These are not ***** words,

Accord
Concord
Detente
Engage

These are European words.

Line suspended.
Train decanted.
Commuters frustrated.
Work belated.
London isn't working.

Stand at Eleven
On Eleven Eleven:
When we recall the men
And all of the women
Who fell defending
Family and country.

We mourn
In the silence,
Resolving once again,

To do better.
      To honour the past with peace
And to stand with the makers
And the keepers of peace,
Together living and dying
As brothers and sisters
Of the Prince of Peace,
And as children of God.

He's lost,
miles away, miles deep,
detached from his body
even as he wears away the groove of thought
ploughed across one brow
And then he sees me and says,
oh, hi -
that last syllable drawn out
to invite me in with a beguiling smile
and an innocent chuckle
at the ridiculous,
at what has brought us
to this point,
a dual study of single-minded
singleness about to diverge
into a joint pursuit with women of worth
and a marriage of ideas
from which who knows
what will birth

And now,
15 years past his singleminded passing,
I recall his laughter
and the friendship that came unasked for,
unexpected, and unmatched since
and I miss him still.

theoneintwelve
longstobecloser
achestobenearer
tothosewho matter
but instead
s   i   t   s    
a    n    a  r   m   s    
l   e   n    g    t    h
l   o    n    g    e    r
f    r    o   m     a   n     y
h    o    p    e     o     f
e    m    b    r    a    c    e.

All he was was cold...

All he was was cold
And all he held was gone
Every flake fell flat
And every step dragged on

All he said stayed silent
And all he felt was numb
Every tear was frozen
And every seal undone

All he'd dreamed had faded
And all he'd saved was spent
Every hope stayed distant
On this his last descent

And the Prophet stood before the people
(in his polo shirt and straight slim jeans)
And spoke, (and laughed, and sang)
and shared some of their Father’s dreams

“Step out and be unspectacular
Leave the weird behind
God selects right royal mess-ups
And then renews their minds

“Think God-thoughts, glimpse your destiny
But be willing to get it wrong
Father rewards the risk takers
Not those wanting perfection

“The Spirit searches all things
Even the deep thoughts of God
And we can grasp what God is saying
Because we have the Spirit of God”

I feel like I should say
something of substance
something of meaning
something of the moment,

but I remain empty.

My three gold wedding rings sink deeper
into my 30-years-on skin.

I've seen the youtube tricks
for removing them with wrapped floss,

but I think I'd rather sever
each of them at the final decree,

otherwise I'll need to dispose
of three perfectly good gold rings.

And that seems a waste.

Braced against the dawn
Rising above purdah mist
My solitude breaks

Lifted by morning
My lit face turns so slowly
Longing for lost hush

Stirred, shaken, summoned
My cautious foot stretches out
Into the first light

I’m 59 ¾ in my socks, passing older in my dreams
waking in the throw of that first roll out of bed
in my scrambled strike of the percussion snooze button
and my prayer for a delay of the inevitable.

I’m 59 ¾ , but arguably younger in polished shoes,
a pressed whistle and flute
(my creased cover for my wrinkled birthday suit),
and with the adoption of a purposeful stride
to a cramped train ride, a half empty office
and a hybrid solution to a healthier space.

I’m 59 and counting, giving me a final warning
and a diary alert reminding me I have 3 months
to write my bucket list, 3 months before I’m due to kick,
to tick-off my been-meaning-to’s.
3 months of prep, 3 months to lose weight,
get fit, work out, work up a script
for an epic epitaph.

3 months, then I’m in the last quarter – maybe.
Or maybe that was it.
Maybe I’m too late for this pep talk.
Maybe too late by 10 years.
Maybe I should have just hit snooze
and stayed in bed.

Sometimes you won’t be, oftentimes you will
see spots and feel lost. If they persist make yourself
an appointment with a quiet man with unremitting sentences
and cold fingers which will explore new fears, fresh cul-de-sacs
leading to excision by a woman with a practiced smile,
knife-thin latex and a distance
that prevents inappropriate contact.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you find a new lump -
don’t wait, make an appointment
with the quiet man and he may say something
you won’t hear above the screams swallowed by old nausea.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you let regret rise
and tell your daughter all the too lates
that wait unopened.

And one day you will.

Don't feed the hate
Feast with family

Don't plant bombs
Work the garden

Don't plot and scheme
Follow God's path

Don't believe the hipe.
Believe the Hope.

