The stone shimmers,
Giving pause to my blisters,
Until momentum decides
And sole is met by wet promise
Half submerged by passing doubts
And so hope clasps joy with a cold gasp,
Gifting courage
For the next leg.

I recognise her hurled hurt
- pain
- frustration
- weariness
- can't wait to get out of this
in each unspoken sigh
each practiced cry
each queued curt response
that lay swallowed
and composed in the pit
of a fully evacuated stomach

Don't be quick
to stop and search.
Do slow and speak.
Do stop at the curb.
Do sit.
Do commit to shape
a future city nation
where more space is given
to a wider conversation
with a newer translation
that's truer in comparison
than any black and blue
blunt force confrontation.
Stop.

Recycled conversations
won't ever save the world.
We need to stop recycling
and use more one-use words.

Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.

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.

Sometimes reality is just too much and I pop out for a while.
I step into a story.
I make it my own.
A space shaped just for me.

Then I expand my space to accommodate my latest imaginings.
I push, stretch, build and take new ground with every new thought, with every fresh fruit of each branch of each path.
And once I've created sufficient space, I invite my friends, my close friends, my network family to join me and to join my story and so to enjoy the strange fruit of my imaginings.

I sit face to face, the stage set
For stories to fill the space
Free to meander through my head
The voice on the page
Leaves nothing unsaid
Revealing the reflection of a me
That I so dearly want to be
Seeing what was once misread
Refusing to be so badly misled
Sighted on the possibility
Of life in step with a golden thread
The voice on the page
Lifts free and I find myself
In every word he said
Ready for a fresh first person
In my very own new narrative.

We're all writing stories -
some in ink, some in blood,
some are less well read,
some become well-thumbed.

We're all writing stories -
some for laughs, some in tears,
some soaring sagas,
some stuck in first gear.

We're all writing stories -
some in first person, some in third,
whatever your perspective
take care with each word.

As a kid I was an accomplished storyteller
an evader of consequence.
As an adult it was a little similar,

but lately, I’ve found more story with truth
intertwined with unexpected twists,
and immersive but unfinished narratives,

which gave space for imagination,
for permission for grace to flower
in familiar but unexpected colour.

And sweet fragrance.

I have always been a storyteller.
A teller of my stories.
And they’re unfinished,

with more fragrance to come.

Not pen to paper nor digit to key,
but eye to eye and hand to hand,
with a firm grip on our reality.

With half-empty mouths and full-empty ears,
we understand that its has to be us
voicing our two converging histories.

Exploring what it is to be you,
what it is to be me
and what we two can be together
in the next chapter of our come-together
unfiltered, unashamed and unheard stories.

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew.

Parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.

Winter parties, summer trips
a massive paddling pool,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.

Common homes and gardens,
a street in open-plan,
more than simply neighbours,
one big, street-long clan.

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew
- parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.
- winter parties, summer trips
and massive paddling pools,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.
- common homes and gardens,
a street that was open plan,
family in every neighbour,
one big,
street-long
clan.

Out of 100 people
Who were around that day
Who stopped
Who didnt instantly walk away
Who understood the options
Who expressed an opinion,
Out of those 100 people
When asked a binary question
All 100 said: yes,
They do answer questions
From strangers.

Some people prefer to walk,
some will always run.
But the perfect way
to spend the day
is to stroll
arm in arm
in the sun.

Can you lend me a pound of your strength
maybe give me a slice of your chi.
I could do with a dose of your vim
and a dab of your vibrant esprit.

So give me whatever you're having,
let me follow your daily routine.
So long as you allow strong coffee
within your wholesome regime.

we struggled
long into the night
it was a gruelling fight
with ***** tactics
on both sides
and even a bite or two

but you can't blame me
it was brutal
it was him or me
and I won
I fought my conscience
and I won

pass me another cake

Have I been too revealing
Employing too much wailing?
Were the drums a bit too much
With epic trumpets playing?

Have I been too obtuse
Or did I veer into rambling?
Could I have better laid it out
Without elaborating?

