As two of God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved,
clothe yourselves with – care.

And don’t fear for one moment
that this is a moment for Primark fast fashion. No,
this clothing has been slowly, sustainably woven
with an emphasis on durability, high quality,
never possibly out-of-season,
always in fashion: clothing chosen by our Master tailor.

There’s no one greater at creating, and occasionally altering,
and surely lovingly repairing, with the deepest understanding
of your fabric, of your patterns.

His is a dependable creation of each clothing item.
He will dress you both with a maker’s passion,
but with clothing that’s every-day wearable,
all temperatures washable,
and year on year imperishable.

And today, as you cradle each other,
as you dance together, catching the light
we’ll catch sight of the blend of embedded embroidery
as evidence of years of two mothers praying consistently,
illustrating in their patient stitching what we know to be true,
and now see for ourselves, shining through,
a unique combination of threads, of texture, of singular colour,
merging cultures to allow new beauty to emerge
and so to boast yet another piece of the Maker’s creation
falling inevitably into place.

For He has graced you with a shared walk-in-wardrobe,
one to explore all that he has in store.
He has prepared ensembles for all occasions,
for any and all weathers: casual wear, work wear,
Sunday best, bright party threads,
even some glorious stage outfits
that will maybe someday fit into a dressing up chest.

His clothing range had range,
it has bespoke compassion
and signature kindness with generous pockets,
each piece displaying a cut that screams
humility in all its simplicity

and the touch of the fabric is rare gentleness,
it has layers of soft patience
and thick, tough forgiveness.

And in the top drawer of the dresser,
He’s placed his and her matching belts
each made with leathers of supple love,
perfect for bringing any outfit together.

You’ll find your garments
will keep a perfect crease of harmonious peace,
just so long as each night you fold them
with long songs of thanks,
always directed to the great Designer
– who, after all, is the ultimate Bridegroom
who knows just how to dress his bride.

And so, whatever future you have in mind,
clothe yourselves with - care
from this day forward. And whether in word or deed,
do it all with his exclusive brand’s label,
His Name, forever displayed on both sleeves.

Have you noticed how the trees
regard us with distain?
How they glare at us
through their tight knots of annoyance?
How their creaks complain in concert,
irritated by our clumsy husbandry?
How they long to rid us
of our unwarranted excess?
How they scoff at our ignorance
of their ancient shimmy with the storm,
their long dance with the consonant sunlight?

How they weep at our incessant warring,
impatient for our passing?

Pressing pause, perhaps mid-dogma,
stopping the clock from moving
forward while you’re readying
to commit, allowing your listening
to catch up with your hearing, giving
a moment’s pause, allowing
a deeper breath ahead of taking
the next step, perhaps contemplating
where to place your foot - changing
your long held direction, gauging
the sudden breeze, stepping
back or testing
the next step of faith

- all this is possible in this pause called poetry.

When others are losing their heads
And can't help running their mouths
Keeping your own counsel
Can stand you out from the crowd

When it's off the top of my head
And on the tip of my tongue
When you know you're in two minds
Silence is true wisdom

Then, once the dust is settled
While they're still catching their breath
Offer a fresh perspective
And they'll all be in your debt

Rustles of reading
Pages turned in devotion
Another chapter

The weight of story
The delight of shared pleasure
Private contentment

I'd forgotten this
The old spell cast by whispers
The magic of Hush

But where do you keep the jazz?
Where do you store the melancholy,
the self-reflection and the escape?

Take me to the place you keep
for your inner, your deeper,
your best kept back
and maybe we can sit and explore.
We could jazz and coalesce into a more honest
and more innovative improv.

Oh, where do you keep your jazz?
Where do you store the rare, the more sought after?
Have you kept it safe? Away from the light and heat of day?
Do you bring it out at night? Or are you driven by reluctance?
Are you reticent to the point of distrust?
Do you refuse to ever let the needle lightly play on the surface
lest dust taint its perfection?

