A change in complexion
A different choice of race
A cross of border union
A wider palate of taste

A shake-up down in Sussex
A paler skin exception
A dilution of the line
A pallid revolution

Neither Gentile nor Jew
neither captive nor free,
neither female nor male,
you're all Abram's seed,

all one in Christ Jesus
to him you belong,
all promised heirs
equal parts of the song,

singing out your own "Abba,"
getting childishly closer,
as his Spirit within you
cries out louder,
"Father".

A slow English Sunday must include
a brewing *** of Darjeeling tea,
hot toast with Anchor butter
and plenty of smoked Danish bacon.
Oh, yes - and Heinz tomato ketchup.
It makes you proud of your heritage.

Everything
you've heard about me
is true.
- Apart from that thing with L3.
We were just friends.
Honest.

Protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me and my mates will testify loudly that I've held them close and testified to their six percent proof deep into the beer fueled night, tears clouding my glasses and my judgement, cliffs hanging dangerously close to the edge of despair with my back up against the howls of derision which fall on deaf, hard ground and against all hope stand, still next to my protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me...

The faintest click of a radio button
a song that I swear I'd long forgotten

and I journey back to another time
happily quiet, but humming inside

running much faster than blue dinosaurs
I Spy much more than a boy really saw

different than walking, different like flying
moving so fast they can't hear my sighing

tremours of laughter on Radio 2
then singing out loud junior choice tunes

even when songs fade away in the hills
I'd rather be here than back at home still

wary of Jenny's sharp buckled shoes
breathing in clouds from dad's old Saint Bruno

holding on tight to my cool DB5
m'Lady's pink Rolls is off for a drive

I always I Spy with my little eye
3 for a girl and then 4 for a boy

I Spy mum’s constant quick fingered knitting
row after row with Sally still kicking

then I Spy Janet swinging her feet
I Spy other kids in other back seats

I wish for grandma's baked cherry biscuits
I see the first sign that we're near Tonbridge

these are old snatches of life in the 60s
this is me looking back from my 50s

I'll sit still back here, just one back seat song
from family trips where I still belong

They haven't gone yet,
they're still sitting there.
They're ready for someone
to lend them both ears.

They don't need solutions,
or ill-formed direction.
They just want a chance
for human connection.

So ask them a question,
let them be known
by a simple soft voice
on the end of a phone.

Give them your time,
listen with length,
affirm them by hearing
in silence with depth.

Give them permission
to break the taboo,
to voice the unspoken
to someone like you.

Press continue.
Click OK.
Go on, please,
say you'll stay.

Swipe once more,
take one more look.
It won't take much more,
to know you're hooked

Sit a while longer,
the signal's still strong.
There's no better offer,
you know you belong.

Don't go out now.
Don't wash and shave.
Don't deny what you need
here in your cave.

We love that you're here,
you know we'll be true,
all night and all day
we'll be here for you.

You don't need daylight,
it's brighter in here.
That's right, sit back,
you're safer right here.

My wedding bands,
my three gold,
three strand
wedding bands
don't fit any more.

They remain unmoving
with no room for turning.
They don't hurt, they're just tight,
because they haven't grown with me
as they might have,
could have,
should have,
would have done
had I paid more attention
to the coming undone.

They remain,
but they don't fit anymore.
My three gold, three strand,
stuck-in-the-80s wedding bands
don't fit me anymore.

Keep to your own lines,
the interwoven, layered,
stood-the-test-of-time,
true-to-the-character lines.

Friend. Father.
Englander. Londoner. 
Hero. Hugger.
Reliable understudier.

Place your toes on the bottom line,
and take a look and take in a breath,
take inspiration drawn in from the borrowed,
from the passing,
from the whatever-passes-for-solomon.
And redefine yourself, for yourself,
once again.

But don't stray over those well-rehearsed lines.
Don't ever improvise.

You're safe if you keep to your lines.

I live by daily participating
and not by distant gesticulating.

I live by putting love into action,
not by singing for holy intervention.

I live by getting both hands soiled,
not sanitised and kept unspoiled.

If you want to follow the Nazarene
you can't keep your hands wet wipe clean.

