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!

Still yourself, raise your eyes
and with all your waning strength
with all your weary mind
with every ounce
of your weighed down heart -
Lift up your soul. Lift up your song.

Place both feet on the Rock
in this most holy place,
where your God exults over you
with loud singing,
where burdens are lifted
by Christ's outstretched arms -
and LIFT your song.

And when your heart is heavy,
when your arms feel leaden -
take a breath, fix your eyes on him,
hear his song -
and LIFT with your legs.

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

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

The sacred have kept
their biblical pro-portions.
Savoir 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, truely.

I stay present
as He is present, but
just as He is timeless
so a part of me slips
into the past and 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

My prism sits in my hand
and if I raise it just enough
I see light in a whole new light.
But I kid myself, if I think
I've seen it all.

My bible sits in my hands
and if I open it often enough...

Like a piece of my jigsaw
Like a block from my jenga
Like a bridge for my song
Like a love forgone

You are missing from me

Imagine no shadows, no night.
All light
everywhere.
No need for shade.
For we are all basking
in one all enveloping
Light.

And we shall see his face.

Swig the morning dew
Join song amongst the blackbirds
This is vintage spring

Back when Tigers smoked and Cranes
played fiddle late in the night,
back when men left the forests
for fear of the Moon Bears’ songs,
back when women were revered
for their surging red moon dance,
I remember less warfare,
more reason to feast and sing,
I recall my beginning
as father took mother’s hand
and bathed her in the river
in the late Korean Spring.

Lift that chin, Rosa.
Lift those eyes up high.
Say to the sun, you're welcome.
Lift your face to the sky.

Lift that chin, Rosa.
Spread your arms out wide.
Tell the wind that you're ready.
And just see if you don't fly!

Like-minded
Christ-minded
Like-Christ-minded
(Not small-minded)

We thought we'd tamed the dragons.

But they were simply waiting,
Watching us methodically
Create an environment
More suited to their needs.

Heated, unpredictable, and
Increasingly hostile.

We never tamed the dragons.
We became them.

Cool aqua marine
Stillness sinking into blue
I wait for the sun

My fears sink down deep
The pool offers little warmth
I wait in the sun

Questions float in time
Waters answer in silence
I wait with the sun

If you don't know where the trail will go
Why be tempted to find out
Stick to what you know you know
Don't listen to your doubts

We don't know how the debate will end
So why start the discussion
Stick to trusted monologues
Don't risk their deconstruction

You're safe with the true tried and tested
With the solace of the known
So why be so curious
Stay here in our comfort zone.

Banners of blossom
Hardy perennials
One big metaphor

Shadows don’t get deeper
when they overlap.
They don't get darker
under a brighter sun.

Dragonflies out in the sun
They know what I mean

We share the same
filtered sun.
We share the same
moving shadows.

And we are all the stronger for the sharing.

Lord of life,
of green and colour,
of breeze and light.
Lord of bluebell and butterfly,
of birdsong and birds' flight.

Lord of space to think,
of time to rest.
Lord of movement,
of stillness.

I sit here and I confess
complete adoration,
my sunshine celebration
of this, your full spectrum,
this rainbow-wide gifted creation.

I sit and give thanks
for this sustained life,
of greens and blues in yellow light,
of fresh composed songscape,
of this colour full to the brim escape,
this God given land and sky-scape.

I thank you, Lord, for this gateway,
this fresh every morning,
gifted new day.

I got places I need to go

I got people I need to see

I got plans to change the world

but first I need to ***

Golden sunlight drips
Kintsugi salve on the hills
Three trees remaining

Sunlight endows warmth
Golden strata breathe promise
Three trees remaining

The hills pray for aid
The sun renders grains of gold
Three trees remaining

And by remaining
Three trees swell with seeds of hope
Gold granulation

Oh, that we'd all have
huge and messy hearts,
that we'd expel
the shrivelled, the trimmed
as no longer fit for purpose.

I just know I'm weak.
And now I know that
and that it's not that unusual,
I now know it better.
Like when you get to know
someone in your life better.
Like your dad - adult to adult
and you find words
that better describe him
and in describing,
you find understanding.
So it's like that.
And now that I know it better
(the weak bit),
I find that I can bear it
better
just like my dad before me.

