Live by a compass of purpose
Not a map of achievement
Celebrate the discovery of the quiet
and challenge the call of the loud

Live by a compass of purpose
It does not circumvent the turbulent
But culverts the tempest of highways
where rage and impatience rule

Live by a compass of purpose
Point yourself to the path home
where you belong.

A stronger sense of a shifting alliance,
a richer aroma of a growing assurance,
a longer shadow of an alternate position
and a faint echo of a younger ambition,
coalescing into a whisper
of a change of direction,
cracking open a narrow door
of renewed anticipation
and waiting for me
to PUSH.

You kept on pressing down
as if my heart couldn't break at all
As if the pressure you applied
would not take it's heavy toll

You kept on pressing down
as if my body could absorb
Every blow and every insult
rebounding off your inner wars

You kept on pressing down
not believing I'd react
But now it's me who's pressing down
and you who's on your back

To know one's limitations, my captain told us, is a lifetime's study.
For just as you think that you have the measure of it the sands shift, your heart moves and you surprise yourself once more.
So keep probing the flesh, keep asking the mind, sound the depths of your reserves.
For it is in that conversation that the answer may be heard and understanding found.
But it will not be found today.
You will not reach the bounds of your limitations on this field.
No.
Today you stand with me.
Today we will push on.

Lord, save us from our pygmy dreams
That bear fruit long before
We leave safe harbour.
Send us out to only come back home
Once we have defeated land-locked fear,
Hurdled every heaving horizon
And found the stars.

We'll return to show you
Our deep wild bruises
And war torn scars.
We'll submit our worn down egos
And weathered souls.
And only then gladly enter
Eternal harbour.

Jesus didn't hand you solutions.
Jesus didn't give you your answers.
Jesus asked YOU the questions.
Jesus was and is your answer.

He is the Way the Truth the Life.
He is the River the Bread the Light.
He is the Shepherd the Gate the Vine.
He is Human. He is Divine.

He is the Lamb. He is the Lion.
He is the Word and He's not lyin'.
He is the Servant. He is the Prince.
He is Love and I am convinced

Jesus came to seek and to save.
Bigger than a manger. Stronger than the grave.
Jesus came as God made man...

He - asked - you - a - question -

"What about YOU?

Who do YOU say I am?"

The truth of a person
cannot be fully known
without attention,
without conversation.

The truth of someone
cannot be quickly known
for their self-revelation
will be rightly rationed.

The truth won't just happen
will not be easily known
or take the direction
that you might imagine.

The truth will depend on
the wisdom in the question
and the greater wisdom
in the reflection.

-  I have some questions.
We have a written guide.
- I'd prefer a conversation.
I'd like that too.
- so I guess my first question is Why?
Simply because it gave me great pleasure.
- And How?
With a few tears, much love and a lot of imagination.
- What am I here for?
To be with me.
- Just that?
(a smile)
- For how long?
However long you wish to stay.
- Are you sure?
I've never been surer. 
Now, take my hand and let's begin.

bananana and cinnamonon
betray a lack of discipline
while gingerer on melonon
shows tasteful imagination

The weight of my potential
The heat of what may be
The giddiness of each and every
possibility

The loneliness of greatness
The solitude of win
The intoxication of evening
final victory

The morning rained.
Down in the basement he lay flattened by bad luck and worse judgement.
The morning rained.
Despair seeped under the broken sill as his drained accounts stared back blankly and forcasted worse to come.
The morning rained.
Grey skies cut off the last hint of a silver lining.
The morning rained.
And he cried floods.

Reach to the back of the old,
Reach behind the boxes entrenched with dust,
Reach beyond the shelves of tarnished trophies,
Reach beneath the tarpaulin brittle with age.
Reach and ignore the stains of the years
Stretch, *****, seek
And your fingers will brush
Against unfamiliar, new-to-you gems.
Reach and from unexplored corners
Reveal new treasures from the storeroom;
Treasures to enlighten
Treasures to surprise
Treasures to delight
The disciples of the kingdom.

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

Oh I see.
The real person living
is the person that I see.
The real person living
is the friend that I need.
The real person living
is the one who pays heed
to the real person here
who's ready to believe.

