I see you there, keep looking at me
but I'm not sure what it is you see

I’ve no canvas, I’m left unframed
so let me help you with my name

I'm no-one's 'boy', I'm not 'hey you'
my name's Mister, it's 'Mister New'

I've got old scars, raw scars too
but I'm not sure, it's clear to you

wounds can only go so deep
there's only so long that they can bleed

you see me ‘wounded’, black and blue
but save your pity - that's all about you

I've grown taller through broken skin
my roots sink deeper than you've ever been

when you're up close you'll see it's true
my fresh healed skin's a real break through

I've got a name, so I'd thank you
when you address me, say 'Mister New'

an aqua silence
balances a reflected peace
a restrained light
while I wait in filtered hush
and the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
stills me, re-fills me,
tells me to wait further
to rest longer
and not wonder why
the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
quiets me, speaks to me,
seeps deep in me
while I weigh the possibility
that the fish have it right
when they refuse to bite

I sit in aqua peace
and refuse to bite

A quote from a lovely movie, Lean on Pete:
"The nightmares are going to get better. They might not go away completely, but they're going to get better the more good times you have. And we're going to have good times, Charlie.  I promise."

The last drop of hope
is the strongest.
That's why it's last
why it hangs on
why it holds out
why it pushes back
why it refuses to fall
and instead in defiance it stays,
waiting for your last word
in hope.

Every Jamaican is a superstar.
It's there in the carry
in the step
in the stand.
It's there in the belief
that anything
that anyone
that anywhere
can swagger
can strut
can take the room
and make the world stop
sit up
take note
and smile.

I identify as a poet,
a writer-poet
with a bent towards rhythms and patterns that are pleasing to the tongue
and to the ear.
On paper, the words are captured
with clear order and definite lines.
Spoken, the sounds wrap around and seep into ear canals,
flowing with less order, with greater freedom.

I identify as an artist,
a sound-artist,
with a bent towards the human voice, using words that worm their way into the human consciousness,
lodging there to make a new home,
free to morph into new installations with an art of their own making.

I identify as a poet.

Dear Mr Finch,

I visited your village this morning.

I was struck by the lines of greens.
I was smitten by the mighty trees.
I was gripped by the citizens,
by the softness of a hand
placing change with care into my hand
by the ease of each smile,
the feel of less stress
and the kindness I found.
I was touched by the welcome.
They did you so proud.

Yours contentedly,
Steve the Londoner.

Can you lend me a pound of your strength
maybe give me a slice of your chi.
I could do with a dose of your vim
and a dab of your vibrant esprit.

So give me whatever you're having,
let me follow your daily routine.
So long as you allow strong coffee
within your wholesome regime.

She put on her good bra
and braced herself
for a heavy day ahead

I got places I need to go
I got people I need to see
I got plans to change the world,
but first I need to ***.

My quick lie offered me
a knock-off respite, obviously overpriced and inevitably shoddy, but real and present and there for me even while it was dropping away like a slow knife, falling beyond my desperate dive towards the inevitable piecing of my carefully structured delusion, counting the cost of those few moments of delayed capitulation.
My quick lie lied to me.

Don't be so quick to tip your king.
Do not rush to fold your hand.
It is not time to take that bow,
there's still more time to take your stand.

Don't draw that curtain.
Don't throw in the towel.
Don't close the still open door.
Don't get your coat.
Don't tear off your gloves.
Don't slow and play for a draw.

Sit up, stand firm
and raise your chin,
focus both worn eyes.
Fight on til the last,
play on for the win
and take your waiting prize.

To know one's limitations, my captain told us, is a lifetime's study.
For just as you think that you have the measure of it the sands shift, your heart moves and you surprise yourself once more.
So keep probing the flesh, keep asking the mind, sound the depths of your reserves.
For it is in that conversation that the answer may be heard and understanding found.
But it will not be found today.
You will not reach the bounds of your limitations on this field.
No.
Today you stand with me.
Today we will push on.

Graciously he turned to me
By grace I saw his face
Graciously he spoke my name
By grace I heard his voice

Graciously he spread his arms
By grace I ran to him
Graciously he took me on
By grace I took his name

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

Graciously he holds me close
By grace I hold on tight
Graciously he lifts my head
By grace I lift my voice

Graciously he walks with me
By grace I keep in step
Graciously he strengthens me
By grace I run unchecked

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

I'm thankful for family
For sisters who love me
I'm thankful for parents
Who took their role seriously

I'm thankful for a home
That was open to friends
I'm thankful for cousins
And family that extends

To uncles and aunts
To grannies and nans
To granddads and grandpas
And in-laws and clans

I know we're not perfect
We've had ups and some downs
But together we flourish
We won't be kept down

It's so easy to drift into a slow 'if only' and wander again through a past possibility that didn't blossom into an anticipated actuality leading you away from activities that hold greater profitabilities while smothering you with unhelpful wistfullies and miseries that blind you from embracing future feasibilities and your Father's generosities that will exceed our feeble fantasies.

