Isn't it unfair? I mean,
why does your heart grow back bigger?
I mean, it grows - why? Experience?
Is it a version of 'what doesn't **** you,' etc.
Is it cos it gets stretched to breaking point?
Or maybe it's more like how water
expands when frozen
(that makes no sense, ignore that last bit.)
But your heart does seem to grow
back after a while, and it feels bigger.
Or maybe it just feels emptier
because it got used to being so full.
Anyhow, I'm left with this bloated heart.
So, I'll keep writing,
hoping to keep the excess in check.  
Or at least it'll give it a workout.
Till it has something better to do.

Reading as resistance
Not reading as distraction

A prologue of Reflection
An intro in Contemplation

Then commence with Participation
Continue in Expedition
Subdue with Rebellion
Prevail in Revolution

And savour the Liberation
Of a book well read.

You think I won't?
You see I will.
You better belie' me
I ain't even lyin'
This is real, guy.
This is what I meanne.
'nuff of this sh#t.
'full of sh#t...
This is change -
You jus see.

Not too old to dance
Not too big to rumba
Never passing up a chance
To feel a little younger

Still learning some new steps
Hearing brand new beats
Sensing curious rhythms
Finding both my feet

Using all my muscles
Controlling my meander
With a God given freedom
To release the inner dancer

Old friends say they see
The dancer that they knew
They recognise the steps
Each one tried and true

So, whilst I’m not as spry
And maybe I’m less graceful
You won’t stop me dancing
Just not on any tables

The muted cuckoo goes through the hourly motions, miming dutiful repetitions
which in time is lip-read til we appreciate what's long-gone unsaid.

Another hour has sped by, pregnant with unrealised promise.

Maker
Originator
Innovator
Landscaper
Sculptor
Painter
Writer
Director
(Mould breaker)
Care-Taker
Sustainer
Restorer
Reinventor
Renovator
Collaborator
Benefactor.

Maker of all.

"Bob, track some mud on the carpet"
Words from Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan, a nudge to take risks and leave a mark.
“You are the light of the world…let your light shine before others.”  Matthew 5.14. Words from someone who knew how to leave a mark. We can do the same.

I
Have you left some mud on the carpet?
When did you last leave a stain?
Do your words make an impression?
Will you risk sounding insane?
How will you best be remembered?
How soft are you tempted to tread?
How long will your footsteps echo,
in the years after you’re dead?
Why do you think you were here?
Why do you have breath within you?
Why do you have all these questions,
when there're answers that've always been true?

II
Created to be the creators.
Gifted to speak others' minds.
Your art is a voice unspoken.
A light to open their eyes.
So next time you walk in a room,
look for the ones in the crowd.
Those who show recognition
of the things you don’t dare say out loud.
These are your tribe and your family.
These are the ones you can trust.
Together you might find a way
to help new life form from the mud.

If there is a God, he whispered 'garlic bread' to Peter Kay
and 'Yellow' into the ear of a younger Coldplay.  
He gave Picasso a brand new angle
and told Isosceles the deep secrets of the triangle.  
He opened the eyes of a struggling Van Gogh
and calmed Will Tell Jnr. in the face of his father's levelled bow.
God's whisper and touch are as present now as ever,
just heed the prompts of our ever-present creator.

I sit in my Edward Hopper moment, my half started keepacup of green tea cooling,  staring at the chess board floor while my mind slows, moving down the gears after A1-driven shenanigans and I mindfully let the beat of Magic Radio fade back into the 70s while some seldom used lobe recalls a blue wide-wheeled mini van (replete with an A-Team overthetop stripe) on other journeys North.

I close my eyes and focus on the duties and joys of single granddad-hood and try to ignore the give in the one-size-barely-fits-all plastic seating beneath my oversized frame. My eyes refocus and I'm struck by a three-gen family arguing over Burger Kings, and I hate their voices forcing me back to 1984,  RAF Scampton, forcing down a much-too-early, much-too-bleak breakfast ahead of a slow day taking stick from families of maddened miners.

I close my eyes again to breathe my regrets back into place, and I sup and look ahead.

Beauty lies beneath.
Wait for it to emerge.
New shoots, rich earth.

Part the foliage.
Give them more light.
A chance to fight.

Simply crouch.
Dip your head.
See beneath.

Beauty lies beneath
the bleak.

I recognise her hurled hurt
- pain
- frustration
- weariness
- can't wait to get out of this
in each unspoken sigh
each practiced cry
each queued curt response
that lay swallowed
and composed in the pit
of a fully evacuated stomach

frayed but full to four edges
marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid
over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence:

nothing is ever finished only paused pending further
inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond
the perimeters of an ensnared inner page of rage

Brave to ask.

   Wise to listen.

      Inspired to act.

         Transformation.

