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 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 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, it will have to be jazz.

(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.

Child’s play is a serious business.
You can tell by the furrow and
the earnest tongue -
how it protrudes for extra concentration.

And when it suddenly shifts
from one side to the other -
Brace yourselves,
you’re in for something very special;
possibly involving a necklace
of painted pasta shells.

When did we stop skipping?
When did we stop thinking that skipping was a legit option and preferred to walking or running?

When did the bounce and joy of a skip stop being the mode of choice?

And why don't we follow Millie and Trish? They could run a workshop: after service we could meet at the far end of the corridor, hold hands, and try to match their joy. But no matter how many lessons we had, I think we'd struggle to keep pace with Trish. (Though Millie would give it a good try.)

I'm still not clear why we stopped, but I think it's something to do with innocence - the loss of it. That and a failure of indifference.

I think I should start practising for the workshop; I don't want to make a fool of myself.

Some songs have a girl's name.

And I wonder
what came first?
The song or the title?
The passion or the girl?

I expect it was the latter,
followed by the sorrow.

And I expect the words
were found much later.

The coy moon left us fumbling
wandering in the sleepless warmth
transformed by night sweats
and wet despair
into fractious infants crying
for relief from the night fires.

Douse me now!

Take your bible out.
Thaw at room temperature
with a bedside prayer.

By morning you'll find
every page will have suffused
ineffably.

The sacred have kept
their biblical pro-portions.
Savour each mouthful.

All your 5 a day.

It didn't matter,
for he could smell the sea
and thought it just enough
to season the past,
the remembrance,
slowly curling
in the flames at his feet.

I stay present
but in reality, I am many
miles and many years
behind us. I am taller
and straighter, I have less pain
and fewer regrets.

I stay present
and take pleasure wherever
it is offered. I stand, and I pray.
I offer
- no-that's-not-true,
I don't offer. I give freely -
my praise. And it is given
with all honesty, truly.

I stay present
as He is present, but
just as He is timeless
so a part of me slips
into the past
and the better part leans
into the not-quite-yet.

I am present.
For now.

It was before dawn
and she was never seen again.

We had often wondered about her
and her wild impatience,
her passion for holding
life’s burdens and treasures equally lightly,
for dropping and gifting them
with devout fervor.

Nolle leapt out of a window
and left her bonds behind.
We woke to her whoop
and smiled at the echo of her song.

Nolle leapt out and we wondered -
what would it be like
to crave life that much?

No, you could never call him
a babysitter, not as such.
He's more like an undercurrent -
Never obvious
But definitely dangerous
In a reassuring way.

He's good for the children.

I am who I am
I'm not who I was
I'm not my regrets
I'm almost __ .

Rough Diamonds
Night Clubs
Broken Hearts
In Spades

I'm younger than I feel
But older than I look
What You See Is What You Get
But net of the toll life took

Make yourself a list.
A list that is useful to you
and meaningful to you.

It need not be useful to others.
It need not be meaningful to others.
But it should be for you.

It need not be listed
numerically, chronologically
or in order of priority.

Marks will be awarded for
originality, banality, legibility
and indecipherability.

Marks will be deducted for
profanities.

It should be on my desk
by the end of school
on Friday.

I wouldn’t call us friends
but we’re close, intimate even -
they’ve known me longer,
know me better than anyone.

They read me, clearly see
the full back-catalogue of me,
understand me, often better than me
and they know just how to wound me,
seam doubt in me, refusing a stitch of mercy.

Sometimes I think them merciless,
sometimes merely vindictively honest,
but I cannot deny their knowledge,
their perceptiveness.

Nevertheless, there are essentials
that their words do lack
- imagination
- hope
- kindness
and the one furthest from their grasp
- forgiveness.

And so, I pay greater heed
to the friend whose words brim with love,
whose knowledge of me is greater,
whose patience is longer, and who sees
who I am in Him
- forgiven.

There’s a God who enflames.
He puts fire in the head
and though I have run, the wind
has never extinguished the flames,
though I have swum, the depths
have never doused them,
though I have sung long,
the music has never drowned them out.

So I have sat and I stilled
and as the flames settled
I found they were a gift, a friend,
and that this friendship warmed me.
And we ate and storied
our way through the nights.

And the flames took hold
as intended.

Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.

Like a treed squirrel
with no fear of capture.
Like a failed terrier
with two feet on the ground,
giving no heed to heel.
I fall victim
I am subject
to my nature.