And by this they will know you are my disciples
That you love one another.
By this, they will know you are my children
That you love me,
heart, soul, mind, and strength.
By this, they will know you are my body
That you are bruised, hurting and *****
because you have been out on the streets,
loving every neighbour as yourself.

My third home is so unmoved.  
It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart,
with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts
of potatoes and withered veg,
an adamant replay of checkered tablecloths
and brown orange tableware,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was.
Close your eyes and hear the scrapes
of plates, the kettle.  
And that veined mug.

Perch up here
so we can judge you,
analyse and season you
so to help you redefine you.

Let us make-up for the blemished you,
for the degrees of the damaged you
and so apply a brand-new
foundational layer to you.

We can enhance you
with a new shade of you,
we can sponge, brush and fill-in you,
conceal the less-than-perfect you.  

We can blush you,
highlight and contour you,
fade you and blend you
right into the crowd
of all our just-like-you’s.

We can make-up for the real you
and ensure no one ever gets a clue
as to what is the essence of the beauty
of the true you.

Just perch here
and let us re-make you.

I come from inner-city, stand-up strong tea, delivered early with grumpy care, and a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you get down at full tilt, before Dad manages to shake the delivered milk.

I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest of us having to get up for the lack of a remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of home-grown wrestlers' faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments, the unity of the family three-piece, paying homage to the three-channel Buddha TV.

I come from tempers and broken locks, with after-work threats to knock your block off. I come from seeped in feelings of coming up short at each and every blue and white sport. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the upholstered cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from long family road trips with back seats sun-baked, and car sickness triggered by wafts of St Bruno Flake.

I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's got three jobs cos things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the Sunday stench of stewed-to-death cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, holding homes and gardens in common, one big for-good-or-ill clan.

And if I could, I’d plan a street-long celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with the Joe Loss Band’s All Time Party Hits, and no room to spare, with the kettle on repeat and biscuits bits in mum's faded Tupperware.

And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve moved across this city to find my own way.  I’d assure them that blood is still the thicker, but please do me a favour and get over me and mine living north of the river.

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
how tall the border wall
how faint their call
no matter how great the chasm
between you and them
between your point of view
between your world view
and where they have taken their pew

- Listen

don't write them off as blinkered
as closed minded, as none-so-blind
don't assume you're the more
twenty-twenty vision kind

- Listen

don't shame them or be all too ready to belittle them
don't be dismissive of them with no respect for them
and for what has led them and theirs
to their honestly held position

- Listen

assume their good faith and in a space that's safe
assume a position of good natured
mutual consideration and seek mutual revelation
of God-given wisdom

-Listen

And as you clear that common ground
you are bound to build a safer compound
a creator-shared hallowed ground
where the heard are found
while bound for wisdom –

together.

The truth and power of our faith hangs on the cross,
on the height of sacrifice,
on the lengths and depths Christ was willing to go
from holy conception to physical resurrection
from Passover supper to Emmaus meal,
to fish on the beach, to the promise of a feast
at his Father's family table.

The truth on which we stand hangs on God made man
and on us made new, all due to our LORD Jesus Christ,
God's most loved Son, our loving Saviour,
our once and for all time holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power of our faith
hangs on His cross
but now stands on a rolled away stone,
revealing the empty space
that left Roman minds blown.

The truth is, the power of God is an early riser
and loves a walk in a garden
whether at the dawn of time
or before dawn on an Easter Sunday morn-ing.

The truth is, Jesus didn't waste time,
but got up early to be Mary’s before dawn guide
who promptly anointed his feet in tears one more time
(but he didn’t seem to mind)

and she spread the news
that the Truth was up and walking
way before the doubts and lies got talking.

She told them
the truth is, there's no need to rage against the coming of the night
for Jesus entered death’s domain with his pure and living light.
And before sunrise, he rose in plain sight.

The truth is,
Jesus is the Way and the Truth and New Life
and He walks with you in the early-morning Easter Light.

So rise, let your song and your life
glorify the living Christ
and share his creation-wide invite.

And tell them this truth:
Jesus is Alive.

And the people said in one voice, Amen.