so much splendor we cannot picture
waving beyond our spectrum

so many hymns we cannot hear
pitched outside our range

so much love we cannot bear
unbearably tender

but one day we’ll see more clearly
hear more keenly
and love more fully

one day …

The rabbits sit smoking their pipes
content in their shared space,
like there’s nothing that can move them
unless they acquiesce,
like they have no better things to do
than do exactly what they’re doing
and they’re doing what they do best

- contemplate the next word, the next refrain,
the next sweep of their pen, the next throw of the clay
and the colour they have chosen to inject into the next page,
the next dye, the next stitch, beat, thread, chapter, adventure
that their maker has placed in their minds eye

and it’s then that I realise that in every moment together
they’re carefully holding a myriad of holy inspirations
and contemplating their ordering
so that beauty may abound
so that their beautiful God
may breath out yet more of the Creation.

He set out the long, round table
Sufficiently spatial for a up close wedding supper
with the family reclining,
face to face, facing the King,
with room for eternity

I don’t do sides
–--- I’ve chosen my side
at least not yours
–--- and it’s not yours
They’re too far apart
–--- I choose peace
and no thread will mend
---- it’s not yours to decide
the chasm you defend
---- this choice is mine

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.

I've collated my various poetryverses on one website nottoopoetry.com

Oi! What you doin’ sat over there,
cold shoulderin’, ignorin’ your mates?
Oi! Cephas! I’m talkin’ to you.
Who you impressin’ with your pious handshakes?

Why you pretendin’? Are you forgettin?
You trying to ignore just who you are?
You sat down with Him, saw who ate with Him
You saw up close what He stood for.

You know He didn't care who’s been snipped.
You’re not closer to Him sittin’ there.
We all are equally, fully forgiven.
So ain’t it about time you just grew a pair.

Tell the truth to your chums -
Pull up a chair.

I want to live right up to when I die
and through, beyond the finish line.
Not with a gasp and an ugly stumble,
but run straight on, strong and triumphal.

I want to live right up to when I die
with au revoir and not goodbye.
I want to live with real expectation
and run on into the new creation.

There’s something pure in the dawning light
A hint of a greater, holy light
That flames and warms,
Particularly when reflected in a daughter’s eyes
Shining with perfection, reflecting
The warmth and the beauty
Found only in God’s resplendence.

A woman walks into a bar,
alone on a Friday night,
daring assumptions,
orders a pint
and gets out her book.
That's it.  There's nothing else to write.
What?  Not clichéd enough for you?

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 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 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 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?

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

I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.

Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.

Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.

I love solos.  
The courage to stand out front, in front of those consigned to the choir, acknowledging the support they provide with a gracious wave, but not afraid to take the acclaim justly due, front stage.

I love solos.
They celebrate breakthrough, on cue drawing attention away from the typical duets, the quartets, the ensembles, tempering a tendency to celebrate humble, to focus on a singular achievement and an agreement that this is a voice worth listening to.

I love solos.
So step out, take a bow
and make it loud.

I don't do seasons.

What's the point?
Mother Nature pays no attention
anymore - no adherence
to long established norms.
Unreliable, like the rest.
Incomprehensible at best.

So why bother?
Why consider
this season's wardrobe?
Why plan life around the calendar,
when you need any-weather clothes?

So I don't do seasons.
I don't do disappointment.
I don't do expectations.
I just plan for the unplanned
and weather the summer storms.

I'm a man for no seasons.

I envy the equine fly twitch,
the contraction of muscle, the shudder
triggered by the fly’s tickle -
the irritation dispelled in a moment.
I envy that gift to dismiss the torment,
as I sit through another pointless argument.

He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 1st anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

He opened his eyes well after he woke,
not wanting his touch to be proved a lie.

So he lay still, hiding his fears behind
the pink morning glow though eye lids,
holding his excitement under her breath.

And then she moved her hand
from his arm to his cheek
and she whispered, ‘I’m still here,’

and his joy bubbled up into a grin
as his eyes gave proof to touch and sound.

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.

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.

So where is your peace?

Where is your place
where you face-to-face yourself
and greet your peace?

It may be found in solitude
or within stories spread long
with long-standing friends.  

It can be seated in the quiet
or threaded in your deep tread
through the roar of the pier's end.  

So, tell me, where is your peace?
And where did you last know its company?

I watch the rush of our trees,
their impatience,
their hurry ignoring seasons
running full pelt at growth
and fast forwarding their budding,
their fruit bearing,
in good time to take advantage
of the recent resurgence in the 5-a-day.

I watch and blink.

The storm was predictable,
but not as heavy as its counterparts,
and it was swiftly pushed aside
by the August sun and gusty winds.

The storm was predictable
as most are - eager,
but half-hearted
and susceptible to whim
and winds alike.

