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.

Look lady, do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.  
I alreddy told ya, I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.

Now, fair enough, it might look bog standard,
but you must remember, it was already cack-‘anded,
so I'd thank you for shutting your gob
with all your talk of you bein' robbed.  

Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.  

You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.

- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.

You know what I mean?

What will the tide bring in?
What will it later reveal?
Like time,
        it won't keep waiting.
Like love,
        it can't help but heal.

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice -
a voice wrapped in grace
or punctuated with tearful praise.
User manual and 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 -
a voice soft like a lover
spoken comfort like an open-armed Father
Substituting justice for forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my community of choice

This is where I hear God's stanza'd voice -

Tonight,
God
is a poet.

I spent my day breathing life into my memories.

I often walk or sit among them.
I give them
the attention they ask for
to maintain their roots.

I administer
the moisture they desire
to retain their colour
their scent.

I know they aren't
what they used to be
but they grow with me
and give me hope
for more
more beauty
more life
and more to live for.

I spent my day with my memories.

Afterwards I started feeling
like I am a human
being again.

That's what this place did to me
it brought back my human
in the reflection of the hills,
the lakes, the trees,

but doing nothing to fade the ink.
No one told me that I had been liberated,
I had lost my knowledge.

So I ran free to find my voice last heard
before the years lived with the lasting dead,
the years sat with the lasting hunger,

but I had everything, I had paradise. So I ran -
taking my time to reclaim my body for the hungry,
taking my time to reclaim my voice for the silent.

I stopped living through and started living slowly.
I slept and ate and grew into our new normality,
together again alone.

Running not marching
Breathing not moaning
Swimming not dying
Living not surviving

and my voice lived to tell.
This is where I belong - not alone.

The blossom landed softly
and spread its smile unevenly
- even wickedly -
before over-reaching herself
and fading
into an inappropriate pink
only then to be reinforced
by a cherry drop
and another,
eventually
pooling
and forming a flower
of its own
in full bloom

"If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write...." ( and pin it up where it can be read)
Martin Luther.

My life experience.
His timeless scripture.
Which is the lens?
And which is the picture?

When I tell you of my story
Will you lean in or turn away
When I share the cause of my hurt
Will you weep or find an escape

Can I trust you with my story
Can I rely on you to stay
Please tell me now not later
It's late, too late for games

If you stay to share my story
They'll be laughter with the tears
But they come with me as a package
With the wounds under repair

You kept on pressing down
as if my heart couldn't break at all
As if the pressure you applied
would not take it's heavy toll

You kept on pressing down
as if my body could absorb
Every blow and every insult
rebounding off your inner wars

You kept on pressing down
not believing I'd react
But now it's me who's pressing down
and you who's on your back

I was not expecting,
given its colour and its texture
and given my preference
for the familiar,
I was not expecting
my hand to take the spoon
to scoop, to lift
the lemon to my mouth
and I was surely not expecting
the ice to wrap my head
in silk
enveloping my shoulders
my arms
and fall into my chest,
forcing my mouth back open
to take in the warmth of the smiles
and expel my laughter
as I reached for more.

Yet my life is not as expected
and not aligned to my preferred,

but oh for more silk and laughter -

If I
when I'm shouting
when I'm shouting in the tin-roof rain
against the stadium crowd
If I
when in the white shadow of her pain
bone marrow and head to toe
If I
fail to make myself heard
then I only have myself to blame

- I'm practiced enough
in finding a way through
through careful positioning
through forceful attention grabbing
with her head in both hands
taking her head to mine
and catching her eyes
brow to brow and toe to toe
until she knows I'm there
and that she can come back to us here
where the quiet is.

Feet flat, knees level,
I take the laptop position:
wrists and forearms relaxed,
shoulders loose.
I begin with a quick and precise combination
of key words flowing like darts from my fingers.
I ignore the too obvious feints and
scroll swiftly down,
keeping my laptop balanced
as I consider my options with care.
Sweeping away retail sites that got past my blocks
I focus on my target
and execute a killer click
and - bow
to sup my cooling tea.
I'm a Google master.