Like a Pool Frog
at a dry river bed.
Like the flow
of a water garden
in the dry season.
I am stilled.
I am struck dumb.
I am Walpoled.

Keep a clear head
Your eyes peeled
Your nose clean
Your lips sealed.

And whatever it takes
- keep a straight face.

I know the face of God
I have that faith beyond my sight

I know my fellow pilgrims
I have this comfort of common doubts.

I doubt my church at its lychgate
I bear these beliefs in its shade.

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.

I was told that there is a house with many rooms in our Father’s New Haven, and when I first heard this, my mind went to an all-inclusive five star hotel, an award winning complex, a beautifully designed block of compartments, one for each of us. A hotel big enough for all of us to have our own en-suite space, with an optional do not disturb on the door, so we could choose when to mingle in the hall ways and when to order 24 hour room service to avoid losing the peace of our own space, a place where you’d rave about the quality of the towels and the silent, unnoticed staff who offer a crisp laundry service and make our beds when our backs are turned, the very best in luxury soaps and shampoos, a walk-in steaming shower, a XXL hot bath, a private pool, perfectly adjusted air con followed by a top of the range kettle that works every time and perfectly complements the décor beside complimentary aromatic teas and potent coffees, with refrigerated fresh milk for those who take it, and the offer of an all-paid-for minibar complete with Toblerones and miniatures, a king sized bed and pillows to match, in front of an oversized all channel TV offering the back catalogue you’ve always dreamed of and to top it all, sound proofed windows and walls so you won’t notice the Pentecostals next door.

Then I looked again, and I saw I was wrong – that this is not an access by key-card hotel, it is our Father’s house. This is our inter-generational family home with many family rooms to explore, communal space where we can all feast and laugh – a piano in the corner, carafes of wine, baskets of warm bread and help-yourself fruit bowls in every direction, deep suites of sofas, full of the hum of long-separated family reunited. A home which offers a warm embrace to all; the fragrance of every-season gardens, the music of a gentle brook and bird song suggestive of dawn all day.

This is a massive mansion which we will never reach the end of, no matter how long our eternity. This is a place to call our forever family home.

Where's the trust?
Where's some loyalty?

What did they do with the respect
that came with shared courage,
with the common courtesy that competed
so well with the tired and bitter?

When did the fear win?
When did suspicion succeed
in dividing us? When did we fall?
And how long can we wait?

How long will we wait
for our disquiet
to override our distrust?
To make us love again.

And what if we don't?
What if it never happens?
What if we never forget to lock the door?
What if this is as good as it gets?

But what if we do?
What if we get to try again?

We’d go for a 4 in the morning walk.
We'd pick up some warm rolls,
And I wouldn't worry about the cracks.

Foller Gill’s story treads
seemingly softly, rhythmically,
leaves their fresh green mark
beyond the grey, beaten paths.

Foller Gill takes
the much lesser-trod course,
searches deeper, further, takes
secrets to their mainstream beck.

Euden Beck strides
hungry, curiously thirsty,
pushes past the slow, shaded fields,
scorns their hemmed-in universe.

Bedburn Beck ambles,
tramples down all resistance,
insistent in their pursuit
of an ancient destiny.

The Wear wanders,
snakes towards their final estuary,
savors the holy promise,
the gift of the free, North Sea.

Foller Gill bathes
unbound in their ocean.
And their legend continues.

Though a man of competence
might master a non-stick pan
with only casual reading
of its manual, he WILL need
to read the instructions for
a chain saw. The aftermath
of careless use does differ.

We thought we had tamed the ancient dragons.
But they were simply sleeping and waiting,
Watching as we, with untested method,
Created a fierce climate most suited
To their needs: heated, hostile, disordered.
We built world-wide high monuments
To hubris, our folly of invention.

And for all this, out of the acrid mist,
Rising through the heat of long decay and
Glowing furnace, we morning to bird song,
To breeze on dewed leaf and green filtered light -
Still with God's warmth - that we may join the song
And lift our face to the creator's sun.

I watch Rich Teas float like ash
The Gusto goes unprepared
My days pass like smoke
And each tear burns

I sit with he who remains
I still with the God of years
and even with tears
I drink with him

She'd said
she'd buy the flowers herself.
She knew what to get.
She'd found a reliable florist.
And she had the time
to select the perfect arrangement.

That's what the Funeral Director
told us at the Co-op.

And on the day, we all agreed -
the flowers were lovely.
And no one was left
in any doubt -
she'd have loved them.

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog last night