Please tell me, where do you keep the jazz?
The jazz I heard play when we were young,
the jazz that was pure improvisation,
a ready and clear reflection of heaven’s rhythms
and the suddenness of the stark dawn chorus?

Where have you hidden the fresh, the unforced,
the chimes that once answered God's glory?

Please tell me you remember
where you hid the key.

Sometimes, when I look into the storm, I see Jesus. But sometimes, I just see my fears competing for the pleasure of being the first to swallow me up. Sometimes, I see more of the slap of the waves, hear more of the thunder clap, and I miss his soft song. Sometimes, I stare too long into the jaws of the gale and I miss the smile that bring me calm. Sometimes, I sail too long under the shadows of the clouds, and I forget to steer into the warmth of the rising sun. I listen too intently to the fury and I miss the whisper of his promised peace.
But sometimes, when I sail through the storm, I look and see Jesus, my Captain.

When you have more limes
When you have fewer lemons
Use the zest you have

I don't share my mirror.
I have bowls and plates
Sufficient for guests
Though they are few.
But my mirror sees only me.

Not all success is celebrated.
Some success is quiet
and unnoticed.
This doesn't speak of scale
nor strength or significance.
It speaks only of circumstance.

Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.

But mum told Joan that it was wicked. She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week, a week she spent bemused and resentful and she refused to poo for three days until mum relented and gave her Barbie back – but the rest would have to wait.

It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.

We’d sat on the adult chairs. Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters, knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,  the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.

He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit [Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma, so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson] and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him  (unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.

It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated and the second time the man saw people again, but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.

So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden, and pasted it onto barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over. She then pasted it on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar which I thought looked cool, but I was curious to see what happened. She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.

She followed the prescribed method: slather, wash and then repeat (which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest) but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing, perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked, unlike Jesus of course.

I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid, she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands and to put her dress in the wash. Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could. That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls ...

The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed. He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages. I thought we were for the high jump, but then I saw that mum looked like a schoolgirl, like she had been caught stepping out of line.

Mum was very quiet at dinner and dad said that she had something to say - to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did. It was what he would have wanted.

We were so ashamed for my mum - neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.

The hardest thing back then
was recognising the joys -
often hidden in plain sight
often throttled by the noise
but not without a fight.

So later, we knew the joys
by their red tears
by their diamond belief
that even in the discord
their clarity would remain
that the deepest caves
will give echo to truth
beyond this darkness.

I forgot today is Monday
It's like most other days
It isn't like a Monday
Cos I'm on my holidays

I dust myself off:
I'm on display today.

Or rather, God is on display
In me: His hard graft,
His craftsmanship,
His patient shaping, refining,
Giving them good reason to stop
And notice His signature style,
So to give honour to our maker.

That makes me stand straighter.

The gospel comes complete
with accessories:
Armour to *******
A cross to take up
A crown to lay down

Speaking up
Struggling free
Fighting back
Penning poetry

A Madeira loaf
Calmly cooling on a rack
Inviting patience

The world under the paving slabs may seem a world away but on my way to church, I saw a half completed excavation and I imagined the unearthing of some past settlement, maybe the discovery of a long buried society holding centuries of secrets of living with more dependence on the earth and less addiction to man crafted pleasures which would die the day we lost power.

I blinked and found myself shovel in hand, ankle deep in dirt and feverishly sinking the curved blade into the yellow and black clay, desperate to find a remnant of simpler times when a living was within most men's grasp at the cost of blisters and back strain, when digging was manual labour and a honest days work was done with at the end of the day and the unfinished work was left for the morning and not taken anywhere near home, where there was something near a worklife balance and neighbours were family and family were neighbours for better or for worse and, more often than not, worse, where budgets were tightened and a new hole was punched into your belt, with your hand me downs held to be your right not your punishment and if you didn't finish your plate you must be ailing or maybe angling for a day off school, where you queued for warm milk or for the tuck shop at playtime if you had thruppence to share with your sister before you ran a game of bulldog or kiss chase depending on your anxiety level, quick before the bell and queue again to sit in your allocated place based on your end of year exam result which always resulted in relegation to the back row bad influencer and never next to the girl who's cheek you had just missed, but you see her face reflected in the TV that got wheeled in for BBC Schools while the old guy dared you to show any suggestion of individual thought and secretly hoped you gave him cause to wield his size 14 plimsoll.