This is life as he envisaged -
living like we're one big village.

Roll up your sleeves to each elbow,
let's serve together and not alone.

This is life as Jesus did it -
all hands-on, with dirt and spit!

Once in a while take a rest from persuing well-being and practice your ill-being,  prepare your heart for sadness, so that once grief springs up from the darkness you will be better equipped to bear the weight and to use the now familiar tools to shape, to form your pain into something that includes a hand hold, something that maybe slows the unfolding, the unravelling that comes with that uncontrolled mourning, something that allows you to carry it with less stagger and while you're no less sadder, you may reduce your tauma and may have greater access to that part of your grey matter that allows more focus on where, in time, to lay that burden down.

A stronger sense of a shifting alliance,
a richer aroma of a growing assurance,
a longer shadow of an alternate position
and a faint echo of a younger ambition,
coalescing into a whisper
of a change of direction,
cracking open a narrow door
of renewed anticipation
and waiting for me
to PUSH.

I recommend a light oil and a short comb, keeping sissors to hand to cultivate that King George V shape or, if you are feeling brave, go for the majesty of a full Henry VIII.

Be present
and present yourself to the now.
Ready for the not yet, yes,
but fully engaged with this stage of your story
before you continue your aging journey.
Relish this stave, this chord
and let it resonate sufficient
for others to appreciate the accord,
the melody
that comes from ignoring the risk of arriving late
and instead embracing the reverberate.
Let it captivate, facinate while you wait
in your latest, lasting, linger-longer note of now.

It won’t be a surprise, you know what I'm saying?
I - just - love –Ealing, whether working or playing.
I've been on my travels, I've been here, I've been there
I've followed my Jesus, ‘til He led me here.

And now I can't help it, I love every street
and as I turn 50, people ask, 'Pete,
why are you stirred to serve this old city
with Isaac and Josh, with Lois and Nicky?'

'Oh, golly', I say, 'Isn't it clear?
It's the call of Jesus each day that I hear.'
But, hand - on - my – heart, it's a challenge - isn't it?
How do I serve, when I'm five foot six?

Now I love a good quote. I know you don’t judge,
but some people say I love them too much.
I love a great movie, but sit at the rear
so people around me won't notice my tears.
[I'm just being honest with you.]

I love a good read, I've got books wall to wall
and I love the Arsenal when they're on the ball.
I was in the Olympics, did I tell you that?
If you look real closely you might see my cap.

I love Redeemer, the believers who gather,
how they will turn up to worship no matter.
I love just how creative some of them are,
the wannabe poets, the guys on guitar.

Now I mustn't embarrass anyone here,
but I love my dear wife, just so that's clear.
I love my three kids in no special order;
as they keep on growing I’ll cheer ever louder.

And each day I go walking, I might even run,
cos by living with passion I might serve the Son.
I - just - love – Ealing.  Do I hear an Amen?
Let's stride out together!  Redeemer-London!

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was good - good and powerful
And so those in power dictated what was allowable
Claiming the rights of absolutum dominium
But soon found it too strong to be restrained by barriers of the tongue

And while they thought the Word was securely locked
It turned out to be the kinda Word that could not be blocked

It was still very good - good and angry
And in righteous anger in duplicate it broke free

To invade the hearts and minds of the laity
Of men and women like you, like me

to shake off the shackles of the antiquated educated
And to settle into the more readily disseminated.

The Word was out and stayed out after curfew
Keen to travel as far as it could do

To spread wide it's indelible red ink stain
A no matter how hard you scrub it will still remain kinda stain

Recklessly stubborn, to colour, to infest
to fully extend its world wide out stretch

Using every digital tweet and text
And to go on to cast its world wide net

So now you can all binge-feast on the freed up goodness
Of the eternal Word who was once made flesh

Out here there is no screen time
There's nothing to distract
There's no Wi-Fi, no 4G signals
Just me and my old back pack

Out here my mind can wander
My feet can wander too
There's no sat nav here to guide me
There's just me and there's just you

Out here I can breath more deeply
Out here I can see clear through
Out here I can speak so freely
Out here I can hear only you

