When youth
When wit
When these weapons depart
May courage
May wisdom
May these tools prove enough

Where do we go when we're asleep?
Where do you go when I'm asleep?
Where do I go when you're asleep?
Are we asleep now?
Where ARE we?

Where have you found your Orkney?
Where do you find you're centered?
Where would you say your true self is?
Where can you best be remembered?

Is it in a familiar voice?
Is it in a sound?
Is it in a childhood smell
or is it more place-bound?

Is it when you're free to dance
or when you get up to sing?
When you pick up a favourite pen
and your mind has taken wing?

Is it as you walk or stroll
or in the pace of a run?
Is it when you find your chill
or when you're having fun?

Is it when you're home alone
or when you're there with others?
Is it found when standing solo
or within greater numbers?

Where is your Orkney?
Where are you centred?
Wherever it is you're true self is -
go there and remember.

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog tonight

If I
when I'm shouting
when I'm shouting in the tin-roof rain
against the stadium crowd
If I
when in the white shadow of her pain
bone marrow and head to toe
If I
fail to make myself heard
then I only have myself to blame

- I'm practiced enough
in finding a way through
through careful positioning
through forceful attention grabbing
with her head in both hands
taking her head to mine
and catching her eyes
brow to brow and toe to toe
until she knows I'm there
and that she can come back to us here
where the quiet is.

The last drop of hope
is the strongest.
That's why it's last
why it hangs on
why it holds out
why it pushes back
why it refuses to fall
and instead in defiance it stays,
waiting for your last word
in hope.

Which road did you take?
Emmaus or Damascus?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

What brought you here?
Breadcrumbs or beacon?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

What meal did you share?
Flat bread or feast?
Don't matter.
Same Jesus.

It's the one you meet.
Not how you meet him.

Her curiosity slipped in,
in silence, viewing
the clear, clean canal, exploring
the slow passings of time,
the wear and tears of years
of rough passage, ready to excise
any hint of a foreign body.

And his body lay, foetal,
while the nurse stroked his hand
assuring him the end was in sight,
but he kept still, his eyes tight shut
until she re-emerged,
and he could blink back into the light.

I wanna that moment of rhythm in an embrace.

I wanna those few steps across the floor
in the arms of someone who loves me,
accepts me, doesn’t want to change me,
can’t wait to see me, and see me grow,
hear me sing and laugh and dance,
someone to join my song,
someone to follow and lead me
across the uncharted floor into hope
and the joy that’s found by two hands
clasped in the dance.

I wanna that.

Who do you invite as a lunch time guest?
Who do you embrace, give space to?
With all due respect, do you connect?
Who do you pick for your table?

To whom do you assign more of your time?
With whom do you breakfast and banquet?
With whom do you offer good food’s aroma,
and space on a cramped picnic blanket?

Do you reach beyond your thick outer marker,
beyond your community sphere?
Do you risk the discomfort of social faux pas
or play safe and stick to your peers?

Do you feast with a loud and generous heart,
starting early and finishing late?
Do you share more of your time, taking your time,
giving with God-given grace?

With whom do you share a long, good meal?
Who are you a good friend to?
Who do you eat with, laugh and be real with?
Tell me - who do you pick for your table?

I am a man
a man who writes poetry
that’s who I am.

Do you see?
Do you see what I see?
A different world
A gift of the future
where promise lies in a whisper
forever
for whoever sees.

Who is the man, this man of seasons?
Who is the man, this man of reason,
who thinks things through, considers all options,
who sees the clues and measures his actions?
Who is the man, whose passions run deep?
And of what does he dream, when silent in sleep?
Who is the man, this man of stature?
Ask his wife, who's lost in rapture.

“Here is the man!” said Pilate. And then,
“Here is your king!” said Pilate again,
thinking that keeping open all options
usually paid ample dividends.

But not this time, learnt Pilate:
when politics fail, mob rule succeeds
he thought ‘I need to nail my colours
and someone other than me

has to die for the lie
that I’m the innocent one.
That’s when I missed my one chance.
to hail God’s one Son.

I had my one chance
to accept the true Truth,
but opted instead
to make an excuse.

Don’t do as I did.
Don’t pass up the offer
to worship this Jesus,
true Son of the Father.

I got just one thing right:
He’s the King of the Jews
But don’t kid yourself,
cos He’s your King too.

Memory in tension
with expectation

Which wins?
Which informs?

And why do we settle
for either?

full of silence
emptied of song
terrible in beauty
and glorious

in her step, traversing
every rainbowed bridge
and leaping, leaping,
glorious in her dance

Afterwards I started feeling
like I am a human
being again.

That's what this place did to me
it brought back my human
in the reflection of the hills,
the lakes, the trees,

but doing nothing to fade the ink.
No one told me that I had been liberated,
I had lost my knowledge.