Sometimes,
and sometimes, just as I try
to doze on a sofa,
when I have nothing demanding to do
and I have time when I can
while away some time alone -

Sometimes like that,
I find my mind wandering,
I find myself wondering

"What if?"

I examine the sliding doors
The life choices
The milestones
that mark past crossroads.

And I story-tell, I dream-walk
I wander down roads not travelled.

And from that sofa
I wonder if I might now just about see
the next significant junction
on my horizon.

And in that wonder moment,
I promise the Makers of my turnings
that, this time, I'll be more adventurous
I'll trust Them more.
I'll take the road that carries
a little more risk, a little less certainty.

I pledge to not roadmap my journey,
at least not quite as much
as I typically do.
And I will entrust the future
into the more capable hands of those
who have no need for What ifs.  

I can trust the Makers, for
they know what lies ahead.
They have been there
and they can each see way more
than I can
from my sofa.

I can't enjoy unearned grace.
Where's the satisfaction in that?
Unfounded mercy sits uneasy
with self-respect,
(or with self-contempt come to that).

I can't enjoy what I don't deserve.
But it's not the problem you believe;
you see, I am fully self-assured
of what I've earned
And it's more than you'd conceive.

So, you can gift your lavish grace,
on those in acknowledged penury,
on those who are sufficiently naive
to foolishly believe
that they are in need of mercy.

But that's not me.

Of the reading of maps
and the keeping of diaries
there is no end,
but the LORD directs those who pause at dawn.

It seems wise to number,
to measure appears right to the mortal mind.
What is time,
but our need to gauge eternity?

We search without regard.  
We take the answer
before we finish the question.
But Wisdom rewards those who return to her.

We watch when we should sleep.  
We linger when we should walk.  
Much is gained by those who mute temptation.

A true friend is found in joined silence.  
Likes do little to feed the soul.

Turn the page clockwise,
a full one-eighty degrees. 
 
Any further and you’ll lose perspective.  
Any less and you’ll slip back.  

That’s not irretrievable,
and you’ll probably
have an opportunity to re-cover.
You might re-live and re-peat,
but if you make it a habit,
you’ll get stuck in a loop
never breaking out of the prologue.

Stick to the clockwise-one-eighty approach
and you’ll myth like a Makar.
You’ll story, fable and yarn.
You’ll chronicle and tale.
You’ll saga.  

That is what we call a true page turner.

When is a scooter
not a scooter?
When you don't scoot,
and I'm the scooter-
pusher.

Like layering Hi Viz
over my Camo Print
I embrace my tendency
to self contradict -
Deal with it.

There's nothing magical about being intentional.
It's about the beneficial, not just the permissible.
Don't be mindful of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency of every mouthful
Watch the size of your morning bowlful
And what you spread on a wholemeal bagel.

That way you'll find you'll be more healthful.

Although I should be a little more truthful –
I can get all emotional
And potentially inspirational
About my preferable, honey-based
Sticky sauce that’s truly capital (BBQ).

When is a selfie not a great selfie?
When I’m not recognised.
When proportions are all out of balance.
When I look dead round the eyes.

When is a selfie not a real selfie?
When I look more like my father.
When family traits take a front seat.
When my lost hair is a disaster.

When is a selfie not a true selfie?
When my features just aren’t right.
When my chins are lost in shadow.
When I look like I just lost a fight.

When is a selfie a much better selfie?
Only when I’m unprepared.
When I can’t worry about how it turns out
When I’m fully caught unawares.

I have a great selfie, a much better selfie,
One that was made by my daughter.
You see a great selfie is made a great selfie
When family can make it with laughter.

We frolic and laugh, for the dragon sleeps.

  We glory in the pleasure of this short summer,
  the cool of the brook and the still warming sun,
  for the dragon does still sleep.

  We will not give good attention to the dark,
  though it sits not so far away. We play at peace,
  for the dragon does still sleep.

  We shall not quieten, for he more than slumbers,
  his sleep is the sleep of the near dead,
  though he may yet rise and torment us once more.

  We will not wait on that future fear.
  We will rather frolic in the warmth of sun and laughter,
  for the Tamar dragon does still sleep.

And we know a Champion
who is a slayer of all our dragons.

I strive for each parting to be well made.
Not in silence, nor in haste,
but in all honesty and good humour.
For each parting may well be a conclusion
or perhaps a foundation
if only we knew the truth of it.

So let us not step away without observing
and, be it only briefly, examining
what we have had in this, our good company.

Let us not turn our eyes without first
seeking the light of this truth
- that we have sown to good effect,
that our God has purposed
something of Heaven here.  
And it will only be in the reaping erelong
that Heaven's Kingdom will be established
It is only then her King is enthroned
in the hearts of his creation in concert.

My brother, my sister,
- let us see this end, this parting,
as one well made in the sight of our Maker,
the good Maker of each joining,
and yes, of every parting.