I practice the art of receiving art
Not grasping it , not seeking to utilise it
Rather relax-sitting, receiving it
Recognising God's gifting of it
But happy to let it rest
where I can better meet it,
just beyond my practiced insight.

"A grain of madness is the best of art."
Second best is a handful of heartbreak on a base of isolation with a drizzle of self-reflection.

He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses ****** out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she ******
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

by Ted Hughes

I see behind the wheelie bins
  that they've dropped a little parcel
It's only slightly soggy
  and the label looks still legible
I can see it's not for me
  (they should really be more careful)
So I drop it in the bin
  that's marked only for recycle.

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.

The Red-Folk are well known to some, but less well known to others.  You see, the Red-Folk do their reddy-ness in the background with the smallest folk.  This means that bigger folk will only notice them if they have small folk friends.
The Red-Folk are quite distinct; I don’t mean their tomato redness, I mean their ability to fold themselves small.
Now, you may know that small folk are very used to legs and knees and big feet and are they are very, very good at winding their way through a forest of trousers and skirts to get to where they need to go.  But this can be tiring, and sometimes small folk misjudge the sway of a leg or a knee and bounce off them, falling back onto their bottoms.  This can sometimes be funny, but it is often painful and can spark small folk tears.  
So, when small folk find that the Red-Folk just love to fold their legs and knees away and come down to small folk level, you can imagine the sheer joy the small folk feel.
Some Red-Folk don’t last long because their legs and knees begin to ache and the small folk noise becomes too loud and the Red-Folk miss ‘Big Conversation.’  But there are some Red-Folk who are excellent at folding their legs and knees away and who love nothing better than small conversations with small folk.  You see they have discovered that this is where small and precious truths are first planted to later become stronger big truths and they have seen that this is also where small folk plant big love in the Red-Folk’s big hearts.
So, if you are looking for the Red-Folk, you need to look down to where the small important conversations are taking place with the small important folk.

Pallet is just a trick of the light
Echo a deceit
All we have is reflected
- for all that
it's no less sweet

I sat in front of the mirror and reflected on age and plans and paths and happenstance. And as I reflected, my reflection faded and I looked inward and found a new road, a narrower path and an older way, leading me to my paths-maker rather than to my path-dictator and to my next choice on the adventure that my maker had made free and had made ordained, one and the same.
And as I looked, the dark fell and the light rose and reflected well on our choice. And so I too rose, and we walked on.

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.

Holding my relevance
close to my chest
in case it's dropped
and lost

Remember to think better,
think further,
think deeper
and with vigour.
Pepper your remember
with colour,
with light,
with friends who delight.
Boost your remember
with story,
with histories,
with cramped group selfies.
And remember your remembers
whenever,
wherever
you drift off centre.
And there you'll discover
your defenders,
your never surrenders
against all contenders.
Then you'll remember
your forevers.
Remember -
it's your best self defense.

Don't push to take off the poppies
Don't rush to remove the wreaths
I know you long for Christmas cheer
But take time to give thanks and to grieve.

Enjoy this.
Give focus.
Take pleasure.

Ritualise
each movement,
each breath.

And then
repeat.

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He sings for his milk,
he sings for his lunch
and he sings for his afternoon tea.

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He gives lots of love,
he gives from the heart
and what he gives, he gives for free.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows where he belongs.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben will recall where he is from.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's word is true.
Reuben's word is strong.
Reuben's word is wise beyond his years.
Reuben's speaking loud.
Reuben's teaching truth.
Reuben will be heard beyond his peers.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows who he'll become.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben knows he'll dance to heaven's drum.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Honestly,
It wasn't expected.
I've not been concealing my feelings.

They really weren't felt before
That walk in the park.

You lifted your face
To the leaf filtered sunlight,
And unseeing,
You quietly unveiled all I was missing.

This year,
although I know
that you're keen
to set up that nativity scene,
I'm advocating an alternative means,
a change in priorities
for your generosities.

I'm annointing a reversal,
suggesting you parcel
a hamper of staples
and so turn the tables
on advent doors
that ignore the poor. 

