"I'll leave you all the weapons for that",
Pat smiled and perched the two too-tall cinnamon buns
down beside me on the windowsill,
as promised fully armed with knife, fork and serviette

I entered the fray and caught the eye of the postman
as he fought with his cart along the too narrow,
not-quite-cobbled path, slick with rain,
and then he nodded and gave way
to the guy in the slow sports wheelchair

while the young mum on low reserves
wrestled with her twin girls
up past the town hall and gallery,
perhaps with the promise of grandma's cookies

- all this while Jill's coffee brewed patiently alongside the buns
as she and Deb re-ran long laughter of past adventures
and plotted paths to future endevours.

Welcome to the pharmacy, for poetry.

The angel's nose is in the dirt.
His sacrifice apparently saving us to our grief.
He lies there broken for us, prayerfully still,
there for the sake of the children,
for the sake of decorum,
protecting us from the accidental,
from the potential risk of an angelic fall
crushing the griever as they stoop
to place their flowers.

My sister chose the flower arrangement
from the top table of her daughter's wedding
where the fallen should have been
and perhaps could have stood
giving a heart-felt and gently humorous speech,
offered a toast to beauty and happiness,
but instead lies emotionless

in the dirt.

He didn’t realise just how easy it was to slip
how you can lose track
lose count and how simply
a habit can become addictive

Once you get the taste for the hit
you find yourself reaching for it
and before you know it, you’ve slipped
into a dependency -
lucky this time you’re only a *****
for Lemsip

I read my favourite graphic novel and I see
I need more breath between the panels
The images come too quickly
They combine with the dialogue to overwhelm me
and my ability to process, to ingest
the action and our conversation

Can you afford me more breathing space,
more margin in my morning kitchen shuffle,
can you allow me the time,
maybe as much as the day after the night before
to properly process without the stress
of having to readily express a miserable conjecture
of what I’m feeling, what I'm missing

Then I can signpost where I'm heading
I can pause and recap, provide an opening to map
where my story is going
and then perhaps I can take us with me.

Quote from Paddington in Paddington the Movie

“Mrs. Brown say in London everyone is different, but that means anyone can fit in.  I think she must be right because, although I don’t look like anyone else, I really do feel at home.  I will never be like other people, but that’s alright, because I’m a bear.  A bear called Paddington.”

No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Whether you know it or not
There're those who look to you
Give them something worth seeing
Something honest and true

All of us carry our scars
Some costly, all hard earned
Don't waste the sweat and tears
Share the lessons you've learned.

We've all got younger brothers
We've all got younger sisters
Take some time to walk with them
Shake off the doubt that hinders

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers