Let's talk about your father.
How did that make you feel?
Let’s talk about that.

It’s okay, take a breath.

How did that make you feel?

Breath. That’s right.

Tell me more about that.
Did that make you feel afraid again?

Breath. Good.

Can you tell me more about how that felt?

That’s right, breath.

How do you feel now?
Can we talk more about that?

Deep breath.

Is that you?
Or just your memory of you?
There’re both real.

Breath.

The yet expressed won’t stay repressed, won’t rest until we find a way to say out loud what lies within our still breathing, beating breast – grieving and weeping to attest to the love we feel even now though we can no longer confess that love to the one we miss but nevertheless can’t stop but manifest in our words, our deeds and indeed in our tears

- staining our chest where once we held them close and long to hold them once again.

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.

Upon the third resurrection the lower of three buds bloomed,
I say three buds, but there was also an attempt at a fourth,
but nothing that could be called an actual bud – more of a high blemish.

Upon the third resurrection, the bloom had kept its family colour,
a repeat of a pink shade of purple with a white heart, flaring wide
toward the light, shouting the promise
of further offspring -

the future promise of beauty visited to the third
and perhaps to the fourth generation.

They say that it’s the thought that counts ...
and I wonder how He counted the cost,
from the first conception of His salvation plan
to the final arrival of God made man.

What were His first infant thoughts?
What did He think of His mother’s first touch?
And the assault of the cold, the earthy smells?
And perhaps the chime of several cow bells?

Each chime heralding this greater gift,
out-giving even a mother’s first kiss,
or the gifts from shepherds and eastern kings.
This God-gift out-gave all they could bring.

They say that it’s the thought that counts
and I count this gift of Immanuel,
this Godly-conceived first Noel
as by far the Greatest Gift of all.

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’

She played music -
music you’d leave your windows open for.
She rolled into rooms you’d forgotten
and soaked into your cellar until your childhood
floated right up to today and stayed for your tomorrows.

She was like that – building new foundations,
or maybe bridges
between now and then,
leaving pathways your feet could find even
once the last note has finished for the day.

She made music that stayed and stained,
leaving her trace, so you could find her again,
like when you returned from years away.
She had an authentic taste, softly unique
and hard to forget.

I remember one song that ran high,
almost out of reach,
then reaching down into my outstretched eyes,
filling them to overflowing and blurring
the pain for a while.

She played music -
music you’d leave both eyes open for.