Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
Nice is cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest

‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss it
lest it attract your notice
lest it presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence

Love is not like that –

Love pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption

Love defies convention

Love carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Love perseveres all the love-long day

Love doesn’t delay

Love is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts

Love confronts
Courage is her currency, kindness her language
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms

Love transforms

Love weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Love pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms

Love perfumes

Love is not 'nice'  
Love isn’t in this for the likes
Love bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Love never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight

Love is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
Love is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble, End-Game-level
monumental

So, don’t be nice
and I’ll say it twice
nice is a vice that will never suffice
And let me end by being more precise
follow Christ’s advice:
love one another
every day and every night
with all of your might
and do it in a way
that pushes
way
past
‘nice’.

Planting -
a memory retention
an attempt at reparation
a small mitigation
an intrinsic notion of good
a wooden blessing
a happy healing
- a tree

Do you ever escape your grief?
Do you every find release from sorrow?
I can’t say today, perhaps tomorrow,
but today I’m growing round my loss
- not diminishing its presence, but recognising
that my present is not my finish
and that I add to this grief
my joy, reminiscence, and celebration
of those who are no longer at my surface,
but remain my foundation.

Do you ever escape?
I think not – I hope not.
For they are not a shackle,
but where I found my feet.

Where do I dance?
I dance in the margins
within my boundaries
where I left myself space
to choose my partners with care.

Where do I dance?
I dance in your arms.

Think twice before you take
Take only what you need
Use everything you take
Take full charge of your greed

Great tea
boils down to a tender leaf
cultivated slowly on small trees
watered liberally by long rains
reaping a full fragrance
harvested from high estates
packaged to be picked
and infused without fuss
or ceremony
in a warmed ceramic ***
for two
to draw out the deepest flavour.

Cup of tea?

The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then away and seems to circumvent the gateway to better, to truer and rather it dips and, for some unfathomable reason, detours through bone aching drivel which we sit through lest we cause offence and in defence we smile until someone offers a glass and we can distract the conversation to something real and relevant and alive – preferably with alcohol.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then it rainbows, so you’d think that there’d be no excuse but to look up and wonder at the way in which each colour blends, leaving no distinct edge, no start or finish, leaving you in no doubt why spectrum is an apt term to capture diversity with harmony, and leaving you staring curiously while the world walks on, heads down, focusing on the familiarity of their grey, woollen comfort zones.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
the other side, it crosses divides, where bridges were long fractured, and diversions had left the land desolate - and now we can repopulate, reconnect and proliferate something that binds a kindlier fraternity wedded to justice indiscriminately.

The arc is long,
bending, not broken.

Today will depart on cue
Tomorrow will arrive on time
Let's get this straight -
the future won't wait
for the perfect rhythm or rhyme

And when you lead,
start with the feet.

When you lead,
you need to get down low
with a towel and a water bowl

For when you lead,
you'll find your honour
not over, but under

not higher, but lower 

not first, but last.

So, when you lead,
don't wait your turn,

but push your way
right to the back

where you'll find
nothing to prove,
nothing to hide
and nothing to loose,
but your pride.

Yes, while many will disagree,
when you lead,
bleed his example:

Undo a sandal
and start with the feet.

No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,

not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,

a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.

Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.

The most Holy Spirit.

I entered love willingly - and with a little trepidation,
but definitely with the intention to explore,
to gorge through each room in the home of my love.

As I dived deeper along the passages,
through the portals that beckoned us,
we laughed
and I found my lung capacity for faith grew
and my sense of direction only strengthened.

And as I climbed heavier, taking pleasure in the view,
taking breaths and trying to hold in
her high perfume,
I never once wondered where her flight might take me
knowing only that my choice took me
with her.

I entered love willingly
and not once did I fall.

We believe in one trans-national church.

We believe in an unbiased, inter-racial church of many nations.
We believe in one church of many traditions.
We believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

We believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
We believe in God-given racial differences.
We believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
We believe in a church that reflects her maker's love of difference.

We do not believe in uniformity.

We believe in the common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
We believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called to serve one God together, saved by one sacrifice once and for all time.

