Live by a compass of purpose
Not a map of achievement
Celebrate the discovery of the quiet
and challenge the call of the loud

Live by a compass of purpose
It does not circumvent the turbulent
But culverts the tempest of highways
where rage and impatience rule

Live by a compass of purpose
Point yourself to the path home
where you belong.

don’t look at me like I don’t belong,
like me and my kind ain’t full welcome

We're all immigrants, no-one's born in this kingdom,
We’ve got the same grace-rights, as full-fledged citizens

We've each got eternal leave to remain
and have done since the day we came

We have full access, we're all V-I-Ps,
us and the King, we’re real family

me and mine are all around His manor,
if you don’t like it, take it to Father.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe.

I never see him, but I believe he's there,
sitting near with his low hum,
refraining from making a show,
rather staying below, but making enough for me
to know - comfort, making me safe,
making the difference between sleep and awake,
between making zeds and making a peep,
making space for me
to make myself at home,
snuggled deep, quietly full of the stuff
that makes great mischief.

And when I awake I know he's gone,
taking his low hum back to where he came from.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe
and he'll make a return when I need him.

My kids, they prophecy daily,
young men recount their visions,
pensioners dream their dreams,
fired up for holy mission.

I wonder about those like me
caught in our middle ages.
What did Joel have in mind
for men in mid-life crises?

God tells me I'm still chosen,
I still do qualify
to bear ripe fruit, to share good gifts,
to live without compromise.

So as the last days come much nearer,
as our mission nears completion,
you'll find I pray more readily
to herald his coming kingdom.

What choice of paint
Which layer of wallpaper
What chance haircut
will you dig down to to find
the former you -
the era that feels most
like arriving home
after night-turn
to a crazy-paved front,
a pebble-dashed alley
and tea and toast
and sisters' shouts and laughter
and Rikki's cold nose
against the house wake-up
and the cold bed waiting
in the sunlight,
offering the prospect of quiet
and space to process
the night's violence
its ****** silence and chaos.

6 nights to go before
a quick change
to afternoon shoplifters,
junction prangs
and more palatable stories
to take home with white lies
and shielded emotions

Casting my cares,
but not on Him.
Casting down river -
holding the rod,
keeping watch on the reel,
on the bob of the line.
Angling to reel it in when needed.

I'm not letting go,
not for a second.

I do not mind carrying you,
you carry the conversation while I breathe
and your breath warms my ear

I do not mind the angle at which I hold you
as I bathe you and listen to you sing
and your arms soap my cheeks

I do not mind the slow fall onto the bed
your light keeps us aware of the night
and your dreams bruise until you forget

I do not mind,
but I wait for a dawn alone.