God given songs to angelic tunes
Holier anthems for reflective moods
Soul searching music with eternal themes
Songs from our hearts that harbour old dreams
Movements in light, emerging from dark
Sunrising symphonies, the thrush and the lark
I welcome the chorus here at my dawn
I rise and I stretch and then I press on

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog tonight

A little yeast
A finger hold
A way inside
Shift of control

The counter contagion
The heel coming down
The firm push back
Control of my own

"If we could bottle your personality,
we could poison the whole world," he said,
shaking his head in disbelief.
And my dad laughed
and repeated this
to colleagues
to friends
to family
for years
with a grin.
And no one laughed.

praying to dad, kneeling in the cool of the day, feeling cursed as an olive tree, lost in the red-deep shadows of inevitable choice, looking through tears, years in the making, staring into the stillness of a longest goodnight, with a dry kiss goodbye, facing an undeniable betrayal, secure in the blooded palm of God's hand, in agony

Every path has a bend
Each conversation an end
Every hug a releasing
Each kiss a sweet parting
Every friendship incurs bruises
some out-of-joint noses
Each love song will fade
to silence - or refrain
There are no guarantees
of a life without tears,
but be clear about this -
you'll remember that kiss

If you're sure
then take the first
and maybe even
a second step
until I'm within the incomplete circle
formed by your arms -
until I can lean
until I can rest
until I can answer
with my cheek on your chest
and press forward
in my own time stepping forward
moving in time
and in time completing our circle
that caught me here

...and each one was right.

And when you serve,
Start with the feet

And when you serve,
Get down low
With a towel and water bowl

And when you serve,
Find your honour not over
But under
Not higher
But lower
Not first
But last.

So when you serve,
Don't wait your turn
But push your way
To the back.
Where you'll find
Nothing to prove
Nothing to hide
And nothing to loose
But your pride.

Yes, you heard,
When you serve
Observe his example:
Undo a sandal
And start with the feet.

And when you read,
don't rush.
Theres no need to read
with undue speed.

And when you read
start with a suckle -
work up to a nibble -
until you can gnaw without a dribble.
I encourage you:
get down to the marrow
like there's no tomorrow.
Savour each word
as food for your soul
and live as a model
as to how to live whole.

And when you read
apply your mind daily,
apply each word liberally
(especially to those out of the way
hard to reach places).

And when you read
- study
Sometimes with a buddy,
but - study.
This is no hobby,
you can't afford to get sloppy.
It's as crucial for the soul
as five a day for the body.
- So study.

And when you read
treat each word
like a tutor;
it can teach you
how to live shrewder.

And when you read
sustain it like a seed,
ensure you pay heed
cos it will never mislead.

And when you read
do it to a plan,
always with intent
and be sure
to finish as you began.

And when you read
commit to it daily,
commit it to memory
to avoid thinking lazily.

And when you read:
Do it while a commuter
Do it on a computer
Do it with a kindle
Do it with audio
Do it with a paperback
Do it from front to back.
However you develop the knack
don't let yourself slack;
this Word is no throwback,
it will keep your feet on track.
- so just read.

I've just gone past my best before,
but I'm still before my sell by;
I may well suit a daring soul
who'll give a Russet a try.

I'm not as smooth my brothers
and not easy to describe,
but if you like it warm and spiced
I may be just your type.

You may detect the odd small wart,
but please - don't be put off;
you'll be surprised how good I look
after a thorough wash.

So take a chance, take me home
and take a slice with cheese;
you'll find from the taste that flows
I'm far more than what you see.

Walking in time
picking up pace
lifting it high
taking up space

Stretching the truth
when bending the rules
chancing your arm
digging your holes

Losing the plot
burning too slowly
seeing it through
the gaps in the story

Taking great stock
but failing to pay
attention that's due
at the end of the day

He had His detractors - did Jesus
some aggressive,
while others were more subtle.
And these had more success:
with cute bunnies,
concealed eggs
and confectionary.
But, despite their best attempts,
the Story remains unfinished.

A sense of something underlying,
giving time to speak,
taking time to listen,
digging through the outer crust
to find the softer beneath.