Don't hope against hope
Place hope in the Truth

Don't trust fleeting feelings
Trust your Father

I left time at the door
with my shoes and my plans
and I let go of expectation.
I settled down with my mug
of concentrated calm
and I centred myself
on my mother's withered world,
while she continued to rage within.

there's said to be some merit in me
and there's something to be said about mine
but please never let it be taught
and please never have it headlined
that I've ever done any of this
but with measured and deliberate thought
or time consuming and considered design
none of this comes easy
little of this goes smooth
we all think ourselves imposters
but some of us have pushed through
so whatever doubts you're having
however steep the climb
take the chances that you're offered
and give yourself some time.

Our Lord of life gave life
to the winds, the waters, the flames.
Our maker birthed them into being.

What hands have gathered up the winds?
What arms have wrapped the waters in a blanket?
Whose feet have walked these flames?
Only the Lord’s.

But when we look around, we wonder,
what’s going on?

We harnessed the winds and harvested the whirlwinds.
We dammed the waters and stopped the streams.
We burned the forests and they kept on burning.
What’s going on?

You breathed the winds, but not like these.
You sent a flood but said never again.
You lit the way, but this fire’s unchecked.
Lord, what’s going on?

You rebuked the wind – can you do that again?
You calmed the waves – can you speak once more?
You baptised with flames – can you tame them now?
Lord, what’s going on?

God of sun and hail, of arid plain and blizzard
Lord, come like thunder and earthquake,
Lord, roar like windstorm and tempest.
Lord, spread wide like a devouring fire.
Come, Lord, come.

Come on.
The Spirit of God has sown in our hearts
the beauty of this gifted world.
He fans the spark that remains of our desire
to care, to build and not destroy.
He refreshes our souls even as we grow weary.
He watches.
He watches.
Let’s go on going on.
Come on.

He’s more than just an acquaintance.
He’s more like a regular, familiar companion.

We might go months without hanging out,
but when we meet – maybe for a drink -
we pick up right where we left off,
not having to explain or make excuses – just knowing

that there’s much that goes unsaid, but it goes without saying
that he’s there for me. He’s become familiar
with my thoughts and my turmoils
no matter how high the waves.

No, he’s not the kind I bring home that often
– he’s not great with the kids,
but I expect they’ll come to know him in their own time.

And on occasion, I meet a mutual acquaintance,
and once we realise that we have a friend in common,
it’s easier to bring him into the conversation -
and then there’s less to be said.

I see your consternation,
But you can be sure
Addiction's cure
Is not legislation,
Nor condemnation.
It's not incarceration.

The cure is connection.

We addicts need Relationship,
Not a guilt trip.

This is more than a friendly fraternity
This is our Father’s fearless family

We are Holy Spirit descended
We are chosen, adopted kindred

This is our tribe of His gracious choice
crying ‘Abba Father’ in infant chorus

Hand in hand we stand as His clan
fruit of the original Abraham plan

By his blood we are kin
not distant cousins, but eternal siblings

We are adopted by His choice
fellow heirs with Jesus Christ

We cry out loud and then sing louder
We sing together: ‘Abba, Father’

You say that I'm not wanted
That I'm not of your blood
You see a problem
Not from your neighbourhood.
But I was knit together
By the same God as you.
I'm wonderfully made in the image of God
So now I'm asking you:
If God the Father was willing
To give you a second chance,
If God the Son is happy
To share his inheritance,
Why not look in the mirror
You may be surprised to see
A little, child-shape space
For a child a little like me.

I hold with care the value of the Wait
with a backdrop of the intrusion of the Immediate;
I relish the Not Yet,
not looking for an untimely rush into the unfinished;
I anticipate the delicious Hope,
ignoring the clamour of dissent;
and not taking anything for granted, I do all I can to clear space,
to listen with intent
and to then herald the Promise of the Soon,
the ready-coming-King,
and I embrace the God-With-Us
Now.

May you fare well during this Advent
May you find much grace as you wait
As your household houses his glory
And friends are well met at your gate

It's advent:
Angels invite you to
Adventures in worship in your
Annual observation in
Anticipation of the divine,
Awaiting, acclaiming the King.

The red coats are coming,
The red coats are coming
(but don't let them distract you).