Indeed let us know this day
as a parting that our Maker
has truly well made
and in His careful making
has blessed it with his countenance.

And so, let us part in his rejoicing.

What goes around
will come around.
Usually,
to bite you.
Invariably
in the ****
and always
overdue.

Curiosity over Certainty
breeds Questions
that have Validity.

(Thanks to Ted Lasso
and Richard P. Feynman.)

I aspire to the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring. 
Ambition to realise her passion: 
Serving and providing
love without ration.

I aspire to the love of a mother:
teaching and persisting
with no reflection on reward,
but for the pleasure of pursuing
a calling she can’t ignore.

She aspires to serve God’s children 
entrusted to her caring. 
Until united with Him 
after a life of faithful praying,
with lives better lived 
for loving and knowing her.

The sun sank down at dawn
The finch returned to its nest
The crocus postponed all plans
And peace went back to her bed

The light might come tomorrow
The birds may return in song
The flowers can rise in the new Spring
And there's hope to be had erelong

Beginning with ash.
Leading to blood and tears.
Ending with love declared
out of the grave
into a new light's dawn.

Lent gives pause.
Jesus gifts life.

How many poets
does it take to change a light bulb?

Two.
One to hold the ladder.
And one to tearfully consider the transitive nature of existence compounded by the tragedy of the assumption of replacement without true celebration of the individuality found at the heart of the mass produced and the beauty that can be found in a frail light fighting against the darkness inherent in an unfair world.

Night Portraits
And Night Landscapes
Leave shadows for us to fill
Or to leave full
of nocturnal potential

This month I call you Saviour.

Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.

But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
to draw on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity
and ultimate betrayal in the big city.

This month I address my Hosannas
to you, my loving, risen Saviour.

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold, his soft touch
stirs in me multiple wonders.

I’m stirred and I gaze into his face
and I gauge his embracing grace
in the way his body moves.

His graceful body moves
into mine and embraces
me whole, bone and soul.

His gentle, generous whispers
suffuse my soul as he strokes
my fragile spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed,
sated by in his gifted innocence.

I’m turned and I’m sated
by the flow of his thick breast milk
and the sweet fruit of his vine.

Together, we sway to slow angel-song
while he tutors me in timeless arts,
in his long-lost sweeping steps.

His timeless arts arouse in me
long aches of ancient senses,
not least the thrill of love’s touch.

And so, hand touching hand
I’m released, liberated
to love him and to run.

I run, released into him
sinking into him, to dance
in step for an eternity.

When we sat at that table
the one by the sea and the night
I looked up and caught your eyes
I caught their light full beam
I found a reflection
spiegel im spiegel
mirror in mirror
promising an unending
taking me further
than I had expected.

I'm still transported.

Is it as I get older that I become less sure,
more inclined to explore,
looking for words that better call
for open minds and open hands
– letting our stones fall
to give room for embrace.

Is it as I get older that I sadden
at the confidence (arrogance?) of those
who fashion words as weapons
who channel living streams into moats
with no thought to building boats
with all efforts on draw-bridge defenses
less our certainties be conquered
by those with much bigger shields
and sharper swords.

Is it as I get older that my bent prayers
creak louder and are prone to deeper pain
and I better appreciate why Jesus barely contained
his despair at ill-disciplined disciples
and the divergence of their words and actions
because I am Peter and John – I run
with more questions than answers
but with tears at how he manages
to love me after all.

The bigger my heart,
the greater I hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I think.

The greater my reach
the more I need grounding.

------------------

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the harder I weep.

Can a mailbox truly expire
or does it simply get archived?

Can a text really be deleted
or does it move to another folder?

Can I simply log off and shut down
or do I remain partially connected?

When I manage to restart
I hope I retain some memory.

‘Once upon a time’ -
that’s not the first line
not the start of this plot
it’s not where we start

no smart-talking mirror
no scheming stepmother
no frog in a pond
no magical wand

‘In the beginning’
and again
‘In the beginning’
That’s the story we’ve got -
us and our God

the ground beneath my feet
soft grass that’s fresh with dew
cold with deeper warmth

the air that I breath
fresh breeze warming inside
rising to long strength

the hope within my dreams
wide and filling my morning
building fresh foundations

what could be harder
getting up before the dawn
beating a lone path

climbing into your cold cab

what could be cooler
sitting high above the snow
clearing a shared path

I miss my little brother. Especially at harvest. He was a hard worker – strong back and long reach. The kind of brother you want around.

‘Course, there was much more to him than strength and size. His art demonstrates that. He used to love experimenting with oils in his down time and had a knack for vivid battle scenes.

They say you paint what you know and not a year went by when he wasn’t called up for service. They would come to the farm to say the king needed him, and there was no refusing that call.

