If I was content
I wouldn't write
Create
Sing
Love
Or even look behind the veil
If I was content
I would just be still
Lord, save me from content.

I look in the mirror and what do I see,
pure imperfection staring at me,
curiously wondering, wonderfully curious
at what new imperfection I soon will be.

I've found it's important not to be perfect
not replace imperfections for better or worse.
it's when we make peace with our faultless defection
that godly perfection starts getting to work

I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there

The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker.  And who better, but the maker of all.

The long steps down
to the green sea
sweeping black-green seaweed
high on the sand seen
from the empty band stand
on the cliff top gardens
chased by screaming
ice-cream hunters
are each
rife
with salty memory
and I drink it in

Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s 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 her
lest she attract your notice
lest she 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 defences
and challenges all camouflaged pretences
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
This love is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble, End-Game-level
monumental

So as the wise man known for his proverb-ials
might have said:

Rob and Polly

Don’t be nice
and I’ll say it twice
nice is a vice that will never suffice

So heed this scriptural advice
[Proverbs 3 - expanded version]

Let love and faithfulness never leave you
bind them both to you (whatever the price to you)

Sustain one another with mutual collaboration
and on a God-given foundation build up a reputation
for a love that,
okay, as the good book says
might be a poor reflection of perfection
but for now - what you two have become
is a fairly close representation
of Christ’s love for his bride, his church
and that should never be besmirched

so let God’s love rise to meet you
at each and every unwinding curve
because it is nothing less
than what both of you
undoubtably
deserve.

Let me end by being more precise
follow Christ’s advice:
love one another
every day and every night
forsaking all others
with all of your might
and do it in a way
that pushes
way
past
‘nice’.

He's lost,
miles away, miles deep,
detached from his body
even as he wears away the groove of thought
ploughed across one brow
And then he sees me and says,
oh, hi -
that last syllable drawn out
to invite me in with a beguiling smile
and an innocent chuckle
at the ridiculous,
at what has brought us
to this point,
a dual study of single-minded
singleness about to diverge
into a joint pursuit with women of worth
and a marriage of ideas
from which who knows
what will birth

And now,
15 years past his singleminded passing,
I recall his laughter
and the friendship that came unasked for,
unexpected, and unmatched since
and I miss him still.

The great tree stood waiting
until he got there -
as far as there
at the appointed time
long before the promised time
before the arrival of offspring.

And the trees still stand
in anticipation
of the greater remainder of the promise.

Not by fashion or passing trend
Nor by my standing with foe or friend

Not by whim or sweet-toothed appetite
Nor by what others tell me is right

Not by what I think I would gain
Nor by how best to avoid risk of pain

I will not be controlled by any of these
But by my Spirit-filled self, when I’m on my knees.

LORD, do not ignore this quiet cry,
this spittle-bubble cry to you.
In my weakness, in my tiredness, from my empty well,
I pour out what little I have toward you.

My murmur is soaked up as it hits the ground,
my words evaporate before they are fully formed,
but before my knees hit the ground
you reach down and hold me.

You smile at my clumsy song,
you reach out and lift me
and with gentle patience you pour your warm milk into my emptiness
and you fill me with your loving kindness.

As I drink in your shadow, as I fill my belly, I find strength and I rise
like a new born calf, like a foal still finding her feet
I stand unsteady, but with my eyes fastened onto you,

I follow you into green pasture,
I walk in your wake and after each few steps you wait
and I see a mother’s pleasure in your eyes on me.

The LORD is a patient mother
the LORD offers the milk of loving kindness to her young
and walks with them into fresh pasture.

I learned gentleness from a giant of a man
whose reach
reached full round the world and deep into my wounds,
offering a strength and a healing
that was light as a whisper
and heavy as a salve
that gave off an aroma which took me back
to my mother’s arms,
her safe smell and the music of her song,
rocking me gently and teaching me more about strength
than any wannabe giant of any size.

He gave me a giant’s confidence to hold tight to Him
while holding all else in an open hand
– not grabbing,
nor forcing,
but holding out for Him
and His gentleness
that I find invites more
than it commands.

Wisdom is knowing how clueless you are
and knowing God doesn't need clues

Wisdom is knowing where your limits lie
and knowing that's where God's reach starts

Wisdom is knowing you deserve nothing
and knowing God didn't let that stop Him

Wisdom is knowing to ask for help
and knowing Who you're talking to

Out into the weather
out into the heat and the cold
the rain and the humility
the sleet and the unrelenting sun

Out into the weather
wondering when seasons will stop
running into one another with no respect
for long established patterns
and giving no latitude to longitude

Out into the weather
checking the signs
wondering what today will bring us
and so putting on our shades
and packing our umbrella

There are cross roads
and there are roads to a cross
- both require decisions with resolution
- both require a sure step, a clear head
and are better approached
with a clear vision of what's ahead
through the lens of a clear decision,
framed by a determination
to follow the true compass spirit within.
And at each turn it's advisable to count the cost
of whatever toll the path will demand of us,
while bearing our eternal destination in mind.
And as that last true hope settles into a smile,
we consult the map book,
make our choice
and walk on.