Welcome iron on iron
and words to the wise
Accept kind rebukes
and reject foolish lies

Sit with your father
Listen to your friends
Review what you're seeing
through a God-given lens

Get in the habit
of accepting hard advice
and soon you too will be
counted as one of the wise

The *** sat enthroned,
serene while concealing
the heated turmoil within.
Matching cups laid in wait,
straining against imposed patience,
anticipating the flow of flavour,
the afternoon pleasure
enveloped around the familiar ritual
of shared sweet-musk darjeeling,
while lemon slices rested, reclining,
indifferent but ready if needed.
-
I sat transfixed in Sunday best;
awaiting my slice of black forrest,
impervious to this most grown up delight.

I felt my self mix and fold
equal portions of opposing selves,
a mix and fold of savoury and sweet
dark and light, crunchy and smooth
intrigue and delight
until the sweet hit of my self doubt
eventually cloaked the savoury of self knowledge
creating a disturbing after taste, which blurted out:
"Surely not me, Lord?"
And he handed the bread and the wine to me.

Reputation - what they think they see
Character - what you prove to be

Image - what is seen from afar
Substance - what you truely are

The difference is what makes a man
a sure and steadfast gentleman

Give a man a round tuit,
so round he can't get out of it.
Give a man a round tuit,
they'll be nothing he can't do with it.
Give a man a round tuit
with no reason for him to lounge or sit,
cos once he's got around to it
it'll be done, and that'll be it.

I'm full of long complexity
in this shell of masculinity
You see a pale reflection
of the inner deeper me

I'm not a likely poster child
but believe you-me it's true
I span across the gamut
between them, us, me and you

Don't judge this balding grayness
by the pallid, saggy skin
Start an honest conversation
- find the truer child within

That took less time than I thought

- got old real quick

This is taking longer that they said

- still not grown up

and not long after I caught a glimpse, just a glance
I saw colour and shape
as a half-heard voice brushed my fist,

or it might have been a piano chord, soft and gentle,
but only lasting half a moment.

whichever it was, it felt old,
like an empty hospital chapel or an unfinished letter

and when I turned to check, expectant,
it had changed
– so much so that I wasn’t sure it was what had called to me at all.

By some deeper instinct I only took half a step,
not daring to drop another tear, or form my question
– and over the course of a longest heartbeat, it re-emerged,

first the chord, followed a beat behind by the scent of the past
and the orange zest bled through the haze like a long-held breath.

I found I could breathe
and turn into its embrace

and the world left me in this grace.

Was he a good child?
I mean good at being a child?
Was he good at play?
And was he loyal to friends
come what may?

Could you tell by the bruises,
his scrapes and cuts?
Was it obvious by his defiance
and by his reluctance
at the close of the dance?

Was he a good child?
I ask because I want a man
who’s good at living,
who knows his own priorities,
a friend who will stand by me
long after the music ceases.

So tell me,
was he good child?

Lord, save me from empty lent abstinence
Protect me from light hearted choco-resistance
And stir in me longer-lasting adherence
A dig down deeper ringing resonance
That falls in step with your quiet insistence
to follow a path of greater resilience.

Lord, save me from a temporary temperance
And lend me your eternal Spirit of endurance
That I might take lent as a growth accelerant
And so hold my head higher
in your post-Easter presence.

If we conceive of a presence
captured perfectly
within our trim theology,
we forget ourselves.

He's true to his word,
but too big for a book
that fits in our human hands.

Home is so unmoved.  It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart, with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts of potatoes
and withered veg, an adamant replay
of striped tablecloths and brown orange plates,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was
close your eyes and see the scrapes of plates, the kettle.  
And that mug.

A hug is a huge thing,
a something that can envelop,
can cause me to well up,
can burst through my well built up
defences and knock down fences
that have stood the tests
of time-honoured conventions,
that respected my distance
and even admired my stiff upper prevention
of anything like a display of affection.

A hug is a long held committing,
a massive undertaking
that leaves a long-lasting indentation
of serious loving.

A hug is a huge thing.
We need a hug.

I've just gone past my best before,
but I'm still before my sell by;
I may well suit a daring soul
who'll give a Russet a try.

I'm not as smooth my brothers
and not easy to describe,
but if you like it warm and spiced
I may be just your type.

You may detect the odd small wart,
but please - don't be put off;
you'll be surprised how good I look
after a thorough wash.

So take a chance, take me home
and take a slice with cheese;
you'll find from the taste that flows
I'm far more than what you see.

Some will sing of Scotland,
its heather and its hills
Some will sing of sunrise,
the coming of new dawns
Some will speak of hidden gems
some of treasured pearls
But I will sing of Alba Flower
when kneeling in my prayers.