What he saw on the front line haunted him. So much was expected of him of course, but I think we overestimated his ability to cope with the ordeal of combat. Folk mistook his stature for a propensity for violence that needed release. We knew different. He was happier in the fields.  

I heard dad talking with him while he painted. It was clear my brother knew the value of a champion. The lives saved. The men who got to go back to their farms and families. The gods had gifted him, dad said. But when I see his canvases, that’s where I see the gift. Lasting reminders of the trauma that lesser men can wrought. Reminders of the suffering one man can save us from.

I miss Goliath.

He was there, just where you wouldn’t expect him – typical Jesus. There he was selling the Big Issue while chatting with mates. I was just walking round to Sainsbury’s to pick up some milk.
I couldn’t stop, I had to get back for my 2 o’clock.
If I’d known he’d be there I’m not sure what I would have done – maybe gone the other way. You know what it’s like, you just want to get on, but he has this way of getting you to slow down. It just takes up your time.
So there he was. He knew I’d seen him, even though I kept my head down and kept walking, checking I had a carrier. It really bugs me when I forget and I need to decide whether to buy another bag for life or act casual with a two pint-er hanging from a finger, despite the numbing cold. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or guilty that he didn’t call out. I could see he was busy. It’s no big deal.  We’d catch up another time.  
As I queued for the self-service, I wondered if he’d still be there, and if he was, would it be impolite to just nod and keep walking. I had that meeting. I’d said I’d be back in time. And I really wanted to have enough leeway to make a cup of tea and get my head in the right space.
I was just thinking through my options when he popped up beside me as I swiped my nectar card. ‘Hey, matey,’ he smiled. ‘Can I walk with you? I know it’s a working day, so I won’t slow you down.’
I felt like he’d read my mind – maybe he had.  I made a neutral sound, something like a casual agreement and we walked. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t end up taking all afternoon, so I thought I’d best say nothing.  
He kept his word and didn't slow me down. We walked and he talked about the stabbing. Everyone was. Noone I knew. A guy in his thirties just outside Sainsbury’s. He had walked to the Grosvenor, and they tried to help but it was too late for him. The police camped out all the following day.
I nodded, not seeing the point of adding anything. Like I said, it wasn’t like I knew him.
When we got to the corner, where the police tape still floated attached to the lamppost, he took my shoulder and made me pause. Then he gave me a hug.
You know his hugs – like warm memory foam. I really needed to get back for that call, but instead I stood and sobbed, like he knew I needed to.
Blast. That really messed up my plans for the afternoon.

Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that slow and speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap and climb
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that fully embody
Lines that wholly embed
Hope

“You’re big and ugly enough,” he did mean it kindly
as he passed me a wrench and continued to guide me.

“You’re big enough and ugly enough, to handle this truth.  
It’s now time that you learned that it’s just what we do.
We take on the rough along with the smooth.
You will learn that the world expects this of you.”

And so, year upon year I took on rough truths,
until cold battered hands were no longer smooth.
I grasped the sharp nettles, and I braced for disputes
until strong opposition conceded to move.

I ignored muscle pains and maintained my strong grip,
all the more tighter when I felt my hands slip.
Through gritted cracked teeth, expletives might slip
but I beat mounting odds with dull cries of relief.

Now a few decades on, I’m still big and I’m ugly,
but I’ve got a light touch for words that hold beauty.
There’s a time for raw strength but space for what’s lovely
and the lovely gives strength to meet daily duties.

My dad did mean well when he passed on his insights,
but there’s much more to my strength than winning each fight.
I’m no longer a big, ugly stereotype -
The best part of me can be found when I write.

Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.

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

No mind left behind
No-one left deprived
Of love and joy and song
And knowing we belong

When bad motives are assigned to your art
When you're perceived as trouble in the making
When your audacious is seen as disruptive
That's when you smile and keep on writing
[painting, making, drawing, singing...]

I am a poet
Anything that you tell me
May become Haiku

"What have you got there?"

"A few particles of joy and this.  I found it hidden when I last looked in my quiet."

He opened his hand tentatively, not sure if it was safe to do so. He had unknowing saved a small remnant of his original soul.

We looked at the torn corner resting in his palm. It was more than anyone could have hoped for for someone who had remained in London.

"How have you kept hold of that?"

"I'm not sure. It might be from my old prayers. I thought it had been used up years ago. Is it worth anything?"

"It just might be worth everything."

We’re told to watch the body language
that it may be subtle
and difficult to decipher.

But in the right hands
it cries out in its fluency
it sings in its inflections.

In the right company
you can’t tear your eyes away
from the clear meaning.


We’re told to watch the body language
so we watch his hands, his feet
each pierced to make a point.

We watch the words hanging there,
terrible in their eloquence
accentuated by His sacrifice.


We’re told to watch the body language
because in the right hands
actions speak so much louder than words.

And His can still be heard.