What is it about a national flag
draped over shoulders,
tied at the neck
or wrapped like a toga
that makes me cross the road?
Why do I suspect it covers anger?
Why do I hear a shout of challenge,
rather than a song of honour?
Was it too many urban marches?
Flying London bricks?
And cracked skulls?
Let's put flags beyond reach
on flag poles,
and preferably not at half mast.

Blessed are you who know hungry.
Blessed are you who know thirsty.
Blessed are you who know both
hollow and empty.

I'm not talking to you peckish.
I'm talking to you who are conscious
of just how long it's been
since your last real meal.

Blessed are you when you pass up
on the offer of a fast food snack.
Blessed are you when you don't make do
with leftover scraps.

Jesus says:
Blessed are you who know your true need,
you who know where to fully feed.
Blessed are you who look to me,

- for I am the true life-giving manna,
sent down by your faithful Father-Provider.
I am the fresh-bread of eternal life.
Whoever comes to me -
be ready with a butter knife.
For you will never
go hungry.

When I kick the bucket
I want it to be proper rusted,
zinc exposing steel.

When I kick the bucket
I want it recognisably mine,
a signature rattle.

When I kick the bucket
I want it made into a planter.
I want my bucket to bloom.

Take an isolation of loneliness,
add one park bench,
sprinkle liberally with sunshine,
blend with mixed bird song
(and an optional warm breeze).
Leave to ferment for at least one hour.
Resist the temptation to disturb,
and you will have yourself
a healthy dose of solitude.
Take one as part of your five-a-day.

Recycled conversations
won't ever save the world.
We need to stop recycling
and use more one-use words.

Sometimes
it's about pushing through.

More often
it's more about
timing the next turn

or taking the next bend

with a tight grip
braced against the rain.

Driving your son
is like dispensing a truth serum,
extracting revelation

Driving your daughter
is like tuning in to an ongoing drama
with you a minor player