I will thank my Father God
that she came before the dawn
that in the deepest night
Alba's bright new light was born
I will thank him for the joy
of finding this precious pearl
and thank him for entrusting us
with this wee bonnie girl.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of a new option
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation given for heavenly interruption
A deliberate choice for a fresh listen
A much needed full-stop punctuation

A calming - a sit stilling
A waiting - a head spacing
A surrender - a release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected end-of-the-road Peace
Here on this path, walking with the Prince

A little delusion
going a long way
A little dreaming
bringing fresh clay

A little quietening
bringing me change
A little challenge
to my forces at play

I heard music in the night, and voices
- singing choral voices -
and a light rising, proclaiming
a kingdom, a peace, a kept promise

Like a new shoot from an axed stump
Like new fruit on a dead branch
Like laughter in the silence
Like a new star, with a most singular spark

and then I saw a child rise up
from the long dark
clutching a fresh old hope
and he led us
home.

A little yeast
A finger hold
A way inside
Shift of control

The counter contagion
The heel coming down
The firm push back
Control of my own

I recall the succulent
All Day Breakfast Sandwich
With its delicious twin slices
Of pure white bread,
Infused with Heize baked bean juice,
Cushioning the crisp smoked
Sweet cured bacon,
Nestled against the bite
Of pork chipolatas
And the soft free range
Hard boiled eggs,
All seasoned with sea salt
Black pepper
Tomato sauce
Dijon mustard and
Mayonnaise.
And now sustaining me
All Day.

I know it’s all-encompassing, but you know something?
it’ll pass, and we’ll move on
and we’ll try to forget the moments when we thought we could all be goners.

We’ll look forward, quote verses about new things and we’ll be assertive
and we’ll trust God for the future, post memes on our computers
and it is right that we do this with honest good humour

but let’s not waste this season by simply surviving,
simply grinning and bearing, and us hiding our crying.
Let’s not miss these moments, these weeks and months
when it's more honest to pray with tears and sobs,
asking for answers to our cries for life,
for the lives around us,
- for those who have died,

for our sanity cooped up and us barely coping,
our routine getting worn with daily repeating
without much needed hugs and with limited ways
to meet and to sing and to share our long days
with more than these same four walls

Pause

– don’t forget how this felt for you,
cos that's the way we seek his truth
and be better able to rely on him
next time our lives lose their rhyme and rhythm,

when (let’s be honest) our faith gets wonky,
and each one of us alone can be tempted to worry

and sink inside.

Let’s be honest with him and next time
our vision may be better aligned
and we’ll look to him and rather than hide,
we’ll stand that much straighter, knowing our God is so much greater,
our God is wider and higher and untold deeper
and he has this frail life in his two pierced hands that are so much bigger.

I know it's all-encompassing,
but you know something,
he is all Father,
all Creator, all Redeemer
and the all-encompassing more Grace-giver

He is the one holding it all together
and he wants to walk through this grief together

with you.

So, turn down the news,
make some space, seek his face
and let’s pray.

Neither Gentile nor Jew
neither captive nor free,
neither female nor male,
you're all Abram's seed,

all one in Christ Jesus
to him you belong,
all promised heirs
equal parts of the song,

singing out your own "Abba,"
getting childishly closer,
as his Spirit within you
cries out louder,
"Father".

Perch up here on this stool so we can judge you, analyse and season you and so help redefine you. Let us make-up for the blemished you, whatever the level of damaged you and so apply a brand new layer to you.

We can enhance you with a new shade of you, we can sponge, brush and fill-in you, conceal the less-than-perfect you. We can blush you, highlight and contour you, fade you and blend you right into the crowd of our just-like-yous. We can make-up for the real you and ensure noone ever gets a clue as to the essence of the beauty of the original true you.

Just perch here and let us re-make you.

A lack of foresight with
A limitation of imagination.
An aptitude for apathy and
An inability to emote.
An incapacity for chat as well as
An impatience for punchlines.
A distrust of discordance shackled with
A flair for unforeseen offence.

Alone
And a knack for nothing else.
Here I can relax.

The future's bleak
The future's orange

I aspire for the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring.
Ambition to realise her passion:
providing
serving
loving
learning
teaching
and persisting all hours
with no reflection on reward
but for the pleasure of the pursuit
of her God-given trust
- and so to serve royals
and her King
with contentment.
Then uniting with Him after a life well lived,
with lives better lived for knowing her.