The storm was predictable,
but not as dependable as His words,
which quiet any storm,
calm any fears
and deliver us to the far shore,
ready for our next adventure,
whatever the weather.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

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.

I carry my bags beneath
my no longer baby blues,
partly framed
and closer to grey

The bags darken with their weight
and they unwittingly pull
the eye down
from the splayed crows feet

I carry my bags

I’m getting closer to someone I used to know
I’m getting within an uneasy grasp of his shadow
a recognition of him beneath the scars
trusting the healing, the tender tissue
letting me feel beyond first sight and fading sound
reaching deep down to what has always been
inside

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.

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.

No need to thank me.
I mean, what are bullies for?

If not to force you
to face the unpalatable.
To confront you
with the cruelest kindness.

To unrelent with unfair truth
leaving you no choice,
but to fight for your life
and strengthen your defence.

What are best bullies for?
But to boost the beast
for when he's needed.

No need to thank me.
You'd do the same for me.

What remains of the day
is of greater value due to
its failure to yet emerge,
its ability to yet be known
and it's there that lies
its potential
to not fail to meet
its true potential
- unlike the past

It’s early – the dominant sun rises, giving
a growing warmth as the urgent seeds dive deep
and the faithful sower dips his head,
dips his hand on repeat and sweeps his graceful arm
away from his small stomach, from his shrinking satchel,
trusting the seed to the sun
and working his way back to the feast.

Thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Not too low
Not too high
Just the right level - enough
to warn me
to give me pause
to prompt questions
to seek answers
before I step forward
instead of bowling past,
passing through, regardless

Pain thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Too high and you'll burn, oblivious
Too low and you'll freeze
in place, never crossing over
into fuller life

Thresholds are good

The next wave will be better.
If I just wait,
if I resist the bait
to join the others,
if I deny the impulse
to jump into right now,
then I know there's a better wave
beyond the horizon...
The next wave will be better.

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.

Cute,
like a baby scorpion
like a pink gun holster,
like a fluffy straight jacket.
You know,
not cute at all.
But still ..
You know -
Cute.

She'd crayoned indiscriminate orange cheer and saw that she'd later been placed high up on the fridge door. From experience she knew that this meant that she had created something of worth, something with a 3-year-old's indiscriminate love, kept in place by a bright red magnet right next to a half-finished shopping list.  

At their next visit she pointed and laughed - it was still there, though a little askew and over-caressed, judging by the finger-grease stains. Her pride was self-evident as she presented the picture's yellow counterpart and watched it being mounted with a matching magnet.  

This time she noticed the tears, so had to ask her mum what that meant.  

She quickly learned and later at the Royal Academy she was ready with a handkerchief when her grandfather teared up staring up at the family portrait in her signature sunshine palette. She enjoyed the smile as he reached up as if to bless the elevated portrait with his familiar caress and grand-paternal pride.  

But the repeated queries about the bright red spot that featured on most of her portraits went unanswered.

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.

The weak sun and clouds
A blanket from the back seat
It's your warmth I miss

Seagulls are massive
Intrepid and audacious
I carry the scars

Wrinkled and 60
From another century
Nothing has changed

One expensive stamp
Short missives over Assam
Wishing you were here

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

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.

After Do Not Be Ashamed by Wendell Berry

Unashamed

You can mute yourself at will
Or find you've hit mute in error.

On ocassion you might find
someone has muted you.

You can go off camera.
Observe and listen.
Unseen, unheard.
Ocassionally waving in the hope
that you will be called upon
to contribute
to comment
on the wisdom of others.

And after a while, on realising that
you've gone unnoticed, unneeded,
you give yourself permission
to walk away,
to simply listen in
while making a cup of tea.

And after a while, you walk out,
to test your necessity
and you won't be surprised
to find it wanting.

But then
as you return.
as you choose candour,
bear your inward clarity
raise your yellow hand,
as you select unmute, unashamed
click camera, unashamed
and find room, find voice -
then a sure screen will rise
from the margins and their eyes
will seek you out
and the mic is yours.

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 can still taste the toothpaste,
my ears hold a dampness
from the flannel,
my pants give rise
to the airer’s freshness
and I’m yet to lose
the stiffness of my bed -

and yet
I remain hopeful of the day,
that it will weigh heavier,
grow mustier,
yield an aroma
I can relate to.

Hope can hurt
all the more the longer
it stays misplaced

and as it stays,
it deteriorates,
degrades, decays,

it despairs into a fainter shade
of hopeless surrender

until, against all hope,
it leaves
hurt.

“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.

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

No, not lost time -
just rearranged.

Not catching up -
just turning the page.

To walk can be fine,
to run takes you further
I know that when I'm skipping
my heart will grow much stronger.

I have walked many paths.
I have made my amends.
I have run far enough.
Now I'm skipping with my friends.