A sense that people are aching,
about to press stop,
to spend time to sit
and invest time in slower thinking
before they're ready to drop.

A sense that some folk would rather
take the slower path
and bearing a little late-ness
with a little more space
and making more time to laugh.

Make peace with your ghosts
- they're too hard to ****,
too tough to resist,
too close to the truth.
They will always be there for you.

Being white is a responsibility,
a privilege,
an advantage,
topped up by a y chromosome
for some,
and this can not be worn lightly.

Don't kid yourselves:
despite the painted ceilings
God is not white.
Yet being white
is a still responsibility.

And guys
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender defining genitalia.
God designed all that
for us to enjoy
out of His love of diversity
out of His mischievous plan
for procreational play,
out of His need to be reflected in the image of 2 genders
because one was not diverse enough
and Adam could not bear God's full image alone.

As I was saying,
being white is a responsibility -
placed on our shoulders
by each generation that
denied
pushed down
held back and
placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate
of humankind colour.

God is not white.
No, he chose the olive skin
of His chosen, His select people
and wore than dark complexion
with pride.

God is not white.
He is translucent.

Being white is a responsibility
of our own making -
so let us bear it responsibly.

Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.

It's just a sleeve.
It's only a glove with loose threads
and small but growing holes
that let in the cold and allow
a glimpse of a frayed soul,
revealing the human that lies within
after all.

Sometimes
what's offered is enough.
Sometimes
what's needed is less
than you anticipated
and you can live
with yourself after all.

The ground work
The art work
The craft work
The hard work
The life work
of a working poet
works on long after
the pen rests
and the mind drifts
to pouring wine
and making dinner
at the close of the journal
at the close of another
working day

The words dance on
The mind works on -
fermenting
gestating
wordplaying -
while the pen
and the journal
lie in waiting
ready for the release
of fresh ink
at the start
of another working day

The exchange of smiles
The greeting nodded
We return to our papers
No words needed

This is me.
Fully, and only, human -
a human conditional
on compromise,
a very human contradiction
with a human capacity
for good
or ill,
but only as far
as it is humanly
impossible for me.
And then to turn
to my maker
and leave room for Him
to make all things possible
after all.

My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better

How I wish to disappear
completely, to unplug fully,
til I shut down-deep-withdrawn
and there focus on something
that's more internal
and less commercial,
less self-evidently marketable -
something less brand
and more a brand new venture,
out of sight, of mind
and of a sense of duty
to myself,
to the me I left behind -
somewhere less,
somewhere small,
where the music inside
was clearer
and nearer
to the first bars
of the first song
when I first sang along.
Oh, how can I disappear
completely and get myself ready
for my next swan song?

Some boys know what it's like,

to have straight teeth
to have an infectious laugh
to see the girls smile
to look forward to PE
to have a blazer that fits
to feel his hair fall back into place
to raise his hand in class
to find the right words
to hand homework in on time
to be hugged by his dad at the school gate

and some boys don't.

How many anarchists does it take to change a light bulb?
You don't change it! You smash it!

How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?
Only one, but it must want to change.

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.

Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares

God waited in my margins,
in my discomfort
of being close
to the edge of others,
and invited me to
intentionally trust
incidental strangers,
because there He resided,
in my threshold love,
in each adjoining reaction.
So I went to my margins,
to the verge of my comfort,
reached out
and got closer
to my marginal,
cross-border God
and there I found
the small moments,
the quiet places
of gentle surprise
and true challenge
that heralded adventures
beyond my ken,
outside my norm,
but within His plan
for this day.

Stop
Sit
Rest
Share bread
Drink wine
Remember together
And celebrate -
Because - I'm - coming.

I concentrate on being me,
observing attention deficit,
wanting someone else to see
the view from where I always sit.

I turn and then begin to chat
to the person that I'm facing,
surprised that from where I'm sat
I find them almost fascinating.

Very soon I realise
that the person sitting there
is seeing me with two fresh eyes,
blinking through each tear.

I left time at the door
with my shoes and my plans
and I let go of expectation.
I settled down with my mug
of concentrated calm
and I centred myself
on my mother's withered world,
while she continued to rage within.