So I ran free to find my voice last heard
before the years lived with the lasting dead,
the years sat with the lasting hunger,

but I had everything, I had paradise. So I ran -
taking my time to reclaim my body for the hungry,
taking my time to reclaim my voice for the silent.

I stopped living through and started living slowly.
I slept and ate and grew into our new normality,
together again alone.

Running not marching
Breathing not moaning
Swimming not dying
Living not surviving

and my voice lived to tell.
This is where I belong - not alone.

Wind your neck in
but with care,
so not to break the line
lest you drop your catch.

Wind your neck in
until I can take the weight
rest your game on the bank
fish out the hook

consider if to let it away
content with the win
not **** to fill to quench your lust

content with ambition and
laughter met

wind your neck in

Wisdom is knowing how clueless you are
and knowing God doesn't need clues

Wisdom is knowing where your limits lie
and knowing that's where God's reach starts

Wisdom is knowing you deserve nothing
and knowing God didn't let that stop Him

Wisdom is knowing to ask for help
and knowing Who you're talking to

[Proverbs 18:13
To answer before listening—
that is folly and shame.]

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
or how tall the border wall
how faint their call
no matter how great the chasm
between you and them
between your point of view
between your world view
and where they have taken their pew

- Listen

don't write them off
as blinkered
as closed minded
as none-so-blind
and don't be so quick
to assert you're the more
20 20 vision kind

- Listen

don't shame them
or be all too ready to belittle them
don't be dismissive of them
with no respect for them
and for what has led them and theirs
to their honestly held position

- Listen

assume their good faith
and in a space that's safe
assume a position
of good natured
mutual consideration
and seek mutual revelation
of God-given wisdom

-Listen

and as you clear
that common ground
you are bound to build
a safer compound
a creator-shared hallowed ground
where the heard are found
while bound for wisdom
together

I'm not as brave as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I'm not as sure as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I ask more questions,
listen more intently
and I'm more reluctant to reach conclusions

I'm not as young as I used to be
I bear more scars
I move more slowly

but then I'm wiser.

Not flags
Not borders
Not faces
Not skin
Just hearts
Just souls
Just ask -
what's within?

I will make old bones
Keep a silver mane
Flash bright emerald eyes
Scatter mischievous kisses
And carry a sweet song
With old school style.

Until I take that closing bow,
I - shall - be - Glorious!

I wasn't flirting,
I was simply being polite,
Is that so unusual?
Can't a guy hold a door,
Offer a seat,
Give a compliment,
Smile with warmth,
Give a hug,
Kiss a cheek,
Hold a hand,
Walk arm in arm,
Buy dinner,
Have a few drinks,
Go back to her place,
Massage her feet,
Fool around a little,
Stay the night,
Enjoy a lingering brunch,
- without it being made into such big deal?
Women! They blow things out of all proportion.

But are we the rabbit
Or are we the magician?

Oh, no, my dear
You've misunderstood.
We're the hat!
And there're many more wonders within!

Not
'in this light'
not 'just now'
not 'at first sight'
not 'from this angle,'
but
timelessly,
universally,
after scrutiny,
from all perspectives,
you are absolutely -
wondrous.

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was good - good and powerful
And so those in power dictated what was allowable
Claiming the rights of absolutum dominium
But soon found it too strong to be restrained by barriers of the tongue

And while they thought the Word was securely locked
It turned out to be the kinda Word that could not be blocked

It was still very good - good and angry
And in righteous anger in duplicate it broke free

To invade the hearts and minds of the laity
Of men and women like you, like me

to shake off the shackles of the antiquated educated
And to settle into the more readily disseminated.

The Word was out and stayed out after curfew
Keen to travel as far as it could do

To spread wide it's indelible red ink stain
A no matter how hard you scrub it will still remain kinda stain

Recklessly stubborn, to colour, to infest
to fully extend its world wide out stretch

Using every digital tweet and text
And to go on to cast its world wide net

So now you can all binge-feast on the freed up goodness
Of the eternal Word who was once made flesh

It's about balance -
about choice.
It's about consideration, honest
exploration of options
(and having courage enough
to risk infractions).

It's about precision,
about tenacity -
the capacity for patience
and acceptance of perhaps
having to start afresh.

Work through the *******
through to the other side
where words may make more sense
and your mind be perhaps less dense
and where your poems may at last materialise

Like buying Irish tea bags in the 'World Food' aisle
I like to take my jeopardy close to my native Isles

I do buy silky underwear, but only M&S
- trying something sexier will only cause me stress

I stick to those experiments with familiar ingredients
You'll never mistaken me for some sort of deviant

I like to take my journeys only slightly off track
I like it when the menu includes a Big Mac

Don't judge me for my caution,
you’ve no idea what it's like
when my mother keeps on telling me,
cosmopolitan is hype

The world is getting smaller
It's getting quicker too
But it's not getting any younger
A service is overdue

It's just a sleeve.
It's only a glove with loose threads
and small but growing holes
that let in the cold and allow
a glimpse of a frayed soul,
revealing the human that lies within
after all.

