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?)

Like a treed squirrel
with no fear of capture.
Like a failed terrier
with two feet on the ground,
giving no heed to heel.
I fall victim
I am subject
to my nature.

He tilted his head “Okey doke, it’s almost time to go
– I’ve got a yoga teacher next, down in the Grove.
For you, it’s time to write the silence for a while,
to write the unsaid, to shelve meek and mild.

“Write the inner anger, the notes of distress.
Write what it was that you wished you had said.
Write all the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Write all the feelings you’d wished you’d conveyed.

“Write what it was you had meant to do,
what you intended that so frightened you.
What was it that you’ve let fall in between
your long dead silence and your unsaid scream?

“See if your volume will go above minimum
without it scaring you and leaving you frozen.
Go shape the words and say them out loud
find what it’s like to make fiercer sounds.

“Cos I’ve been so bored, sitting here listening
to nothing but you sat saying your nothing.
Go write your silence and come back around.
And let’s see if you’ve something worth writing about.”

life's not a race, it's more of a dance
and some choose to dance in formation,
others pair up, even more dance alone
while some spin a DJ vocation

The day's been seized
with no ransom demand
It's in a windowless basement
and will never see daylight again

The day's been seized
taken from those it loves
with no hope of reunion

The day's been seized
but so far unharmed

The days been seized
and reduced to tears

tears

The dead are still wriggling.

I thought I'd stamped hard enough
Twisted my heel long enough
Been vicious enough
To render their meddling
Null in their void
Enough to create them sterile
In their bequest
To bestow a double portion
Of pain.

I thought they were dead
And gone.
I was wrong.

10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And should have been grateful
For the outstretched hand that took the brunt
Of the sharp corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back

Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners
That formed the bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on without a care
Unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,

And applied to the navy for a crazy venture round the world
Or he would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
And said he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes, raising familiar giggles

and the redraft:

10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And might have been grateful for the outstretched hand
That softened the corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners,
The bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for worldwide venture
Or would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
Cos he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes,
Raising familiar giggles

Like a Pool Frog
at a dry river bed.
Like the flow
of a water garden
in the dry season.
I am stilled.
I am struck dumb.
I am Walpoled.

I miss his deep bellow
 from the front hall as he went out the door.
It wasn't loneliness.  It was a familiar emptiness
and he always came back.

I miss the dark grease
 on his clothes in the wash. 
It wasn't an imposition.  It was part of the routine
and it usually came out. 

I miss the dank stench
 he brought with him at the end of shift.
It wasn't much different to dad's.  It felt  right
and it didn't fill the house for long.

I miss the certainty
 that he brought with him.
But it's hardly sad. 
It's simply the end of something.
He's gone.

The radio reports no congestion
and the goings good with few delays.
Sat Nav tells me it will take no time
with light traffic the whole way.

It's apparently never crowded here
on this less travelled extra mile
I'm a first time pilgrim and I've not passed others
for a good lonely long while.

Vulnerable ain't weak
Hurting ain't broken
Pausing isn't giving up
Tired isn’t beaten

For so many years I felt the pull of the fires in my head
until the years drew them down to my chest
and then to my gut where they pushed me out to new fields
where blood fed the corn and we stood our ground
for the sake of family and for the joy of brotherhood's embrace.

In more recent times the fires have bled down,
fed into my hips and my knees, causing me to slow,
to sit and spend time passing on my story
to younger hearts who may dodge the spills and stumbles
and steer themselves to whiter fields and perhaps sow happier times.

Perhaps they will,
but I'll tell them -
the fires remain.

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.

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its dependable
and Lord I don’t feel I qualify
Faithful sound daily, faithful sounds every
day rising with no need to apologise

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its consistent
and Lord, my consistency’s low
faithful sounds predictable, someone reliable
and Lord, you know that’s touch and go

Lord, grant me a spirit of someone who’s faithful
someone who’ll last til the end
Someone like you, who when the going gets tough
gets going and dies for his friends

Lord, grant me your Spirit, full to the brim
reliably and consistently there
so I may be faithful to you and to those
you have placed here in my care

I learned gentleness from a giant of a man
whose reach
reached full round the world and deep into my wounds,
offering a strength and a healing
that was light as a whisper
and heavy as a salve
that gave off an aroma which took me back
to my mother’s arms,
her safe smell and the music of her song,
rocking me gently and teaching me more about strength
than any wannabe giant of any size.

He gave me a giant’s confidence to hold tight to Him
while holding all else in an open hand
– not grabbing,
nor forcing,
but holding out for Him
and His gentleness
that I find invites more
than it commands.

Like a sprinkler system in the height of summer
Like a cold compress on a bruised, sore head
Like gentle air con on a humid night
Like a heated blanket over a cold child's bed

Like an unexpected place offered at the table
Like a smile from a old thought-lost friend
- may your goodness flow undiminished through me
to whoever comes round the next bend

May your sweet goodness be my signature tune
May it always be following me
May my friends taste and see that you are good
And know for themselves your good mercy

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

Kindness is not nice.

Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.

Kindness isn't like that -

Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humanity its passport to lands yet explored, to vast pink territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.

Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

If you like your fruit soft
and sweet
You need simply segment it
with patience.
However
if you prefer
the earlier bite of hurry
the bitter crunch of
'time is money'
then pick it early
because you know
we don't all have all the time
in the world
but we do have better things to do
with our time,
which as you know
is of the essence.

But if you like your fruit
soft and sweet,
then sit in the shade of the tree.
Sit at his pieced feet
and listen to his patience.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
A slow examination
of a proposed change in direction

An opening
An invitation
A deliberate fresh hearing
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A spacing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected
even deeper
God-given
Peace

Not by fashion or passing trend
Nor by my standing with foe or friend

Not by whim or sweet-toothed appetite
Nor by what others tell me is right

Not by what I think I would gain
Nor by how best to avoid risk of pain

I will not be controlled by any of these
But by my Spirit-filled self, when I’m on my knees.

And where do you keep the jazz?
Where do you store the melancholy,
the self-reflection
and the escape.
Direct me to the place you keep
for your inner, your deeper,
your best kept back
and let's sit and explore,
let's jazz and coalesce
into a more honest
and more innovative
improv.

what could be harder
getting up before the dawn
beating a lone path

climbing into your cold cab

what could be cooler
sitting high above the snow
clearing a shared path

Bare clean carpets
Make for a lonely house
But big boot prints
Means Santa Klaus

Somehow has delivered
To every household
His bones they creak
But don't feel the cold

He dresses in red
With a bottomless sack
He has quick feet
And a broad strong back

He works his magic
Year after year
Then races home
For a well earned beer

He guards our dreams
For a kinder world
Saint Nick he delivers
He never gets old 

So this Christmas
Open your mind
Stand with Santa
And break out the Kind.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace, the prince to get tricky,
one lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, the other stood guilty,
one spoke the truth, the other just lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears, one empty of pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought the war had been won.
The King rose on Sunday, his reign just begun.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace and the prince to get tricky.
One lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, one died not guilty.
One spoke the truth and one shouted lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears and one with no pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought that was the finish.
The King rose on Sunday, his rule undiminished.

Today we have the labeling of people groups.
Yesterday we had the suggestion of an inherent disposition to dishonesty and violence in some groups.
Tomorrow we will have the careful counting of individuals and the placing of individuals into each people group.
But today,
today we have the labeling of people groups.

For those of you who are new here, we recommend this period drama underlining racial differences with a subtle suggestion of inferior intellect in some groups indigenous to warmer climes.
And here we have a persuasive and tabloid friendly research paper that hints that children of mixed race tend to struggle in school. You'll be relieved to see that it hasn't any distracting data.
And on the shelf beneath you'll see there's a picture book version for younger children.

Over here is the arbitary divide between us and them, with a useful circle of arguments to differentiate ourselves from others.
Here we have colour coded lables to more easily distinguish between  people groups. Yes, that's correct, we have three labels: white, black and, a recent addition which is now available for added distinction, rainbow.
Oh yes, when engaging in any discussions, for your own safety please ensure you wear these ear defenders.
To ensure a free flow of visitors we have erected large signs in three languages marking where charity at home ends. Yes, after rigorous focus group testing we have selected the English language in three font sizes.

We are coming to the end of this orientation tour.  Please note the subtle but effective shedding of compassion for those who appear or sound different to us.  This underpins the necessary disregard for the rights of others that we assume for ourselves and for those like us. It is almost imperceptible I think you'll agree.

But the priority for today, as I say, is the labeling of people groups. 
No questions.
Shall we begin?

His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.

If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.

And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.

And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.

The last flag flying
over the last lady singing.
The last dance ending
after a last minute warning.
The last laugh fading
from the last man standing,
at long last seeing
that it's over bar the weeping.

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

The Last Priest
smiled his blessings
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

The Last Priest smiled his blessings
indiscriminately, bridging,
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

Foller Gill’s story treads
seemingly softly, rhythmically,
leaves their fresh green mark
beyond the grey, beaten paths.

Foller Gill takes
the much lesser-trod course,
searches deeper, further, takes
secrets to their mainstream beck.

Euden Beck strides
hungry, curiously thirsty,
pushes past the slow, shaded fields,
scorns their hemmed-in universe.

Bedburn Beck ambles,
tramples down all resistance,
insistent in their pursuit
of an ancient destiny.

The Wear wanders,
snakes towards their final estuary,
savors the holy promise,
the gift of the free, North Sea.

Foller Gill bathes
unbound in their ocean.
And their legend continues.

The lie is that
where I lie
no one else
sees or cares for -

That the world lies
someplace else
somewhere different
separate
alien.

I hear the lie out loud
and drown out the voices
so I must imagine
the sound of truth
so that one day
I might recognise it
and we will lie together.

(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.

We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.

I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.

I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.

But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.

To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings,  8 thrupenny bits.

I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.

I sorted
and I sorted again.