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its dependable
and Lord I don’t feel I qualify
Faithful sound daily, faithful sounds every
day rising with no need to apologise

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its consistent
and Lord, my consistency’s low
faithful sounds predictable, someone reliable
and Lord, you know that’s touch and go

Lord, grant me a spirit of someone who’s faithful
someone who’ll last til the end
Someone like you, who when the going gets tough
gets going and dies for his friends

Lord, grant me your Spirit, full to the brim
reliably and consistently there
so I may be faithful to you and to those
you have placed here in my care

That I may understand every good path
That wisdom may reside in my heart
That knowledge and discretion may be my guard
This is my prayer to you, my guide and my God

Like a sprinkler system in the height of summer
Like a cold compress on a bruised, sore head
Like gentle air con on a humid night
Like a heated blanket over a cold child's bed

Like an unexpected place offered at the table
Like a smile from a old thought-lost friend
- may your goodness flow undiminished through me
to whoever comes round the next bend

May your sweet goodness be my signature tune
May it always be following me
May my friends taste and see that you are good
And know for themselves your good mercy

Turn the mirror off
Turn the clock down
Turn the sun to night mode
Turn the world back to when I was young

Kindness is not nice.

Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.

Kindness isn't like that -

Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humanity its passport to lands yet explored, to vast pink territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.

Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.

This is my compilation of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Wrapped in eloquent grace,
Punctuated with tearful praise
User manual or admonishment
Hope and encouragement
Stories of enemies and friends
- where battles end
in the end.

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Soft like the call of a lover
Earnest like the tears of a running Father
Substituting justice with forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my compendium of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
This is where I hear words collide with joy
This is where words can fly

This is where you'll hear God's voice.

You see, my God is a poet.

Shared slow
Shared spheres
Shared strolls
Shared souls

If you like your fruit soft
and sweet
You need simply segment it
with patience.
However
if you prefer
the earlier bite of hurry
the bitter crunch of
'time is money'
then pick it early
because you know
we don't all have all the time
in the world
but we do have better things to do
with our time,
which as you know
is of the essence.

But if you like your fruit
soft and sweet,
then sit in the shade of the tree.
Sit at his pieced feet
and listen to his patience.

The veg of the Spirit is
a bended knee in the morning,
a prayer while fasting,
and a habit of listening
to God’s voice in the evening.

The meat of the Spirit is
open hearted giving,
open handed serving,
open armed hugging
and being open to weeping.

But the fruit of the Spirit is
Love, joy, peace,
patience, kindness,
goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness
and self-control.
Against such things there is no law.

To be as grounded as a kite,
dancing wild in the wind,
eyes on the sky,
but secure in my roots,
in my tether
to excited, nimble hands.

There are things I don't speak of
There are those that stay unsaid
That remain untugged threads
and swallowed sighs

There are things that grow inside
There are those that ferment to full strength
That remain encased
Unrepented

There are remnants I don't share
There are those I keep to myself
Lest they seep out
Lest they drown out all else

There are things that will drown me,
that will **** me dead,

but not yet.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father,
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation.

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are,
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also,
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother)
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great
sacrificially.

For example,
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed,
He'll proudly walk
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride,
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

Love is patient.
Love is .... slow.

Love doesn't hurry.
Love doesn't celebrate brevity,
it doesn't interupt,
it doesn't rush.
Love refrains from finishing
your sentence,
and never jumps
to the punchline.
And love loves
a long shared lunchtime.

Love is happy to hesitate.
Love slows the pace
for the slowest of us.
Love - always - waits,
always protects,
always - makes - space.

The greatest love is slow
patience.

I pulled down the love is blind
and shut out the outside light,
and in the dark I let my love lead me
by touch alone, and so alone
we filled the room with our light
and kept the healing between us burning
til first chill of night,
when we saw it was safe to lift the blind
and tap our way back out into the world
- still alight
with our love is blind.

She said, 'its okay -
it's not what we thought
So it's time to stop short,
to let go, step back
and take a different route.
It's time to play a new track,
one which gives more scope
for dancing without tripping
for singing with no mind to the heckling.
So step back,
let go and go your way
while I go mine.
It's okay,
its just that this time
we both ran out
of each other's time.'
And she went.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
A slow examination
of a proposed change in direction

An opening
An invitation
A deliberate fresh hearing
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A spacing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected
even deeper
God-given
Peace

Holding my relevance
close to my chest
in case it's dropped
and lost

The world is getting smaller
It's getting quicker too
But it's not getting any younger
A service is overdue

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

This cracked porcelain
This fragile identity
This inherited white-knighthood
This charging harbringer
of culture
of better
of superior
- has stumbled
under the weight
of warped history
and is on its knees

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew
- parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.
- winter parties, summer trips
and massive paddling pools,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.
- common homes and gardens,
a street that was open plan,
family in every neighbour,
one big,
street-long
clan.