I'm asking that you choose
to proclaim the good news
beyond the pews,
to pursue a change of people's views
of what they thought they knew this meant.
Yes, let's reverse this advent
and make something heaven-sent.

Listen and Learn
from
Insight and Wisdom
giving
Instruction in Prudence
producing
Knowledge and Discretion.
With thanks to
Mother's Inspired Utterances.

I can’t reach you, you far off,
you unborn, you yet to come.
I can’t reach you, touch you.
converse and engage you.
I can’t reach you, embrace you,
you beholders beyond my borders.
But my love invested,
my ripples,
in time, just might.

Come little brother
Keep hold of my hand and we will climb
Over the last rise and into the green
Where we can let loose and run free
Through a knee high time machine
Throwing us back to a time when we
Were care free, hard and lean
Running under an eternal sun
Squeezing fun from every minute
Throwing a blanket of light laughter
Conquering every summit
Echoing around the valley
Skimming smooth flat stones
Refreshing reviving
Bringing life to our wearied bones
And reminding our old souls
Where home truely lies
Just keep hold of my hand and climb
Just over that next rise.

I listened to the river’s babbling,
her competing voices,
none winning, none getting ahead,
ahead of the next bend, the next meander,
a departure from the mainstream,
taking the conversation in a whole new direction -
leaving the lies behind
and the truth high and dry,
to be banked, baked crisp and brittle, crunched
to dust under a heavy rockfall of doubt and disinterest.
But I listened still, for the following chorus,
the next controversy.

I didn't need to wait long - the new river babbled...

wiper beat
indicator rhythm
steady hum
of tarmac
together speak truth,
comfort and song
wise beyond words
miles from home
while the beat sinks in
and we drive on

Sometimes I think he’d prefer something
well dressed, with a cut glass accent,
emerging from a smokey platform perhaps.
Yes - at the close of the summer term,
with families reunited,
plans for coastal trips and picnics
with a loyal hound in tow

Sometimes I think he’d prefer life
to be slower, the roads clearer,
with a simpler dashboard
and less choice of radio stations
and for his favourite tunes to be mono,
accented by crackles and plagued
by fades under bridges

Sometimes I know he’d prefer
more time with a paintbrush,
followed by books and discourse
around a wide family table
and the pleasure of sharing slow food
and mellow music with those who matter,
those with whom he’d like to grow older

Sometimes plans and friends
come together, designed for us to remember -
that at all times we need to try harder
to make the sometimes happen.

Forget any Chris Rock, Kid Rock
Or any Dwayne Rock Johnson.

There's a greater
Surer
Higher rock
That rocks all wannabe kingdoms.

This cross-border nation is a world-wide, mountain-rock-hard awesome kinda kingdom;
It towers taller than other soon-to-be-dust kingdoms and then some.
A mountain-refuge that is never over-run.
A no-messing, let's-get-things-done kinda kingdom come.

It's a rock with deeper rhythm
With purer wisdom
With a you-can-rely-on firmer foundation.
It's a rock that's a clearer reflection
Of God's always-as-He-intended creation.
Not a win some - lose some, tried it's best til it succumbed, kinda innovation;
But a tried and tested place for ALL those called by the one and only Son.
Yes, a place for ALL those called to His holy mountain nation.
So COME
Step up and place both feet on the Rock that IS God's all-conquering Son.
And stand with us, crying:
"Thy kingdom come".

Now Roger’s a man of renown
He’ll rarely be seen with a frown
Despite spawning twins
He maintains a broad grin
And is happy to play the team clown

Roger’s known for his love of a party
He’d rarely say no to John Kirby
He went off for a drink
Got home in a stink
But slept in the car til six-thirty

He’s had his fair share of tough cases
He met most with a smile and good graces
But some were plain daft
They just raised a laugh
And went on for ages and ages

He’s known for his love of his chickens
He’ll bare all to ensure they get feeding
He goes out with their feed
And a handful of seed 
It’s not clear what the bucket is screening

This is our friend Roger Hylton
He fancies himself as John Milton
His sonnets subvert
The hardest of hearts
But frighten both of his children

There’s more we could say of our friend
But good things must come to an end
He’s off to new pastures
And to finish his masters
So good wishes is what we all send

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

The inner city rose garden
Rested high above the fumes
Soaking in the filtered sunlight
Like the tired old lady on her balcony
After her third marriage:
Still colourful
Still fragrant
And not without her unfair share of thorns.