So I turn the edge of the shovel and refill the hole, I re intur what was good and buried, I intern the past where it belongs, returning to ground level where my spirit bubble bobbles for a moment while I find my balance knowing this is where I am what I've become - with my past giving me foundation not non-negotiable identification, and a reason to build not to burrow.

And so I turn round the corner into tomorrow to find what's next, acknowledging my debts and grateful for all that made me me - no regrets.

The truth is
they're all sacred.
Each possibility.
Every choice.
All these paths - those trodden
and not trodden, yet to be chosen.
They're all sacred.
Because they're all created.
They're weighted
with glorious purpose.
His purpose.
On purpose.
No mistakes.

The tap on the door.
The roll off the bed,
The fall of the loose pages
which would just have to wait.
And the walk, double time,
through the dark, to the light
at the end of the corridor.

The weight of the receiver.
The cool of hard plastic.
And, before the first word,
that intake of breath,
as her face comes into focus.

I relax and close the door,
smiling into the thrill of her voice.

I sat by the fountain,
watching the sun play out
the last moments of summer
in the company of young and old,
each of us attracted to its laughter.

And a voice spoke out
of a corner of this retreated peace

"It's the end of something.
At least the start
of something ending.
It's the end of many things
that you've grown accustomed to,
that have grown around you
and within you - rooted.
And so you may wonder -
- will the roots simply die from neglect?
(Has that dying already begun
from past neglect? Discuss.)
Or will you have to find the will
to uproot them?
- will the pain be worth the excavation?
- will the freeing of them better free you?
Or will you one day be grateful
for the remains of what was?

"So, for now, carry the remains.
Carry the scars and the stains.
Walk with confidence through this ending."

I listened to the voice in the quiet.
And sat with the fountain a while longer.
Knowing I'll find the decision sooner
or later. For tomorrow, it was September.

Be an activist.
Pray in a loud active voice,
to an active God.

Each light fades to darkness
Every yes becomes a no
The start will end in a finish
Each open leads to a close

Deep love drains to shallow
The entrance finds an escape
The song fades to silence
The healing turns to ache

So exit before they eject you
Walk away before they split
Don’t wait for warmth to get frosty
Stop before they quit

You’re better off without them
You know how it will end
So why go through the heartache
You’ve never needed friends

there is a place
there is a place
there is a place for this
and it's secure in my chest
bigger than my heart
more like my soul
there's a place for this
music

A living is not a life
We each need so much more
We need a life with purpose  
A life with more to explore

A living is not a life
But it often can be a gift
A means of sharing friendship
Not just a shared task list

A living is not a life
Without some laughs and joys
If you find that you’ve found both
Then a living can be enjoyed

--

You can't earn a life
You can't earn a true living
A life is given freely
So spend it freely giving

Spend your life wisely
Cos it can't be spent again
Invest it in the company
Of close family and friends

There's more to daily living
Than earning an honest crust
So select 'resignation'
And blow the family trust

Every written word carries a seed
Every crafted poem, a vineyard
Every painstaking poet, secateurs
by which to dress the vine,
to balance spurs, direct buds,
remove decaying lines
and reduce undue foliage
to better nurture the fruit
to bring the harvest
to release the wine
to inspire the dark flow
onto another page

I woke early and walked
as if by advancing
with my back to the sun
I might outpace
what was to come.

As if my futures may
for a while, be kept at bay
As if I might yet sojourn this day
and elude the shadows
of what was to come

I walked until today was spent
and empty-handed,
I entered my advent

In the long years of anger, when sadness reached its zenith and the children were lost for words, I looked around me at the plants watered, at the canvases covered, at the manuscripts authored, at the relationships recovered.

I looked and saw that in our pain, we had turned to the crucial, away from the futile. We had become pupils, not of the brutal but of the true communal - our original design, created with hope and with love in mind. And so we had readied ourselves for the light,  for the Kingdom that kept to the original divine, a fresh drawn coastline with welcome in mind. A Kingdom without borders, but with beaches and harbours, a Kingdom of refuge, where noone's a foreigner. A Kingdom where each can rely on a King to rely on and his brand new earth, not pie in the sky or promises broken.

I looked, and I saw what I already knew, that we were past due for change from man's empty rhetoric, that we were all full-tired of fear-filled hate preach. I looked, and I saw the waiting King, who will speak only truth to those who are listening.

"Let me blatantly ignore the key tenets of your question and, in the interest of proper dissimulation of the facts, let me insinuate underlying assumptions and make disparaging comments which seek to undermine the credibility of the sources of the data you quote, the reliability of those distasteful first hand witnesses on the dodgy line and, lastly, the relevance of the assertions made.
"I can do this with all confidence, without a shred of competing evidence, because of my tacit refusal to see beyond my world view where I might be confronted by the truth of the devastation my government has wrought. My therapist calls this my coping mechanism, but I'm not just coping, I'm winning.
"Next question?"

I held a ball today.  It had been too long that I did such a simple thing. To hold and bounce and catch. So long, I feared it would be a challenge. But muscle memory, child memory, father-son memory, cannot be so easily shaken.
I held a ball today: a luminous thing, found in the undergrowth, and now mine. I shan't let it go so easily this time.

Between the lychgate and narthex lay
a limbo approaching communion,
where one can linger at the border, sitting in the margin
with enough of a toe hold on tentative worship,
while insulated from the assembled fervour.

And Arthur prayed alone:
conversant with his God,
but wary of the draw of the warmth within
and the risks associated with human contact.

When you stand,
stand on solid ground

When you run,
place your feet with care.

But when you dance,
step out on the sprung floor
and tread the air.

I bear joy rooted in trust
In the trustworthy.

I draw strength from depths
That never run dry.

We seek to pass the time as if
to rid ourselves of trapped
discomfort, somehow brought on
by the excess of it, rather
than cherishing the little we have,
blissful in its scarce passage.

We speak of passing time as if
it were a leisurely pursuit,
but in truth, it passes us
too fast to slow and lounge with us.
In truth, we must rise and ride,
lest we chance falling behind.

Today, I'm taking a day of rest
The first in a long time

Life on aeroplane mode
Picnic in a park
Walking with my Maker
No agenda
Just pleasure

Or at least, that was the intention.

Life on city mode
Festival in a park
Walking through fiestas
Constant clamour
Pierced pleasure

I'm not just "included" here, I belong.
I don't just benefit here, I'm belov-ed.
I'm not tolerated, I'm celebrated.
My mates don't bear with me
for I bear the full image of my Maker
and my Maker is a perfectionist,
making holy vessels fit to carry his presence
and each week His presence walks
and wheels through the front doors here at Cafe Church.

If I must boast, I will boast
of the things that show my weakness.
I will flaunt my gammy knee
and its ability to forecast a heavy early mist.

I will brag of my swollen ankles
as examples of my tendency to slow and amble,
perhaps presenting this as a sign of maturity,
rather than my inability to hurry as I used to.

I will showcase my leg brace
as perhaps a sign of my Maker's kindness,
gifting me a thorn, lest I boast
in one of the great many talents
entrusted to me against His return.

I will display (with no little pride)
a profile characterised by a receding hair line
and a stoop suggesting the weight of decades,
letting the eye of the beholder perhaps assume
wisdom commensurate with my years.

If I must boast, and I surely should,
I will boast of the things acquired by age
and glory in these weaknesses
that cast me more fully on God’s good graces.

If I must boast, I will boast
in my God’s long faithfulness.

I got an E in Friendship

I breezed through the multiple choice
I had the theory down pat
But I bombed the practical

And I got an F in Romance

Sometimes, the summer you're dealt with needs long trousers.

Sometimes, you are wise to carry an umbrella and pack wellies in the boot.
Sometimes, the only warmth you get is from friends and family and from a Father who knows what storms to expect.
Sometimes, the brightness you find is the kind you get from laughter, not sunshine.
Sometimes, you need a board game, and to put the bucket and ***** away for another day.

Sometimes, the summer you're dealt with needs those long trousers Dad said to pack.

Dad knows.

Prayer, you say?

Is that the Magnificat or a Hail Mary?
Is that a shout or a whisper?
Is that a chorus or a lone voice?
Is that liturgy
or are you dancing to free jazz?

Today, it will have to be jazz.

------------------------
Prayer, you say?

Is that a hail Mary or the Magnificat?
Is that a whisper or something louder?
Is that a lone voice or a chorus?
Is that free jazz
or are you leaning on liturgy?

Today, I need liturgy.

(A person known by one name)

There's a place for gifting a name
One to be known and addressed by
One to answer by
One that speaks of family
One to be adopted and sometimes adapted
But one to affirm from birth.

There's a place for picking up a name
One given casually, possibly accidentally
One like Ace and Rock, Smarts and Giggles
One that captures a grain of the truth of you.

There's no place for names given in distain,
names of derision, laced with hatred,
names to reject, even if stated in jest.
There's no need to repeat these here.

Ultimately, there's a perfect place
for a secret name, known only
to you and your beloved,
given in a moment of tenderness,
given in a language of love,
given to say you belong.

A name to be whispered
in the quiet of eternity.

One name worth waiting for.

It's about balance -
about choice.
It's about consideration, honest
exploration of options
(and having courage enough
to risk infractions).

It's about precision,
about tenacity -
the capacity for patience
and acceptance of perhaps
having to start afresh.

How do you want to fill the silence?
After the tears, after the condolences,
after her friends have gone,
when all you have is the space
around you, you are left with the choices.

How do you want to live?
How do you want to fill
the silence she has left?

To her silence you might first add stillness.
To this select stillness you may then layer quiet.
To that chosen quiet you could perhaps
add the season found in the calm
company of those who remain
trustworthy. And then you may be better
equipped to harness the base silence,
and train it towards a distant hope.

I’m waiting more, enjoying more
of the space between -
words, notes, breaths -
the space I don’t need
to step into, giving it up
for another.

I’m watching more, listening for
what comes next.
Not anticipating but enjoying
the not-yet.

Who knows?
God may speak again.

I hold your hand a little longer
for a deeper reflection.
a needed consideration
of the leaving,
of what I take,
of what I leave
and how I want
to say goodbye.

Poems are released
In The Round, in full circle,
To come back around.

I feel I need a green filter
to soften the glare,
to lessen the radiance
less I am consumed.

I find community,
shared story,
a chorus of poetry.

And the filtered sun warms
with a breeze.

When you lift your soul,
sometimes you may need
to lift with your legs.

Place both feet
at the base of the cross,
and brace yourself -
engage your core
and with all your waning strength
with all of your weary mind,
with every ounce
of your weighed down heart -
grip with both hands,
raise your chin,
fix both eyes on him,
and LIFT with your legs.

It's still summer somewhere
There'll be sunshine someplace
There's hope over the horizon
So don't unpack your case

Attend to your wounds,
mark your losses and
bear your scars - for each
borne wound is a win,
a sacrament mark
of survival worth
the celebrating,
worth wearing on your sleeve.

Jesus intended his wounds,
counted the cross a weight
worth bearing, not counting
his wounds a loss, but a cost
worth paying.

So, He now wears each wound,
each scar a sacrament,
a celebrated win,
because his wounds won you.