Have I done justice to the discourse?
Did I mis-count the charging horses?
Did I include sufficient angels?
Was I true to my sources?

I trust that I did hold true
To heavenly inspiration
That the words will stand the test of time
And bring true revelation

But if I did stray from the truth
If it all seemed way too bleak
Please respond with due good grace
It's only my first week.

Something is better
than nothing
Nothing is better
than stupid
Stupid is just
stupid

A teddy
is a substitute satisfaction.
Like chocolate.

And that's okay.
So long as you know

what you're missing.

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.

The red folk and the purple people were distinctive in their hue.  In contrast, the Set Up bunch were chameleon, and to the casual observer they could pass for members of the congregation. That was by design, to be known only by their levite nature, their early arrival and late departure and (if you looked closely) by their hands.
The early bunch had remarkable hands. They were strikingly ready and willing, and could be turned to a wide variety of tasks.
They could never be described as specialist, and would never wish to be.  Their true specialty, if they have one, is only to be quick to serve and never draw attention to themselves.  
If they were ever persuaded to wear team tee shirts, they would have 'Ninja' brazoned across the back.  And that would be kinda cool.

I know Jesus can't turn in his grave
(because, well you know).
But if he could,
He'd be spinning most Sundays.

Extract maximum energy from every day
Turn you face towards the light
Turn away from the shadows
and at dusk
rest
ready for your dawning.

Every Jamaican is a superstar.
It's there in the carry
in the step
in the stand.
It's there in the belief
that anything
that anyone
that anywhere
can swagger
can strut
can take the room
and make the world stop
sit up
take note
and smile.

I've been ceaselessly sweating since June
And without fail every day around noon
My arm pits are sopping
My ****** are sodden
I feel about ready to swoon

It’s been glorious weather since June
I’m not sure if you’d think it too soon
But top up the icebox
For Pimm’s on the rocks
And celebrate all afternoon

I met a tortured poet
In sequins and despair
Her torture was unusual
She's now a billionaire.

A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.

Think twice before you take
Take only what you need
Use everything you take
Take full charge of your greed

The next time I killed her
it felt forced
too practiced, rehearsed.
And whilst the movement
and the blood
still flowed
I wasn't able to feel
the same spurt
of the joy of completion
and whilst the execution,
was in essence still 'killing',
it was kinda dull, like a boring drilling.

I'll have to try again.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I lent into it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and whilst the transition
was in essence still 'dying'
it was kinda arousing, exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.

I'll have to wait
and see.

There's nothing magical
About intentional
It's the beneficial
Not the permissible
Don't be mindful
Of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency
Of every mouthful
The size you choose
For your morning bowl full
What you put
On a wholemeal bagel
And then you'll find you'll
Be more healthful.

(And I can see you
Get all emotional
And inspirational
About the preferable
honey-based
BBQ
Sauce.)

When is a selfie not a great selfie?
When I’m not recognised.
When proportions are all out of balance.
When I look dead round the eyes.

When is a selfie not a real selfie?
When I look more like my father.
When family traits take a front seat.
When my lost hair is a disaster.

When is a selfie not a true selfie?
When my features just aren’t right.
When my chins are lost in shadow.
When I look like I just lost a fight.

When is a selfie a much better selfie?
Only when I’m unprepared.
When I can’t worry about how it turns out
When I’m fully caught unawares.

I have a great selfie, a much better selfie,
One that was made by my daughter.
You see a great selfie is made a great selfie
When family can make it with laughter.

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

How do you like your tea?

I smiled.

Assam strong.
A dash of skinny milk.
And a view across the Thames.

They need a firm love
Not a weak love
Not a shy love
Not 'sorry, love'
But a firm, dependable,
over and above, sacrificial love
That'll never deprive them of
what they need the most of
- a untiring labour of love
from someone who gets up
and turns up to daily put up
with an occasional child-like
shove.