Black futures -
not a month
not a meme
not hash-tagged and gone
past in a blur.

Futures built
on the foundation of the past,
but rising past past expectations
and housing future generations
of black lives that answer back
and build better black futures.

The future's bright.
The future's colourful.

It's about GROWTH.
It's about what type of fruit
inevitability grows.
But you don't get to pick and choose,
you don't get to specialise -
You can't specify your choice of variety,
no, it's a job-lot, in its entirety.
But don't get stressed,
it's not about yield or performance,
it's not a contest.
It's about the kind of person you express,
the flavour of person folk taste
when you're most hard pressed.
It's about the fruit of God's Spirit,
the overflowing character of Jesus.
But don't fret,
don't boast -
it's about
GROWTH.

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 scrapes of plates,
the scream of the kettle.  
And that veined mug.

I hate knees
Knees hurt on the way down
the stairs to breakfast.
Knees hurt on impact
when I pray in earnest.
Knees transmit pain
signals to my brain relentless.
I hate knees.
Whether on necks
or where they belong,
on the ground.
I hate knees.

The blue lion applied reasonable force down on the black zebra's neck, his lazy authority reinforced with each passing minute.
And the world looked on.

The black zebra signaled his compliance with a little blood and by changing colour to a curious shade of purple.
And the world looked on.

His black herd cried, but kept their distance lest the blue pride took an unhealthy interest in them too.
And the world looked on.

The para lion checked for signs of death, unhurried under the just restraint of the blue law.
And the world looked on.

Eventually the carcass was rolled aside, deflated, unfortunately losing some of its colour.
And the world looked on.

Then later the black herd stampeded, making a wider spectrum of noise that couldn't be ignored.
And the world looked up, asking for the blue lions to do their job, and corrale the black zebras lest they frighten the white cubs.

And the world looked away.

Just cos you’re smarter don’t mean you’re better
Just cos you’re slimmer don’t mean you’re fitter
Just cos you’re taller don’t mean you’re stronger
And just cos you’re whiter don’t mean you’re right-er

God made us different to make a clear point
just take a look and a moment to think
It takes this diversity to reflect a great God
He glories in difference and angels applaud

when we reach across cracks made by our fear
when we stand against hatred and act when we hear
any suggestion of bias, a smidgen of bigotry
any ill-conceived comment that denies someone’s dignity

God made us each different, cos different ain’t boring
gender or pigment, brainy or brawny
God’s image is found in all colours and sizes
so please do your part to bridge what divides us

My last word must go to the average white male:
acknowledge the privilege our lives entail
no need to apologise, no need to feel shame
just walk with humility and please -
up your game

The mangy lab
and the golden retriever
sat waiting
as if asking – which would I choose?
Which was no choice at all.

Both belong to me
and both would follow me
at heel.
One to dog my steps
and one to push his head
under my empty hand
to let me know I have a friend.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Truth twisted or truth told?
Collusion or collaboration?
Who can tell what lies beneath:
Politician or statesman?

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and where the memories begin but I know they both begin to make sense after the first dozen times and then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and begin to bore me and so I focus on waking up to both and setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and the puke has already dripped through the cracks left by the dance and have left a dry yellow stain just so I know for sure I'm home and not still in the in between domain. And I try to recall the detail but fail again, so I start a new story where I'm the hero and not a victim this time and where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in a cooperative mood which makes me mad - what's the point of a hero when there's no heroism called for - which makes me wonder who called me here at this time of the night when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and me of course, so what's that make me, some cross between a black arts symbol and a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and anger I feel about the world - blast and ******, I need a *** and I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and let nature do it's worse. The warmth sooths me for a while, but soon enough the chill takes hold and I wonder when mum will come and tell me it's time for school.
The answer is exactly 30 seconds later - and as usual she notices nothing, so imagination it is then - not such a blessing despite what the poet said.

I'm seeing new weather
Not a change of a few degrees
Not a rise or a fall
or an increase or decrease

But New

Weather not previously known
Never before seen
New weather, creating new
weather-worn scenes

Thick, slow rubber, raining
Single sunbeams of light
aimlessly floating
Heavy weight winds,
viciously falling
Warm salt, peppering
the horizon and once in a while,
if you're lucky,
Musical lightning

rumoured to be orchestrated by new angels
who aren't as predicable as their older cousins.

I met a man walking backwards,
head to toe in high viz.
He was happy to ask for directions
and overtook the crowd with ease.

I met a man walking backwards,
telling me what was to come.
'Keep both eyes on the past,' he said,
'for the future is just re-runs.'

In the Spring, when kings go off to war,
when last year's battles are rejoined
and daughters lose their fathers to the egos of man

In the Spring, when dormant vegetation raises its head,
when bulbs reveal the colour within
and pollination can work its propagating wonders

In the Spring when frost gives way to dew
and the air warms in the sun,

- it is in the Spring that I renew my allegiance to my creator God
and look to him, and to his Son, for my path.