You think me weakened by the sun
You watch me beaten by the rain
You lose sight of me in the mist
And still I rise to bloom again

Where are you now?
-
Well I'm here. Here at the -
-
I can't see you.
-
No.
-
Well I'm looking at it n- Yes.
-
What do you see?
-
Okay. Okay.
Yes.
-
No, I'll come to you now. Yes. You stay there.
- -
What a *****!  This is going to be a long day.

Unfallen tears glisten
unsaid words choke
unspent rage fades
at the back of my throat
I stare at the wet windscreen
my phone in my hand
the silence still falling
draining like sand
through fingers that stop grasping
as my eyes close to see
that this is the close
of our long closing scene

I'll be completely honest but not completely true 
I'll be true to my heart but not always true to you

some of my words will reflect much of what I feel
while you'll find that other lines are more contrived to conceal

you see a poet can use their words to bear their deepest feeling
but look again and you may see something deeper redder bleeding

read again between the lines of the fresher tender cuts
and you'll brush a slower finger over old wounds long untouched 

you may disturb my untold stories seeping through the pages
and find a heart much like yours where an older passion rages

'Move more, eat less,'
I heard the GP say.
You'll find the weight
will just fall off.
Just take it day by day

'Eat less, move more,
ignore the painful knees.
'Get off the train
one stop before
and lose weight by degrees.

'Move more, eat well,
resist that chocolate treat.
'You really can
offset a little of
the life-long balance sheet.

'Eat less, move more.'
I followed the sage advice
And now you'll see
I tend to take
a snack while on my bike.

I've been ceaselessly sweating since June
And without fail every day around noon
My arm pits are sopping
My ****** are sodden
I feel about ready to swoon

It’s been glorious weather since June
I’m not sure if you’d think it too soon
But top up the icebox
For Pimm’s on the rocks
And celebrate all afternoon

Not flags
Not borders
Not faces
Not skin
Just hearts
Just souls
Just ask -
what's within?

Distracted by solitude
I drove blind
and let the music pass on my inside,
undertaking,
seeking to pull me forward in its wake
- but deaf to its invitation,
I failed to hold up
my side of the conversation
and dropped back
in my own slow lane
alone again.

I am not as you see me now.
I stand straighter, walk taller,
I think clearer.

But just now I've shrunk back
to a fragile tenacity that can easily
go unnoticed.

I am not as you see me now.
I am so much more.
{You'll just have to take my word for it.]

Life is a workshop
and you are the project.
Listen to the tutor,
collaborate,
expect messy
and have fun.

When we prefer the narrow gate
And tire of busy highways
We see the Kingdom come

When the master is the servant
And kneels to wash our feet
We see the Kingdom come

When the straggler is given preference
And the first steps to the back
We see the Kingdom come

When we serve the poor, the hungry
And take the stranger in
We see the Kingdom come.

When children are given pride of place
And followed as an example
We see the Kingdom come

When brother and sister are reconciled
While our offering is left to wait
We see the Kingdom come

When the temples are cleared of commerce
And prayer takes it rightful place
We see the Kingdom come

When the Sabbath serves the worshipper
Not the worshipper the Sabbath
We see the Kingdom come

When fragrant extravagance is applauded
And noses put out if joint
We see the Kingdom come

When the Creator's light is lifted up
And the Son is no longer hidden
We see the Kingdom come

There's hope
and that's not nothing.

Someone to trust,
someone to talk to -
freely,
truthfully.
Someone to catch your laughter,
hold it
and pass it back,
and to let its echo grow
in resonance
in strength
with each rebound.
- And that's something.

I know a young woman named Lauren
Who seems to be wearing a sporran
Oh no she's not
It's a bottle that's hot
Its offsetting the artic aircon

Now Roger’s a man of renown
He’ll rarely be seen with a frown
Despite spawning twins
He maintains a broad grin
And is happy to play the team clown

Roger’s known for his love of a party
He’d rarely say no to John Kirby
He went off for a drink
Got home in a stink
But slept in the car til six-thirty

He’s had his fair share of tough cases
He met most with a smile and good graces
But some were plain daft
They just raised a laugh
And went on for ages and ages

He’s known for his love of his chickens
He’ll bare all to ensure they get feeding
He goes out with their feed
And a handful of seed 
It’s not clear what the bucket is screening

This is our friend Roger Hylton
He fancies himself as John Milton
His sonnets subvert
The hardest of hearts
But frighten both of his children

There’s more we could say of our friend
But good things must come to an end
He’s off to new pastures
And to finish his masters
So good wishes is what we all send

I think in 3D
I need real depth you see
I need more than one surface
to do my thoughts justice

I need three perspectives
to avoid a disservice
to any ideas that swim their way
to the disturbed sunlit surface

I'm not saying my thoughts are wordless
just that the words are surplus
to the primary purpose
of the thoughts that win
that struggle and that finally
find a thoughtful purchase
to become rooted
to bear fruit
and so to fulfil
their true purpose.

I think in IMAX 3D
- sit back and see.

Family is not an F word
however family was for you,
cos when family leave you raw and bruised
friends are family in lieu

We were once called
Children of the Sky
with a focus on the by and by
and whilst I still have one eye
on the coming hereafter
I'm a child with plenty
of here and now laughter
which speaks volumes
about what my pastor would call
the priorities of our servant master
to keep my feet rooted
and booted with readiness seeded
with the good news of his peace
and to celebrate this life
that he has gifted us
as a precursor of the eternal
celebration of the wedding feast.