I knew a formidable, tempestuous man
and whilst he did much to his credit,
his dark grey moods
and the air that turned blue
clouded his very real merits.

Jack and Jill went up to Lidl
To queue for toilet paper
Jack got bored and soon he snored
Jill's patience was much greater

Jill queued on and moved along
Until allowed to enter
She found a pack and on the way back
Kicked Jack with pent-up anger.

Steve Page the elder
Sat with real pleasure
Eating his birthday cake
He took a large bite
And got a great fright
He'd swallowed his tongue by mistake.

Steve the poet sat at his desk
Steve the poet made a great mess
All of his pencils and all of his pens
Couldn't help Steve make a stanza of sense

The two of them staggered in
and flopped onto the worn sofa.
Neither spoke.
Neither tried.
They were just grateful for another day.
An earned break
A pause poised at their tipping point.

Chaos rose with a broken smile,
raising a slow arm,
'See you tomorrow'.

But Order was already asleep.

and not long after I caught a glimpse, just a glance
I saw colour and shape
as a half-heard voice brushed my fist,

or it might have been a piano chord, soft and gentle,
but only lasting half a moment.

whichever it was, it felt old,
like an empty hospital chapel or an unfinished letter

and when I turned to check, expectant,
it had changed
– so much so that I wasn’t sure it was what had called to me at all.

By some deeper instinct I only took half a step,
not daring to drop another tear, or form my question
– and over the course of a longest heartbeat, it re-emerged,

first the chord, followed a beat behind by the scent of the past
and the orange zest bled through the haze like a long-held breath.

I found I could breathe
and turn into its embrace

and the world left me in this grace.

I know it’s all-encompassing, but you know something?
it’ll pass, and we’ll move on
and we’ll try to forget the moments when we thought we could all be goners.

We’ll look forward, quote verses about new things and we’ll be assertive
and we’ll trust God for the future, post memes on our computers
and it is right that we do this with honest good humour

but let’s not waste this season by simply surviving,
simply grinning and bearing, and us hiding our crying.
Let’s not miss these moments, these weeks and months
when it's more honest to pray with tears and sobs,
asking for answers to our cries for life,
for the lives around us,
- for those who have died,

for our sanity cooped up and us barely coping,
our routine getting worn with daily repeating
without much needed hugs and with limited ways
to meet and to sing and to share our long days
with more than these same four walls

Pause

– don’t forget how this felt for you,
cos that's the way we seek his truth
and be better able to rely on him
next time our lives lose their rhyme and rhythm,

when (let’s be honest) our faith gets wonky,
and each one of us alone can be tempted to worry

and sink inside.

Let’s be honest with him and next time
our vision may be better aligned
and we’ll look to him and rather than hide,
we’ll stand that much straighter, knowing our God is so much greater,
our God is wider and higher and untold deeper
and he has this frail life in his two pierced hands that are so much bigger.

I know it's all-encompassing,
but you know something,
he is all Father,
all Creator, all Redeemer
and the all-encompassing more Grace-giver

He is the one holding it all together
and he wants to walk through this grief together

with you.

So, turn down the news,
make some space, seek his face
and let’s pray.

'I hear the Father say,

"Your patience indeed is shallow
- but my restive child, rest and pray,
find in me your refuge,
I am all you need today."

The Lord is harbour. He is anchor.
And once this season passes,
once the channels open
He will be our compass

and we will sail.'

When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.

Zero cubed has no more value than zero squared,
but has a more pleasant shape and is able to bear greater weight.

It always reminds me of a spell I learned as a teen
from the rag and bone horse who was never in a hurry
and was always happy to chat,
sharing his experience which came from many roads
and long hot summers in the '50s
when he was younger and less careful.

Zero, he told me, is a useful start
to many constructions and worth mastering
if you ever intend to move on to primes.
Primes are slippery, he explained, and require focus.

Zeros similarly require a focused mind, but are easier to build with.

So I spent the summer of '74 getting used
to the feel and the texture of various zeros,
then carefully moved on to zero squared.
By the September, just before school, I'd started playing with zeros cubed
with not a little success.

I picked them up again in the Christmas holidays and then,
almost by accident, I came across the spell:
zero times zero times zero divided by infinity.

It still makes me smile.

The following spring I discovered girls.
And for the next 6 years I put the zeros aside.

But I won't quickly forget Benjamin, 1974
and the smile of magic.

Are those my cream eggs?
Those look like mine.
Where did you find them?
I'm sure I had nine.

Are those my cream eggs?
They better not be.
Cos if they are,
You owe me!

What now?
Where do I go?

Home.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace and the prince to get tricky.
One lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, one died not guilty.
One spoke the truth and one shouted lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears and one with no pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought that was the finish.
The King rose on Sunday, his rule undiminished.

You will come to [hope] in time
You will come to [trust] in time

You will come to [fall] in time
You will come to [jump] in time

You will come to [dance] in time
You will come to [march] in time

You will come to [believe] in time
You will come to [doubt] in time

You will come to [forgive] in time
You will come to [forget] in time

You will come to [keep] in time
You will come to [stay] in time

You will come to me

and God is just as God-like,
(what I mean is, just as heavenly-fatherly)
in a pandemic.
Though you do tend to hear Him through a different filter –
and not one of His making.

A filter of a thicker thread.

And, whilst you do need to listen more carefully
(and take more time I find),
He speaks and listens just as intently
and it is unmistakably His voice.

However, I find that I throw more at Him
at times such as this.

Queuing -
When I was growing
it was second nature.
Then we got out the habit -
and started congregating and lingering,
vaguely hovering til the bus arrives
and then converging
with no reference to order
or deference to aging.
Or begrudgingly taking a number
and waiting our turn
til called forward, bringing us
out of our revelry.

It's different now.
Now we get there early,
expecting a wait, a line,
spaced out like it's leprosy
that we're suffering -
Like we're resisting
being associated with the others
who are queuing.

Shuffling.

Waiting.

And once arriving,
being begrudgingly admitted
by the high-viz guy who's masking,
and he's insisting
that our partner
has to wait outside
where it's freezing.

Now queuing
is our new necessity -
our communal normality.

Maybe it'll stick
and we'll be sticklers
for a queue that's orderly.

And maybe - just maybe
we'll find that the queues move
a little
more
quickly.

The completion
The utter exhaustion
Who could imagine that pieces of paper, overlaid and pressed down into a bottomless pit of my stomach could cause so much fatigue.
My house is now sold.

She smiles at speed and leaves my fingers sparkling
with flashes of leather and steel.
She catches my eye in the mirror then falls away
while emerging afresh from around the next bend.  
And somehow she lingers long enough to inject my lap and push me
back deep into each crack in the road, caught in filtered sun
through the crash of leaves, drawing out fear with a surge of adrenaline
pooling in the pit of my stomach and sinking into my sack of stones
that ache and hunger for the straight and the late brake
over the reek of grease, oil and fully leaded fuel,
dyeing my skin a slippery shade of tarmac, diluted by blood
and black rain blinding me with a flimsy sheen shimmering
between me and a dark montage of cries and stillness,
til I pass a pyre that devours young ambition for long life
and casts shadows of a long breath held at the finish,
its threat caught in her smile,
until the next time.

An isolation of poets.
A distancing of poets.

A contagion of poets.
A household of poets.

A necessity of poets.

It's a perfectly rational human response to feel anxious,
to weep, to stare into space and imagine the worse.

It's a perfect human response to take a breath,
to be kind to ourselves and be supportive of each other.

We're not perfect,
but with God's good grace we'll give it a go.

Fluffy ain't easy
Fluffy ain't weak
Fluffy is tough
a close-knit physique

Speed is cold.
Speed is cruel.
Speed is merciless.

Speed is a smile, at speed.
Blink and it's gone.

Freedom to stop
Freedom to ponder
Freedom to slow
Not freedom to wander

Freedom to worship
on FaceBook or You Tube
Freedom to pray
along in my room

Freedom to chat
on What's App or phone
Freedom to write
letters back home

Freedom to read
that book that's been waiting
Freedom to finish
my puzzle or painting

Freedom to thank
my friends and my neighbours
Freedom to help
without fear, without favour

So enjoy all your freedoms
within the disruption
Savour your choices
Retreat's not an option.

We see the strong supportive woman you have always been,
- Now it's our turn.
The unselfish way you have liberally spread your time on us, right to the edges,
-Now it's our turn.
The generous helpings of patience that seemed to come so naturally, with seconds for those who want it,
-Now it's our turn.
You're guiding words seasoned with kindness, so full of flavour,
-Now it's our turn.
The unconditional love you have always poured out on us, full and overflowing,
-Now it's our turn...

Please can you write down the recipe?

You won't find me
in those new-fangled machines.

You don't know when you'll end up.

I'll just wait here and see you later.

Warmer or colder - that don't matter
Get your hands wet with clean running water

Now apply soap - liquid or tablet
Lather it up, both the front and the back

Between all the fingers, don't forget thumbs
Under the nails, there there be bugs

Carry on scrubbing, at least 20 seconds
Sing happy birthday, twice for good measure

Now for the rinse, with clean, running water
And once you have dried, you're a true virus fighter.

"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"

So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection
If he was not tortured
If he did not hang,
If he did not die ****** and tearfully,
if he was not buried in darkness,
if he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels to angel-splain what they saw,
If he did not reveal himself
and walk and touch and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,

"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory.

That took less time than I thought

- got old real quick

This is taking longer that they said

- still not grown up

I'm not as brave as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I'm not as sure as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I ask more questions,
listen more intently
and I'm more reluctant to reach conclusions

I'm not as young as I used to be
I bear more scars
I move more slowly

but then I'm wiser.

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
A freckled-faced banshee fan
Pale make-up matching my skin
I don't easily tan

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
They call me ginger-goth man
Taking my sunlight secondhand
Part of a bat cave clan

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
A Mary Shelley fan
The original goth had ginger hair
I continue as she began

Each line,
each sound enters a secret combination and swings wide a door of opportunity to me who follows
And as it appoaches it's close, the line turns and holds open that door, just for a few moments, before moving on,
and if you're quick enough, if you time it right, you who follow can take the weight without the skill needed to open it, and so you say your thanks
and then you too can pause as you look back and pass the weight , the opportunity onto a someone who follows on.

And so we follow, on to the turn of the next words of revelation,
timing and attention crucial to maintaining the flow of opportunity
until every now and then a mis-step necessitates a stretch, a reach and catch of the door, giving effort to reverse the swing and maintaining the offering of access
and in return we might receive a thank you from they who follow us.
And smiling, we follow on.

Is truth now a muddy thing?
Is that how we prefer it to be?
Is truth a muddy clay
ready to be shaped ‘til it pleases me?

Is truth now a muddy thing
thick and deep, hiding what's beneath?
Designed to hide my face
as I seek a private relief?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
wet, heavy, gritty and cold?
Can I scrap it off my boot,
leave it outside my safe threshold?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
slowing me wading ashore?
Immune to curses and stumbles,
dragging me to the floor?

If truth is now a muddy thing
can I filter it and sieve?
Is there pure clear truth that's not been eroded?
Will I still find true truth within?

Each day I pray for an ear that will hear
above all the noise clearly His voice.
For while sometimes it's best to be serving with zest,
sometimes it's better to sit for a breather
and wait in his presence and enjoy this true essence
of sitting and being before going and doing.
So while sometimes I'll Martha I know that I'd rather
spend time being Mary, in less of a hurry,
for there at his feet I'll be that more complete
and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

Today - where can I mary and where can I martha?
There is time for both,
but I know which is better.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of a new option
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation given for heavenly interruption
A deliberate choice for a fresh listen
A much needed full-stop punctuation

A calming - a sit stilling
A waiting - a head spacing
A surrender - a release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected end-of-the-road Peace
Here on this path, walking with the Prince

Lord, save me from empty lent abstinence
Protect me from light hearted choco-resistance
And stir in me longer-lasting adherence
A dig down deeper ringing resonance
That falls in step with your quiet insistence
to follow a path of greater resilience.

Lord, save me from a temporary temperance
And lend me your eternal Spirit of endurance
That I might take lent as a growth accelerant
And so hold my head higher
in your post-Easter presence.