lest they waken)
and marvel at this wondrous sight
I wonder at this crowning moment
and whisper thanks for this new life

I pledge my life to raise my child
to teach the wonders of your kingdom
I surrender now, done and done
and pray they grow in strength and wisdom

I thank you, Lord, for this new life
and wonder again in mid-elation
how Mary contained her cradled delight
while swaddling the first-born of your new creation

I had watched his glow go down
and I saw the hole swallow him whole.
I now watched his light rise
and I saw his eyes rest on mine,
newly ascended.

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.

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

Confine your creativity
Limit originality
Dare to be different
But don't dispute authority

Blue sky thinking
With a few scattered brainstorms
Is no substitution
For you sticking to the norm

We do value change here
In its right place
Just so long as you ensure
It doesn't leave a trace.

I haven't got to where I am
Without these simple laws
Now that's enough chat
Let's get on and wash the floors.

I'm seeing new weather
Not a change of a few degrees
Not a rise or a fall
or an increase or decrease

But New

Weather not previously known
Never before seen
New weather, creating new
weather-worn scenes

Thick, slow rubber, raining
Single sunbeams of light
aimlessly floating
Heavy weight winds,
viciously falling
Warm salt, peppering
the horizon and once in a while,
if you're lucky,
Musical lightning

rumoured to be orchestrated by new angels
who aren't as predicable as their older cousins.

Perch up here
so we can judge you,
analyse and season you
so to help you redefine you.

Let us make-up for the blemished you,
for the degrees of the damaged you
and so apply a brand-new
foundational layer to you.

We can enhance you
with a new shade of you,
we can sponge, brush and fill-in you,
conceal the less-than-perfect you.  

We can blush you,
highlight and contour you,
fade you and blend you
right into the crowd
of all our just-like-you’s.

We can make-up for the real you
and ensure no one ever gets a clue
as to what is the essence of the beauty
of the true you.

Just perch here
and let us re-make you.

The nice Samaritan meant well
but tended to wait
to hesitate
just long enough
to be too late to make
a real difference
and instead stood
and watched struck dumb
as the world went to hell
in a handcart

Nicodemus is a mate of mine
Known as Nick to his friends
He’s always on his laptop
But you know it can depend

On whether he's got wifi
Or maybe just 5 G
On some nights he's got neither
That’s when he goes to see

That Jesus, the new teacher
Who’s wiser than the rest
They have these late night sit-downs
When he gets stuff off his chest

Like why he needs to start from scratch
Why be born anew
When he’s spent a life-long lifetime
Learning what's truly true

But all his wifi’d searches
All his 5 G chat
Can’t teach Nick what’s important
More than just the facts

More than what he’s learned from books
More than simple knowledge
More like child meets Father
Not student at a college

So now Nick don’t need wifi
He’s fine without 5 G
Cos he’s found what’s more important
And spends nights on his knees

I work with a lady named Nicole
Who thought it ever so droll
To switch off her phone
When resting at home
So she never heard from a soul.

The coy moon left us fumbling
wandering in the sleepless warmth
transformed by night sweats
and wet despair
into fractious infants crying
for relief from the night fires.

Douse me now!

Embracing the collective.
Grasping the nettle.

Hugging the toilet.
Regretting the rebel
in me.

Night Portraits
And Night Landscapes
Leave shadows for us to fill
Or to leave full
of nocturnal potential

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.

Whether Noble by name or noble by nature
this man is for you no matter the weather.

Whether noble in thought or noble in deed
I need to be vocal that this man's in need

of a woman who sees what's hidden in me
that I need a woman who truly believes

that together we're whole and separate were less
that together our God our family will bless.

I'm thankful my God was gracious to grant me
a woman as noble as my lovely Ivy.

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.

Blinkered and blindfolded
and hooded for good measure
- I run.
And when I run out of road,
that's when I fly.