I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.

I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.

I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.

Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.

4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet, square in the threshold, charged with a ready welcome and ruddy face.

He stood with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor who too stood in a similar red coat and sore shiny feet and with his own style of smile.

He stood until he fell one March morning, in his thick red coat and his sore shiny feet and with a heart that failed to live up to the responsibility that came with the threshold and the coat and the shiny feet and instead chose to take its rest.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet square in the threshold, charged with a duty to smile with an open face, with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor.

And he stood.
And he smiled.
As charged.

With a smile she built her man of the freshest snow with eyes of the coldest coal, - she laughed as she set his top hat at a song-and-dance angle and fashioned a fred astaire cane from a discarded broom handle, - she whispered her mischief, hoping for some reaction, but he kept his silence, with a marked chilled inaction - and as she began her dance, she couldn't help but be crushed by his stubborn hush and the steady fall of diluted coal dust.

You’ve got lost all over again
You need to just face it
You thought you were lost before
but now you know you are
You know you’re right about something and it’s this
You just need it to happen one more time
and then you’ll see the pattern
then you’ll find the key, the clue that’ll unlock the map
That way when the day ends you’ll no longer be lost
and you will have found that the day can end well after all
You know, like it’s supposed to
And then you’ll find it, right there, at the end, where it’s supposed to be
where it was all along
See?
Told ya.
4 dimensions work better.

Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.

The truth and power of our faith hangs on the cross,
on the height of sacrifice,
on the lengths and depths Christ was willing to go
from holy conception to physical resurrection
from Passover supper to Emmaus meal,
to fish on the beach, to the promise of a feast
at his Father's family table.

The truth on which we stand hangs on God made man
and on us made new, all due to our LORD Jesus Christ,
God's most loved Son, our loving Saviour,
our once and for all time holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power of our faith
hangs on His cross
but now stands on a rolled away stone,
revealing the empty space
that left Roman minds blown.

The truth is, the power of God is an early riser
and loves a walk in a garden
whether at the dawn of time
or before dawn on an Easter Sunday morn-ing.

The truth is, Jesus didn't waste time,
but got up early to be Mary’s before dawn guide
who promptly anointed his feet in tears one more time
(but he didn’t seem to mind)

and she spread the news
that the Truth was up and walking
way before the doubts and lies got talking.

She told them
the truth is, there's no need to rage against the coming of the night
for Jesus entered death’s domain with his pure and living light.
And before sunrise, he rose in plain sight.

The truth is,
Jesus is the Way and the Truth and New Life
and He walks with you in the early-morning Easter Light.

So rise, let your song and your life
glorify the living Christ
and share his creation-wide invite.

And tell them this truth:
Jesus is Alive.

And the people said in one voice, Amen.

The muted cuckoo goes through the hourly motions, miming dutiful repetitions
which in time is lip-read til we appreciate what's long-gone unsaid.

Another hour has sped by, pregnant with unrealised promise.

Is there a villain in every story?
Or do we insert one?
Does that make the story easier to tell?

Is there a hero?
And does it have to be you?
Or could you be the villain?

Is there an end to every story?
Or do we create one?
Does that make the story easier to tell?

Is there a new start?
And does it have to be yours?
Or could you be the ending?

And why does it seem to matter?

My eye was drawn to the next bridge
before I had fully passed beneath this one.
I had thought it more appealing
until I saw it up close
and looked back at what I'd missed.

Then I fell.
I had been so sure of the path
I had mapped
I had planned
I had plotted a route
for my solo adventure
and then I fell
on both my feet

- all because of you

Then I woke

   The dream died
   like the faded marrow ache
   once the door closes
   and the fire invades
   to rekindle the embers within.

and my eyes adjusted to the light.

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?

All dressed up and waiting for summer,
a summer as strong and as fresh
as this perennial dress.

All made up and ready for life,
a life as bright and as perfumed
as this fragrant woman waiting to bloom.

'Wake me when summer comes.
'Stir me when the sweet zest rises and the sun can kiss me as with the dawn.'

The panic speaks
eloquently and persistently,
telling me that I need a new filter
by which to drink in, to inhale
the good
and like an extreme diver, hold it in
while exploring the dark places.

You see,
the panic we feel on the surface
only serves to take us down,
while it denies us the means of rising again.

But if I can learn to pause,
to take in the good,
the wholesome, the nutritional,
then I can ready myself
to face the dark
and, having done so,
I will find the light again.

I had grown out of time-outs - those imposed minutes of inward reflection, of self confrontation in wait and ponder. I had forgotten that slowing and pausing could be a productive use of time, and that eternity does indeed wait for all who have the stamina to stop the clocks and drape the mirrors.

I had instead lived for the future, passing abruptly / obliviously through the momentary present, robbing myself of the present time to consider, to discern, to consult, to learn from those like my father who had travelled further through time, having time to use the time-honoured travel method of patience.

And now, in my father's cooling presence, I stalled in an unfamiliar, unexpected hiatus between generations, and was forced to wait for what would come next.

And I paused.