Roses can be White
Yellow or shades of Pink
But the Red are more expensive
Or so florists like to think

The seeds look very similar
Whenever you plant your borders
But once they show their truer form
It's too late to change your order

Rudolph The Red stayed in his shed
Unhappy with minimum wage
He refused to get started
Cos he wasn't rewarded
With the promised end of year raise

Rudolph The Red sang with his friends
And staged an all-advent sit-in
But Santa just smiled
Cos his jet had been fuelled
In advance for such an occasion

Rudolph The Red looked overhead
While Santa sped round the world
When Santa got back
With his large empty sack
His workshop was empty of Elves

Rudolph The Red was no longer led
By thoughts of personal gain
He'd formed his first union
With Elves and ten snowmen
And the workers were free once again

Runners Run.
One stride at a time
One push at a time
One lap at a time

And when the climb is steep
when you feel like
you're losing ground,
then every stride,
every push, every lap
that leaves you in the race
takes you to your prize

And every time you stumble
only to regain your feet
that is a victory that is worthy
of your team captain
our captain, Jesus.

Boxers Fight.
One step at a time
One blow at a time
One round at a time

And when life throws
all it has at you,
all at one time,
then every step
every blow, every round
that leaves you in the fight
takes you to your prize

And every time you hit the canvas
only to beat the count
that is a victory that is worthy
of your champion,
our champion, Jesus.

And we will not be disqualified
from the prize.

When I kick the bucket
I want it to be proper rusted,
zinc exposing steel.

When I kick the bucket
I want it recognisably mine,
a signature rattle.

When I kick the bucket
I want it made into a planter.
I want my bucket to bloom.

Is nothing sacred?
Is nothing enthralling?
Is nothing worth sacrifice?
Is nothing worth fighting for?

I clench my battered fists
I shift the weight of sword and shield
I feel the press of brothers in arms
I cheer in chorus
I know the answer
It has always been, 'Yes!'

sacred to love
sacred to laugh
sacred to pray

sacred to dance
sacred to sing
sacred to pray

sacred to write
sacred to make
sacred to pray

sacred to play

The faintest click of a radio button
a song that I swear I'd long forgotten

and I journey back to another time
happily quiet, but humming inside

running much faster than blue dinosaurs
I Spy much more than a boy really saw

different than walking, different like flying
moving so fast they can't hear my sighing

tremours of laughter on Radio 2
then singing out loud junior choice tunes

even when songs fade away in the hills
I'd rather be here than back at home still

wary of Jenny's sharp buckled shoes
breathing in clouds from dad's old Saint Bruno

holding on tight to my cool DB5
m'Lady's pink Rolls is off for a drive

I always I Spy with my little eye
3 for a girl and then 4 for a boy

I Spy mum’s constant quick fingered knitting
row after row with Sally still kicking

then I Spy Janet swinging her feet
I Spy other kids in other back seats

I wish for grandma's baked cherry biscuits
I see the first sign that we're near Tonbridge

these are old snatches of life in the 60s
this is me looking back from my 50s

I'll sit still back here, just one back seat song
from family trips where I still belong

I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
The right level of access.
I'll live in the past with my friend regret
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang
With more than enough to secure
Familiar safe harbour.
Or perhaps to suspend belief from high hopes
Long enough to cast adrift
With just the ever present wind to give direction.

Draft #2
I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more.
I'll harbour in the past with my friend, regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang,
With more than enough to fasten
To that familiar safe haven
And one day I'll suspend my belief from high hopes,
Forlorn and cast adrift
With a tried and true ill wind to give direction
And find safe pasture.

Draft #3
I don't believe you,
That I can't change my past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more
And so prise it open.
I'll shelter with my old friend,
Regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to a hope that I misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang from,
With more than enough to fasten myself
To that familiar safe haven.
And one day I'll suspend my belief
From high hopes, forlorn and cast adrift,
With my tried and tested ill wind
That will direct me and will find me
a well worn safe past and safe pasture.

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.