Not a brave fight,
But a certain defeat.
Not heroic acts,
But daily surrender.
Not a close race,
But the frustration of consecutive false starts
And inevitable disqualification
And slow expulsion from this life
With no fanfare, but with a sob and a sigh
That sank like a stone
And pulled her family down
Around her
Each soaked in stunned silence
Engulfed by their memories
Of lost opportunities
Looking for resolve to do better
Somehow.
And only, eventually, finding hope
In each other
In the shared endeavour
To love one another, together
As she once did a forever ago.
Our mother could fill
A cup of tea with love
Like no other.

Your tears will speak for you
while your loss dries up all words.

The spreading tearstains
on my shoulder
are eloquent enough.

Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares

I watch Rich Teas float like ash
The Gusto goes unprepared
My days pass like smoke
And each tear burns

I sit with he who remains
I still with the God of years
and even with tears
I drink with him

The slow tea flowed with a knowing tease, letting the flavour seep bone deep as I watched with a growing marrow-level ease, feeling the aroma sink gently down lower than ever before, leaving a lasting trace of exotic leaf, as her voice broke through the spell with her ancient enquiry: "milk and two sugars was it, dear?"

Lately
he will simply sit enclosed
focused on another world
somewhere he feels more at home
with a script he and his can own

Later
he will emerge,
shifting focus,
slowly taking notice
adjusting to a slower gravity
reverting to a lesser fluency
but no less forthright
not giving his words away
without a fight
and so we fight.

Have you ever tried to tell the time?

I mean really tell it?
Tell it what you think of it –
where you wish it would stick
its incremental ticking,
its incessant tocking
its perpetual passing?

Have you ever told it to just STOP!

To get out of your face
To give you some space
or at least to try and relax and shorten its pace?

Well, I DID.

I told it to pick a side!
I told it to stand aside,
or we’d have to take this outside.

It didn’t make a nano of a difference.

I still have to sit and watch my own personal doomsday clock
I still can’t get my body clock to slow or stop.
I still have to go to my blasted birthday party
to celebrate a tick closer
to that last
tock.

(sigh)
Many Happy no-returns.

Tell me,
how did you keep your heart?
how did you guard it under such relentless assault?
how did you keep it whole?
how did you keep it open?

'I had you.'

When we offer
a sacrifice of praise,
our lives as living psalters,
are our hearts altered?

I'm thankful for family
For sisters who love me
I'm thankful for parents
Who took their role seriously

I'm thankful for a home
That was open to friends
I'm thankful for cousins
And family that extends

To uncles and aunts
To grannies and nans
To granddads and grandpas
And in-laws and clans

I know we're not perfect
We've had ups and some downs
But together we flourish
We won't be kept down

She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

She opened her eyes
smiling at the memory of what was
laughing at what had been
looking back with thanks.
And thankful, she sang
And thankful, she shouted
with echoes of healing,
of growing,
of climbing -
to the Here,
to the Now,
ready for the Next,
anticipating the Not Yet
and prepared for all that is promised.

But for now
she looked back
with thanks
and she - just - sang!

Arthur met a confounding god today.
A maze of a god,
with Arthur in the middle.

A god not hemmed in by history,
not bound within Arthur's worn, white bible;
beyond understanding, as promised.

Arthur met a god outside
his tarnished creed,
a god too slippery for certainty.
An untidy, script-ripping god.
A god who hovered beyond
the borders.

Not a guiding light, but a blinding night.
And blind, Arthur recognised little through his tears,
as his father slipped away,
as promised.

Will the hurdles be high?
Are the footpaths steep?
Will the days be long?
and cause me to weep?

Will you be there too?
Will you have time for me?
Will you let me down
and return by degrees?

Will I fill my shoes?
Can I act my age?
Will I brave the crowds?
Can I seize the day?

The answer is Yes
it has always been so
so get off your ****
it's now time to go.

Cool aqua marine
Stillness sinking into blue
I wait for the sun

My fears sink down deep
The pool offers little warmth
I wait in the sun

Questions float in time
Waters answer in silence
I wait with the sun

The island's abandoned beauty
stayed on first name terms
with the coming storm,
oblivious
of its violent betrayal,
unmindful
of the berserker landscaping
that tore a new path towards it.
(Where are all the birds today?)