She called me her curved love handle
Always there to hold
A perfect fit for her loving hands
As we lovingly enfold

She called me her gentle spoon rest
A constant solid comfort
Shaped to scoop her perfectly
As we both dozed and slumbered

She called me her hot water bottle
Filled to the brim with warmth
Easily raising heat by degrees
Against advancing cold fronts

She called me to say her goodbyes
She said it wasn't working
She'd found a man less domesticated
And one far less demanding

Blessed are the father-hearted
The reluctant to be child parted
Blessed are the bushy bearded
The happy to be pulled and smearded

Blessed are the on-all-fours
The role-players with scary roars
Blessed are the rollers on floors
The willing to ignore both knee-sores

Blessed are the hearty laughers
The bellows of the not by half-ers
Blessed are the childlike fathers
And happy the children who follow soon after

Work through the *******
through to the other side
where words may make more sense
and your mind be perhaps less dense
and where your poems may at last materialise

Startled at the turn of twelve
Not any other time
Her cultured tones sound so amazed
Before the expected chime

What is it that's shocked her so
Whatever could be the matter
Is it the echo of some past time
Or some rival chronometer

At the third stroke she'll be oh so precise
And disclose the appointed hour
She'll watch each minute slowly disappear
My most reliable of voyeurs.

Let bygones be whatever they'll be
and regret a thing of the past,
temper that sorrow
with plans for tomorrow
and invest in friends who will last.

An inner page
frayed but full to four edges with marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence that nothing is ever finished only paused pending further inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond the perimeters of this captured inner rage.

She touched my ***.
I'm sure she touched my ***.
She's getting off on the 20th floor.
At least she did yesterday.
I've not got long.
What do I do? Turn and smile?
Do I subtly return the compliment as she passes by?
Did she touch my ***?
Or was it that bloke's bag?
I don't think she did.
She didn't touch my ***.
Don't be daft.
There she goes. 
I wonder why she limps that way?
(Sigh)
Blast, I'm late again.

I've not said ******* since Tuesday
The week is going just fine
The fates has relented
The Gods have consented
My stars have begun to align

I've not said ******* since lunch break
I thought it too much to ask
The lift doors conspired
My coffee went skyward
And I ended up on my ****

even with tears I still can't forget
slowly emerging from years of regret
clearly recalling the start of it all
the soul-felt promise forsaking it all
may I be able to make a new start
still accepting the truth that love played a part

Stilling on a train
Balanced on the lines
Bleeding from the thoughts
Racing through my mind

Bracing both my feet
Ready for the end
Steeling for the crash
Coming round the bend

Feeling like I've lived
Enough for both our worlds
Turning the last page
Loving every word

Lord of life,
of colour and colour,
of breeze and light.
Lord of bluebell and butterfly,
of birdsong and birds' flight.

Lord of space to think,
of time to rest.
Lord of movement,
of stillness.

I sit here and I confess
complete adoration,
my sunshine celebration
of this, your full spectrum,
this rainbow-wide gifted creation.

I sit and give thanks
for this sustained life,
of greens and blues in yellow light,
of this colour full to the brim life,
of fresh composed songscape,
this God given escape.

I thank you, Lord, for this gateway,
this fresh every morning,
gifted new day.

As brave as my poems.
As simple and stark,
concise and complete,
in whole or in part,

yet with room for expansion,
letting you, as you read,
add truth to the equation
with the values you need,

giving permission to speak,
in the space in your head
and to complete the connection
or just take it as read. 

Oh, to be as brave as my poems.

I sit
beneath the sign that reads silence
conscious of my imminent sneeze
and the threat of its violence.

It's not the force of the blow
it's the force of the feeling,
the grit of her teeth
and the words that's she's snarling.
It's the loss of the mother
I remember her being,
it's the hate on her face
that leaves my head reeling.

It's not the force of the fist,
it's the fear that this
is all that is left
of the mother I miss.

His talking faster now for he knows his time is shorter than before. He flies from the Law to fresh words of grace and I struggle to keep pace with his passion that threatens to overwhelm his frail, well-travelled frame. Words that inspire, even as they are inspired, fired thick and fast, finding their target, embeded in my inscription as I seek the gift of accurate Word-made-flesh-made-word on paper transcription.
And now as I sit with fingers quivering, taking time out while I can while he's sleeping, I pray that the inspiration for the words that he's speaking will be equalled by my quick ears and matched by my quicker scrawling so that the church will hear just what the Lord is saying and can read the truth that is their's for the believing.

I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.

The prince and I are not friends,
though he seems a nice enough guy
and I respect him and I value the role he plays.

However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
knew him better
and fed him snacks.

As a boy
the prince would slip into the palace kitchen
between meals.
Sometimes he would persuade
his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister
and he would make them laugh.

I know this because of the prince's note.

The prince sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.

A cheeky boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and showing kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
now remembered and valued by family
and also by royalty.

What do you think of that?