We believe in the promise of a resurrected church drawn from all nations and all generations to meet her bridegroom.
We believe in one eternal wedding feast which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.

We believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so that all his people can come and dwell together.

We believe
in God's Kingdom come.

Amen.

Sharing cracked living
and hard fried eggs
Re heated
Re purposed
Re deemed

But we were early to heaven
Higher in the rafters
And closer to our dead

A teddy
is a substitute satisfaction.
Like chocolate.

And that's okay.
So long as you know

what you're missing.

Take your place amongst the brave ones
The take-a-chance ones
The get-up-despite
and try-it-again ones.

Take your place amongst the daughters and sons
living post-lockdown
and let's run.

Vulnerable ain't weak
Hurting ain't broken
Pausing isn't giving up
Tired isn’t beaten

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
when it rages in the dead of day,
when it leaves you cold and empty -

that's then you long for ashes,
for an end to the flagrant flames,
for tears in their rightful lashes.

That's then you crave kin and friends,
voices of long affection,
words of kindness and remembrance.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
that's then you need a fresh flame.

Most of my closest friends
have a sort of ‘flesh’ colour to them,
- some pale, some brown, some a lot darker,
but that, I’ve come to shudder,
is a shallow, simply skin-deep measure.

When I look again
I see some carry a seven-sea travelled view
with a dark, deep-water hue.
Some have an earth-olive touch,
giving a life-tinted light to all they brush,
all they touch.

Some shimmer-touch, charged
with a hint of dawn-dew in their scars
giving fresh unasked repair.
Some show an indigo major
generating a bright electric flavour
empowering both friends and strangers alike.

When they arrive, they each add true colour
and I’ve found that their skin-depth is nothing
compared to the rainbow-canyon impression
that they’ve left on me,

my friends.

Enjoy this.
Give focus.
Take pleasure.

Ritualise
each movement,
each breath.

And then
repeat.

I've started.

I'm building.
I'm developing.
I'm giving.
I'm discovering.

They'll be secrets inside,
obviously,
- plenty that I haven't envisaged,
that goes without saying.

I've started.
I'm discovering.
And that's enough.

There's immortal.
And then there's
Eternal.

I've read of immortals -
I've read of their exploits, their battles.
They bleed.
They agonise.
They fall.
And one day
they fail to rise.

Eternal is different.

Eternal bleeds,
agonises,
falls
and dies
only to rise - Eternal.

I noticed the sudden silence
balanced on the off beat
of a carol left incomplete,
but after a while I found
- despite my long belief -
I was enjoying
the competing peace
a little more than the jingle,
the insistent hush
more than the chimes
the spreading rest
more than the dance.

And I put it down
to the close knit company.

He’s more than just an acquaintance.
He’s more like a regular, familiar companion.

We might go months without hanging out,
but when we meet – maybe for a drink -
we pick up right where we left off,
not having to explain or make excuses – just knowing

that there’s much that goes unsaid, but it goes without saying
that he’s there for me. He’s become familiar
with my thoughts and my turmoils
no matter how high the waves.

No, he’s not the kind I bring home that often
– he’s not great with the kids,
but I expect they’ll come to know him in their own time.

And on occasion, I meet a mutual acquaintance,
and once we realise that we have a friend in common,
it’s easier to bring him into the conversation -
and then there’s less to be said.

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Do Not Remind Me Again

I listened to the river’s babbling,
her competing voices,
none winning, none getting ahead,
ahead of the next bend, the next meander,
a departure from the mainstream,
taking the conversation in a whole new direction -
leaving the lies behind
and the truth high and dry,
to be banked, baked crisp and brittle, crunched
to dust under a heavy rockfall of doubt and disinterest.
But I listened still, for the following chorus,
the next controversy.

I didn't need to wait long - the new river babbled...

When the tidal wave came
I was looking the other way.

I knew the gentle Shuttle
had its shallow banks
concreted, walled, ready
for the diverted torrent,
but for some reason I was looking
North, thinking that way lay
the Thames and its barrier,
not knowing the wave
would follow the Shuttle’s
more meandering route

and I got it in the back of the neck.

Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies beyond
- all this my God beholds

A little delusion
going a long way
A little dreaming
bringing fresh clay

A little quietening
bringing me change
A little challenge
to my forces at play

God said, come now
and let us mystery together,
fire and phoenix together,
rhythm together, step together,
be danced and held together.  

Let us rest in my meadow,
feast to our pleasure
and pour to our brimful altogether.

Come let us be here together.

Yesterday was a bruiser
Today’s real contrary
Tomorrow’s undecided
But I’m remaining wary

So…
once the wrapping’s been wrapped
and the gifts have been given
once bells have been rung
as is our tradition

once the turkey’s a carcass
while mince pies remain
(and you wonder if salt
will lift that wine stain)

that’s the time to receive
the one Gift worth having
the Christ of this Christmas
the Gift come from heaven

the Gift that’s the Greatest
the Gift that kept giving
the Christ who stayed with us
the joy that kept coming

So …
as the carols’ words fade
don’t let this chance drift
welcome Christ this Christmas
the Greatest Gift

sacred to love
sacred to laugh
sacred to pray

sacred to dance
sacred to sing
sacred to pray

sacred to write
sacred to make
sacred to pray

sacred to play

When your back is backed up against the wall, that’s when
you know no one can sneak up behind you
you can focus on the frontal assault
you can defend yourself with undivided attention.

So, when you can’t back up any further
count yourself fortunate.
Brace your back heel against the foot of the wall,
raise both fists and smile.

[No, not ‘smile’.]

Set your mouth in a maniacal grin and giggle
deliriously and in that next half second
while your assailant pauses to shake their confusion
in that half second you have your chance –

Punch them in the gut!
Follow up with an upper cut
and kick
their
****.

Let's talk about your father.
How did that make you feel?
Let’s talk about that.

It’s okay, take a breath.

How did that make you feel?

Breath. That’s right.

Tell me more about that.
Did that make you feel afraid again?

Breath. Good.

Can you tell me more about how that felt?

That’s right, breath.

How do you feel now?
Can we talk more about that?

Deep breath.

Is that you?
Or just your memory of you?
There’re both real.

Breath.

The yet expressed won’t stay repressed, won’t rest until we find a way to say out loud what lies within our still breathing, beating breast – grieving and weeping to attest to the love we feel even now though we can no longer confess that love to the one we miss but nevertheless can’t stop but manifest in our words, our deeds and indeed in our tears

- staining our chest where once we held them close and long to hold them once again.

I am a man
a man who writes poetry
that’s who I am.

Do you see?
Do you see what I see?
A different world
A gift of the future
where promise lies in a whisper
forever
for whoever sees.

Upon the third resurrection the lower of three buds bloomed,
I say three buds, but there was also an attempt at a fourth,
but nothing that could be called an actual bud – more of a high blemish.

Upon the third resurrection, the bloom had kept its family colour,
a repeat of a pink shade of purple with a white heart, flaring wide
toward the light, shouting the promise
of further offspring -

the future promise of beauty visited to the third
and perhaps to the fourth generation.

They say that it’s the thought that counts ...
and I wonder how He counted the cost,
from the first conception of His salvation plan
to the final arrival of God made man.

What were His first infant thoughts?
What did He think of His mother’s first touch?
And the assault of the cold, the earthy smells?
And perhaps the chime of several cow bells?

Each chime heralding this greater gift,
out-giving even a mother’s first kiss,
or the gifts from shepherds and eastern kings.
This God-gift out-gave all they could bring.

They say that it’s the thought that counts
and I count this gift of Immanuel,
this Godly-conceived first Noel
as by far the Greatest Gift of all.

This is more than a friendly fraternity
This is our Father’s fearless family

We are Holy Spirit descended
We are chosen, adopted kindred

This is our tribe of His gracious choice
crying ‘Abba Father’ in infant chorus

Hand in hand we stand as His clan
fruit of the original Abraham plan

By his blood we are kin
not distant cousins, but eternal siblings

We are adopted by His choice
fellow heirs with Jesus Christ

We cry out loud and then sing louder
We sing together: ‘Abba, Father’

She played music -
music you’d leave your windows open for.
She rolled into rooms you’d forgotten
and soaked into your cellar until your childhood
floated right up to today and stayed for your tomorrows.