Colour me optimistic
But I think I'm gonna make it
Gonna take that ridge
And prove to the fatalistics
That nothing's out of reach
If you stick at it
- And you're a little opportunistic.

You say it's not much
But it's all relativistic
So please don't begrudge me
My uncharacteristic
Success this last week:
I did loose a little
weight.

Making sure
she kept to the right
of her best misdemeanors,

Rising slowly,
incrementally above her
sub-basement failures

Looking for all
the world like the world
owed her a life
time of favours

Striding unnoticed
past her past
jailers, her angry slavers

Throwing her chains
into the back of her dark
red Daimler

Passing sixty
screaming for privacy

Dying for worthy.

Her scars lay obscured,
shrouded by years of survival,
protected by safe distance,
masked by cosmetic smiles -
until you met her eyes
and there you shared
a fragment of her pain.
Wounded,
but after all,
the same wonderful woman.

Attend to your wounds,
mark your losses and
bear your scars - for each
borne wound is a win,
a sacrament mark
of survival worth
the celebrating,
worth wearing on your sleeve.

Jesus intended his wounds,
counted the cross a weight
worth bearing, not counting
his wounds a loss, but a cost
worth paying.

So, He now wears each wound,
each scar a sacrament,
a celebrated win,
because his wounds won you.

God writes straight with crooked lines.

He zigs and zags out of compassion,
out of recognition of our fragility,
our inability to walk aligned to the sun,
our preference to shun the glare of the bright
and to tolerate that light only from the gloom,
but God makes room to write straight with His crooked lines

and so He completes His story.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
when it rages in the dead of day,
when it leaves you cold and empty -

that's then you long for ashes,
for an end to the flagrant flames,
for tears in their rightful lashes.

That's then you crave kin and friends,
voices of long affection,
words of kindness and remembrance.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
that's then you need a fresh flame.

What's up, Xavi?
What do you see?
Where're you going
when you're running past me?

Why're you so happy?
Why the big grin?
Why don't you care
when your brothers crash in?

What's it you're seeing
when you're flat on your back?
Why're you relaxed
when your head gets a crack?

It's cos that deep down
you know that you're loved
by billy goat brothers
who love with a shove!

The bigger my heart,
the greater I hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I think.

The greater my reach
the more I need grounding.

------------------

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the harder I weep.

Yeah, but I'm cute in the face.
Or not. No matter.
I'm chosen and loved.
That's the crux of the matter.

Yeah, but I'm still young yet.
Or not.  No worries.
I'm chosen and loved.
Not living past glories.

Yeah, but I've still got time.
Or not. No difference.
I'm chosen and loved.
I got my deliverance.

This I know.
I'm chosen by God.
I'm loved by the Saviour.
He calls me his friend.
I rest in his favour.

Will we sing just a little
Will we dance a few fresh steps
Will we glance a glimpse of heaven
Will we start whatever's next?

Will we smile with glad approval
Will we laugh with no regrets
Will we pursue our walk together
Will we shout a heart felt Yes!?

Let's turn this corner boldly
Let's run the last few steps
Let's trust the call within us
And answer with our Yes!

I need a strong yin
to rein me in
to be by my side
kicking my shin
when I need to restrain
my under their skin
to pull me out of my dive
and control my fast spin

it's then that my watson,
my bucky, my tonto
comes into their own
and suppresses my ego
So don't go when I strut
when I trigger disgust
just stand by my yang
and balance me up

'There's yogurt in the fridge.'
There's always strawberry yogurt
in the fridge.
When all else is lost
there's speckled bananas,
there's stale rich teas
and there's week-old,
****,
pale pink
yogurt in my fridge.

I love the weight of your hands,
they leak your love
generously

I love the depth of your eyes,
they betray your heart
brilliantly

I love the strength you hide,
you lend it out
liberally

I love your slow presence,
always within reach
intimately

I love your joy and laughter,
both swamp the room
and me.

I love a portrait,
how it contains a moment.
- So many layers,
of the one sitting.

I love a song,
how it resonates with each voice.
- So much eloquence,
captured within a refrain.

I love a cloud,
how it moves with such grace.
- So majestic,
weather permitting.

I love the sea,
how it takes no prisoners.
- So wild and untamed,
tethered to the moon.

I love your eyes,
how they dance with mine.
- So revealing,
laden with secrets.

It's not that I hold my zeal in check.
It's always burning in my gut
coming out in different forms
as befits the ocassion:
compassion with tears,
generosity with wine,
challenge with disappointment,
each tempered with discernment,
watching my Father
and what's on his mind.

And yes, on this ocassion
that called for the grip of a whip,
for upset tables
and upset temple authorities.

They had taken their eye off their Father
and missed the whole point
of God's temple.
They had replaced prayer with profit.

I'm always zealous
and, yes, sometimes it's right
that I shout its fierce light.

Sometimes they need to be reminded
of just whose house this is.