What's up, Xavi?
What do you see?
Where're you going
when you're running past me?

Why're you so happy?
Why the big grin?
Why don't you care
when your brothers crash in?

What's it you're seeing
when you're flat on your back?
Why're you relaxed
when your head gets a crack?

It's cos that deep down
you know that you're loved
by billy goat brothers
who love with a shove!

She opened the window above his bed
(How else will his spirit rise?)
I could have said
that his is a spirit that defies convention -
domestic or foreign -
his spirit would not wait for our permission.
But instead I smiled
at the February chill and the gas bill
that would have made my dad shudder.

I spent my day breathing life into my memories.

I often walk or sit with 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.

Extract maximum energy from every day
Turn you face towards the light
Turn away from the shadows
and at dusk
rest
ready for your dawning.

Whether Noble by name or noble by nature
this man is for you no matter the weather.

Whether noble in thought or noble in deed
I need to be vocal that this man's in need

of a woman who sees what's hidden in me
that I need a woman who truly believes

that together we're whole and separate were less
that together our God our family will bless.

I'm thankful my God was gracious to grant me
a woman as noble as my lovely Ivy.

Not horrible, but incredible, not nasty, but dynastic - some fantastic stories (I'm talking histories) - that pre-existed our weary scurries across this all-the-worlds-a-stage, so pay attention to this sometimes sage narrator and you'll be glad you did later on when you find that the story's on repeat and despite calls to the contrary lessons are rarely learnt and once burnt doesn't lead to twice shying away from the danger of descending down frequently encountered pitfalls, so pay attention and you may hear a history that lends itself to self discovery and avoidance of common snares and having to ask - "haven't we passed this way before?"

This is my lament for London and its young lives lost:


Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

Do you get me?

No shame, you know.
Just small self doubt
a violent chin
and contention for identity
for happiness
for unafraid space
with a smile and Stanley.

Do you get me?

He had a well stocked mind,
but with little stock taking
and with little order,
and so with little hope of finding
just a little rationale
for what sounded a little like tripe.

I sit with you, mutually leaning comfortably as we tremble on the sofa with Adam ******* filling our evening with laughter and I breath in your aroma - that bouquet of shampoo that you prefer to all the other scents offered in the ad breaks.

I'm no good at remembering brands or labels and your bottle of choice doesn't appear on the screen anymore in any case, but I know the smell of you fresh from the shower,

and you fill my head with happiness.

I took a breath
and I dived
deeper.
I pushed down til I saw the dark.
I reached down
dusted off my sea bed
and took hold of my bedrock.

I embraced to my chest
what lie there,
and pushed up,
retrieving, reclaiming,
bringing it to the surface light,

and once scraped free of neglect
it was seen
and noone would again wonder
what lay beneath.

I dived deep.
What choice did I have?

I've found it's dangerous to be different
and that it's likely to offend
but I can't help my being me
and I no longer will pretend

that I'm the one who is at fault
that I owe an apology
when the truth is that it is you
who should get used to me

I don't mind your naive questions
I welcome every one
but don't assume that being different
makes me a source of fun

instead let's reach agreement
that we've both got lots to learn
and while I try to learn some patience
you'll learn deference in return

And when you BLESS
Be prayerful,
careful to be mindful
that God's presence is vital
if actions are to be blessful.

And when you bless
Listen,
just stopping and sitting
signals that you're willing
to be hearing
while your tongue stays stilling.

And when you bless
Eat,
yes feast over several courses,
invest is slower morsels,
be someone who pauses
to hear other people's stories.

And when you bless
Serve,
and not just in church,
but with imaginative verve
serve all of your neighbours
even those who are homeless.

And when you bless
Share,
yes dare to bare
a little of your story,
more of the messy history
that brought you here.

And, less you think
that you might have impressed,
be mindful that
we all put on our pants
one leg at a time
when we're each getting dressed, yes
we all equally need
God's ever forgiving kiss
so with no eye on who's looking
- just BLESS.

In this less than
a few rungs below
my idea of a perfect year,

in this off-cut cast-off
and near redundant cluster
of never quite within my grasps,

in this now,
but not yet of a year

I found a light
high in your smile,
a familiar chime
deep in your laugh,
a welcome rest
on the cusp
of our brief touch

and I found hope.

Before you take up your blade, Sharon
who do you see?
Will you be cutting to heal
or incising to free
some carefully hidden,
some up-til-now unbidden me?

When you take up your blade
and test the fresh edge
do you have an image of a me
fixed in your head?
Can you see in your mind
a kinda-me roughly out sketched?

When you make your first cut
do you have a clear vision
of what I'll reveal
have you made your decision
as you press down and carefully cleave
with loving conceiving precision?

When you lay your blade down
do you see I've appeared?
Do you know I'm complete
when the excess is cleared?
Or when you sleep do you wonder
whether there's a less of a me
maybe a more of a me
silently waiting here?

Can there be intimacy without proximity?
Empathy without vicinity ?