She was like that – building new foundations,
or maybe bridges
between now and then,
leaving pathways your feet could find even
once the last note has finished for the day.

She made music that stayed and stained,
leaving her trace, so you could find her again,
like when you returned from years away.
She had an authentic taste, softly unique
and hard to forget.

I remember one song that ran high,
almost out of reach,
then reaching down into my outstretched eyes,
filling them to overflowing and blurring
the pain for a while.

She played music -
music you’d leave both eyes open for.

brother elder
brother younger
brother blood
brotherhood
brother arms
brother guards
brotherly love

Making sure
she kept to the right
of her best misdemeanors,

Rising slowly,
incrementally above her
sub-basement failures

Looking for all
the world like the world
owed her a life
time of favours

Striding unnoticed
past her past
jailers, her angry slavers

Throwing her chains
into the back of her dark
red Daimler

Passing sixty
screaming for privacy

Dying for worthy.

What’s the rush, Joash?
Why’d you arrive so early?
Not that we’re complaining,
you know we love you dearly.

Why the rush, Joash?
Why’re you so eager
to join the clan Hamilton,
for us to get to see yer?

Why the rush Joash?
There’s truly plenty of time
for you and Reuben, Mum & Dad
to find your rhythm and rhyme.

Why the rush, Joash?
Just rest and feel the beat
of four lives loving in unison,
a quartet truly complete.

Triumph with diversity.
Not knee deep in
Not wading
despite the extra gravity.
But with - taking it with me
on my journey making me
who I am building, i.e.
a stronger, fuller me
triumphing in the company
of those who walk ahead of me
who know what it will take me
to more fully glory
in my whole me.
Come with me.
Let's triumph with diversity.

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

Our Lord of life gave life
to the winds, the waters, the flames.
Our maker birthed them into being.

What hands have gathered up the winds?
What arms have wrapped the waters in a blanket?
Whose feet have walked these flames?
Only the Lord’s.

But when we look around, we wonder,
what’s going on?

We harnessed the winds and harvested the whirlwinds.
We dammed the waters and stopped the streams.
We burned the forests and they kept on burning.
What’s going on?

You breathed the winds, but not like these.
You sent a flood but said never again.
You lit the way, but this fire’s unchecked.
Lord, what’s going on?

You rebuked the wind – can you do that again?
You calmed the waves – can you speak once more?
You baptised with flames – can you tame them now?
Lord, what’s going on?

God of sun and hail, of arid plain and blizzard
Lord, come like thunder and earthquake,
Lord, roar like windstorm and tempest.
Lord, spread wide like a devouring fire.
Come, Lord, come.

Come on.
The Spirit of God has sown in our hearts
the beauty of this gifted world.
He fans the spark that remains of our desire
to care, to build and not destroy.
He refreshes our souls even as we grow weary.
He watches.
He watches.
Let’s go on going on.
Come on.

Look, we’re the victims here!
You said multiply.
Well – that’s what we did.

You said fill the earth.
Well, it looks pretty full now, doesn’t it.

You said subdue.
Well, that’s what we’ve done.

You said never again.
Well, looks like we’ve taken that out of your hands.

We’ve increased and multiplied to bursting point.
We’ve subdued this earth with a world-beating chokehold.
We’ve out-numbered the wilds into a final submission.

And no amount of talk about stewardship,
or responsibility, or choices and free-will
will change the facts:
We are not responsible for flawed design.
This earth is not fit for our purpose.

-

What?
What manual?
What users guide?

-

No-one reads that.  Have you seen the size of it?
It’s full of technical details -
I don’t know anyone who could understand all that!

-

What Quick Guide?

-

You mean Jesus!?!  
Okay – fair point.

But can we have our New Earth now?
Please?

There's power in skinny
In lithe
In nimble
There's beauty in less
In straight
In narrow
There's strength in slight
In gangly
In graceful
There more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

There's beauty in buxom
In curves
In convex
There's comfort in contours
In creases
In waves
There's strength in stout
In plump
In physical
There much more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial