As brave as my poems.
As simple and stark.
As concise and clean,
with a definite end,
yet with room for expansion,
allowing the reader, the hearer
as much space as they need,
giving permission to speak,
to complete the thought
or to simply take it as read. 

Oh, to be as brave as my poems.
A rift off a line from Fiona Benson in interview: "...as brave as my poems."
I sit
beneath the sign that reads silence
conscious of my imminent sneeze
and the threat of its violence.
Library fears.
It's not the force of the blow
it's the force of the feeling,
the grit of her teeth
and the words that's she's snarling.
It's the loss of the mother
I remember her being,
it's the hate on her face
that leaves my head reeling.

It's not the force of the fist,
it's the fear that this
is all that is left
of the mother I miss.
Post visit blues. Not a good visit.
His talking faster now for he knows his time is shorter than before. He flies from the Law to fresh words of grace and I struggle to keep pace with his passion that threatens to overwhelm his frail, well-travelled frame. Words that inspire, even as they are inspired, fired thick and fast, finding their target, embeded in my inscription as I seek the gift of accurate Word-made-flesh-made-word on paper transcription.
And now as I sit with fingers quivering, taking time out while I can while he's sleeping, I pray that the inspiration for the words that he's speaking will be equalled by my quick ears and matched by my quicker scrawling so that the church will hear just what the Lord is saying and can read the truth that is their's for the believing.
Thoughts on the guy who transcribed scripture for Paul.
I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.
Preparing for my visit to see my mum.
The prince and I are not friends,
though I respect him
and I value the role he plays.
However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
did feed him snacks.
As a boy he would slip into the kitchen
between meals,
sometimes persuading his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister.
I know this because of the prince's note.
He sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.
A boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and giving kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
remembered and valued by family and by royalty.
For Uncle Peter.
A change in complexion
A different choice of race
A cross of border union
A wider palate of taste

A shake-up down in Sussex
A paler skin exception
A dilution of the line
A pallid revolution
A crazy weekend in Windsor.  With a back drop of race politics.
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