Can we live without touch,
keeping brothers out peripherally?

No, that path only leads deceivingly
further into living life more miserably

So rather than espousing self-sufficiency
let's discuss band of brotherly

A brother unity that unconditionally
maintains a mature masculinity

A unity revealing a core fragility,
yes - a humility that risks indignity

I'm talking about an increasing capacity
a growling capability
for actual manual connectivity

I'm calling for a comprehensive solidarity
that embraces fierce timidity

You see I stand against living artificially
I'm all for living purposely

Yes, I'm here loudly
Campaigning
Against anyone
Living
Miserably

If she says it is
then it is
poetry
and don't try to tell her
any different
cos that would be your lie
against her truth
and we've all seen
where that boot leads
- art reduced down
to out of 5 stars reviews
and the boo's of the many
smothering the true of the few
and that dilutes truth
for us all, including you.
So, if she says it is
then it is
poetry
and true.

Dive deep.
And push down
til you reach the dark.
Dust off the sea bed
and take hold of your bedrock.

If you don't
you'll sink anyway,
but without a tether
and without a way back.

So take a breath.
Dive deep.
And once you've got hold of
what lies there,
bring it to the surface,
scrape it off,
so it can be seen
and noone need wonder
what's down there.

Dive deep.
What choice do you have?

I don't think she'll hear you.
- I'll give it a try.
I don't think she's listening.
- I'll try it again.

Son,
I don't think she's worried
about the high tide
and I don't think she cares
about the late time.
She'll return when she's ready,
let her drift while she can.
Just give mum this moment
of peace on the Seine.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
less you become monstrous.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and arm yourself with truth.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and shield your deep innocence.

When fighting monsters
(and you must fight your monsters no matter the depth of the abyss)
- watch yourself
and let your whole self stand.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of options
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation for interruption
A deliberate contemplation
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A hearing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And unexpected peace

I've seen redundant heroes
Inked and fully formed
They're faded from a lack of use
Like blunted dusty swords

I've seen redundant heroes
With no questing quite begun
Unknowingly replaced by you
The hero player-one.

Not waving, but drying.
Not surrender, but hope.
Not a reckless abandon
to the uncaring elements,
but a careful reading of the gusts,
of the distant clouds,
of any sign of coming gales.

Not waving, but drying
by a canny application
of my mother's oversized,
double applied,
long-legged, wooden pegs.

Not waving, but drying
by lunchtime.

My familiar haematoma
was happy dying,
thinking itself resilient
and settled into the can't
of lasting scaring.

And then the green came
and grew through the wounding,
imprinting its healing,
its green growing with hope
of growth, causing my pulsing
to phase into trusting
for perhaps
a whole new colourful beginning.

Where have you found your Orkney?
Where do you find you're centered?
Where would you say your true self is?
Where can you best be remembered?

Is it in a familiar voice?
Is it in a sound?
Is it in a childhood smell
or is it more place-bound?

Is it when you're free to dance
or when you get up to sing?
When you pick up a favourite pen
and your mind has taken wing?

Is it as you walk or stroll
or in the pace of a run?
Is it when you find your chill
or when you're having fun?

Is it when you're home alone
or when you're there with others?
Is it found when standing solo
or within greater numbers?

Where is your Orkney?
Where are you centred?
Wherever it is you're true self is -
go there and remember.

A pen,
a notebook
and idleness

- the three requisites for the manufacture of poetry.

The journey,
The torque,
The chase,
The lap-time,
The playlist,
The company,
The view,
The joy,
The purpose,

not the destination,
matters....

- with thanks to T S Elliott

Poetry is the shortest way of conveying something really big -

you could call me Larry
you might call me Shaun
but I will look Eastward
and wait for the dawn

you may think me seasoned
you could call me spring
but I'm looking Eastward
while the morning birds sing

you could call me silly
you might think me dumb
but when I look Eastward
I greet the dawn sun

We each sit in silence,
punctuated by the scrape of canvas,
and while it takes a while for me to hear you,
to taste the essence of you,
- slowly your aroma filters through
your curves,
your creases
and I cease to see your flesh and instead
I see the palette of you,
embedded in the greying of you,
waiting for this, this view,
this interpretation of you,
while you sit in your steady state
of quiet undress

All dressed up and waiting for summer,
a summer as strong and as fresh
as this perennial dress.

All made up and ready for life,
a life as bright and as perfumed
as this fragrant woman waiting to bloom.

'Wake me when summer comes.
'Stir me when the sweet zest rises and the sun can kiss me as with the dawn.'

All heaven screams its electric hues
The sun explodes in chroma anger
The clouds reach wide to embrace the view
And the sea gives up reflected grandeur

My eyelids filter this grace of lights
My tears rejoice at sunlight's candour
My breath gives up its futile fight
And my face absorbs this heaven's splendour

If this wall could talk
If those eyes could see
If those tears could fall
would they fall for me?