Blinkered and blindfolded
and hooded for good measure
- I run.
And when I run out of road,
that's when I fly.
That's when I stop looking around blind and instead see that my loss of footholds, my lack of reference points and my failure to orientated myself to others frees me from restraint and I acquaint myself with possibilities that I had not allowed myself to paint even with numbers to guide me and instead I had paid too much attention to the mumbles that derided my attempts at something beyond my safe comfort, grounded in the fear of the ****** of others' distaste for what I deep down desired for myself. And so with this loss of the constraint of others' eyes, I fly, blinked and blindfolded and hooded for good measure I no longer bother to check my mirror and instead I revel in this fresh freedom by which I can navigate the skys.

Obstacles are inspirations
Hurdles are made for jumping
Walls are built to climb
There's no need for hesitation

#noexcuses

A life of self-censure is life
on a knife’s edge,
balancing, filtering,
hesitating, holding self back,  
placing pitiful tack over ruthless honesty,
hedging truth seeking to closet self
and not out of self-modesty,
but honestly, out of self-doubt,
coupled with arguably
some reluctant scam artistry.

A life of fearful self-censure
is no life at all -
I think you’d agree.

It was before dawn
and she was never seen again.

We had often wondered about her
and her wild impatience,
her passion for holding
life’s burdens and treasures equally lightly,
for dropping and gifting them
with devout fervor.

Nolle leapt out of a window
and left her bonds behind.
We woke to her whoop
and smiled at the echo of her song.

Nolle leapt out and we wondered -
what would it be like
to crave life that much?

"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"

So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection

If he was not tortured
If he did not hang
If he did not die bloodily and tearfully
If he was not buried in darkness

If he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels
to angel-splain what the disciples saw,

If he did not reveal himself and walk and touch
and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend
as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,

"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory."

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

None of my best friends
are poets

They live different
They walk faster
They're more organised
They have more friends

They are readers
occasionally
And writers
spasmodically
- never pathologically

My best friends
are breakers of silence
and I need them more
than they need me

I stole away to live
I kept it to myself
I never said a word
I kept it quiet
and to myself

Never risked
never chanced
just dreamed
and chewed over
and in the end
it was all I had
and no one had it but me
and no one but me

Do you ever escape your grief?
Do you every find release from sorrow?
I can’t say today, perhaps tomorrow,
but today I’m growing round my loss
- not diminishing its presence, but recognising
that my present is not my finish
and that I add to this grief
my joy, reminiscence, and celebration
of those who are no longer at my surface,
but remain my foundation.

Do you ever escape?
I think not – I hope not.
For they are not a shackle,
but where I found my feet.

She put on her good bra
and braced herself
for a heavy day ahead

If you want to learn to play the guitar, you find a tutorial book, you learn the chords, the rhythms,  the techniques and you practice, practice, practice.  Sometimes its hard work.  More often it's fun.  

If you want to write songs, you write. Some are just play, with no real meaning;  some songs express your heart.  Both are worthwhile.

Some sound good and connect with others.  Some don't.  That's fine.  

If you stop playing, if you stop writing you will get rusty.  But you can pick it up again.  

Poetry is the same.

Keep writing.

There's hope
and that's not nothing.

Someone to trust,
someone to talk to -
freely,
truthfully.
Someone to catch your laughter,
hold it
and pass it back,
and to let its echo grow
in resonance
in strength
with each rebound.
- And that's something.

Writing my autobiography
under a pseudonym

When I am seen, I flinch within.
My self makes a choice
between fight or flight
and I'm no fighter
and flight is a risk
that I'm not in a fit state for taking
so I freeze in place,
hoping the sight of me
won't cause offence
or, worse still, curiosity
and, worse case, sympathy.

Just pass by me.
Nothing to see here.

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.

When tested with power how do you fare?
Does dialogue fade by decree?
When given the chance, does your heart say, "share"?
Or prompt inadequacy?

Do you run to your fall, pride staining each step?
Or do you season your words with good grace?
Do you pray for each soul you're able to serve?
Or do you treat the whole thing as a race?

Will you grasp for the comfort that comes with position?
Or like Jesus see it your call
To forfeit self interest, preferring others,
So to serve them first above all?