If this face could smile
If those lips could part
If those cheeks could blush
would they claim my heart?

there's said to be some merit in me
and there's something to be said about mine
but please never let it be taught
and please never have it headlined
that I've ever done any of this
but with measured and deliberate thought
or time consuming and considered design
none of this comes easy
little of this goes smooth
we all think ourselves imposters
but some of us have pushed through
so whatever doubts you're having
however steep the climb
take the chances that you're offered
and give yourself some time.

I will love you
until the moment I die away
until my last words pass
until my last chord fades

I will be true to you
until the next track plays
until the playlist moves on
and we become forgone
unless you choose 'repeat' to replay

Ask now about the former days,
ask before praying
before this pause
passes

Listen now about the former days,
listen before rising
before this story
ends

Speak now about the former days,
speak before forgetting
before this memory
fades

I serve with a woman called Lois;
having her here is a bonus;
you know she is near
whenever you hear
laughter, loud and in chorus.

'Of biblical proportions',
a once in a generation
full flood and lasting devastation.

'Of biblical proportions',
an inheritance double portion
from love given in the first person.

'Of biblical proportions',
a full to the brim immersion
after a throwing off of caution.

'Of biblical proportions',
a holyspirit-father-and-son
embrace of all that you have done.

Of biblical proportions
sweeping-up-anything- head-on.
Come Holy Spirit, come.

[We have a biblical proportions kind of God.]

Hannah has her cleaning boots,
they're really rather fine.
They match her rubber cleaning gloves
and her yellow cleaning sign.

We're all writing stories -
some in ink, some in blood,
some are less well read,
some become well-thumbed.

We're all writing stories -
some for laughs, some in tears,
some soaring sagas,
some stuck in first gear.

We're all writing stories -
some in first person, some in third,
whatever your perspective
take care with each word.

Perch up here on this stool so we can judge you, analyse and season you and so help redefine you. Let us make-up for the blemished you, whatever the level of damaged you and so apply a brand new 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 our just-like-yous. We can make-up for the real you and ensure noone ever gets a clue as to the essence of the beauty of the original true you.

Just perch here and let us re-make you.

Believe in more than
you can imagine
Believe in more than
you ask to happen
Believe in more than
what you have seen
Believe in more than
what you have been
Believe in more than
your faded label
Believe in more cos
your God is able.

Immeasurably more than
all we ask
Immeasurably more than
all we imagine
Immeasurably more than
what we deserve
Immeasurably more than
mere human passions

Immeasurably wider
Immeasurably longer
Immeasurably higher
Immeasurably deeper
Immeasurably more
full to the brim
Immeasurable love
to the fulness of Him

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 more complete
and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

Joseph is a bit of a dreamer,
you might say a wayward thinker,
but that's not the lot
of all that's he's got: -
He's the son of the great Creator.

So dreams wake up as passions,
passions bear fruit in actions
and soon you see
what only he dreamed:
God-made-man creations.

I met a bold painter
With no brush to his name
He held up his stylus
And happily explained
It's all about screen time
It's what you install
It's the choice of the subject
And this one is bald.

The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.

The now and the not yet
looked on
while the now and the no more
looked back -

both hesitant
both tearful
both hopeful for peace
even without reconciliation
while both conscious of the tension
between all that was
and all that is
and all that will be

- and they parted
in hope

A Psalm:

It is fitting to praise you with joyful song.
It is fitting to make stringed music to you.
It is fitting to sing new songs to you,
to play skillfully to you and to shout joyfully to you,
our God and Maker.
It is fitting to hope in your unfailing love,
to hope in your help and in your shield
to hope in your fearful, unfailing love,
our God and King.

It is fitting to praise you in the kitchen
with spoon and saucepan
with smart speaker on full volume.
It is fitting for the family to worship you
with loud bellows in the car,
with all the windows down.
It is fitting to praise you in the congregation,
in the Town Hall, in the parks and in the university,
in places of further wisdom your people praise you.

It is fitting
to play skillfully to you
to play with drums and cymbals.
It is fitting
to play with bass and keyboard,
to play with gong and cymbals.
It is fitting
to fill the Weston Halls with praise
to fill the corridors with the prayers of your people.
It is fitting
to stand together with your people
with both arms raised to you,
with our hope in your unfailing love.
It is fitting
for your people to praise you,
our God and Redeemer.

At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start

With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls

At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge

The song meant nothing to me, but spilled brim-full of faint meaning to more attentive ears than my own.

The song meant nothing. While I stood bemused with my less than perfect pitch and my imperfected sense of rhythm, both played out imperfectly through my stubby finger tips.

The song meant nothing. I was only too aware of the thesaurus of love, but the language eluded me, all the more at the opening bars when it would have been most useful.

The song meant nothing and I resorted to the clumsy sign language of childlike affections and smoke signals signing hesitant expressions of late-conceived emotions.

The song meant nothing, its meaning remaining an octave beyond my range, stave after stave.

The song meant nothing, but still I sang.