The mask of confession
reveals nothing
compared to the truth
within the worth of the wait
in the crack of the joke
on the breath of the embrace
of a friend beneath
a shared blanket
on an autumn morning
seeking a closer communion.

Embracing the collective.
Grasping the nettle.

Hugging the toilet.
Regretting the rebel
in me.

The known universe was split into two parts.  They were almost completely separated by a thin membrane and had been for 55 years.

On the inner side there was room for one individual, secured behind a flimsy, somewhat porous and pliable divider. It had to be pliable as the individual concerned couldn't decide just how much space would be needed at any one time.

On the outer side the rest of the universe ebbed and flowed, only occasionally taking note of the activities that jostled relentlessly just a short distance away on the far side of the membrane. It was almost as if it was quite unaware of the inevitable collision that was to come once Steve finally published his poetry anthology.

Once he hit that button the two worlds would have to establish new terms for their coexistence.

Only time would tell if it would be a peaceful one.

Octothorp had never thought
her day would finally come,
but she gradually found
she was drawn centre stage
and the source of laughter and fun.
But even as she was prefixed
to all kinds of wit and quick banter,
her name was dumbed down,
she soon lost her crown
to 'hash-tag' the younger pretender.

https://en.m.wiktionary.org/wiki/octothorpe

Not too big to weep,
not too slow to learn.
Not too old to dance
to a fresh new tune.

Never too late to jump
over my wrong conclusions,
to move at the speed of truth,
and outrun my grand delusions.

Not too proud to notice
the wonder of it all,
never dumb enough
to deny I feel so small.

Big enough to confess
I need to ask forgiveness.
Smart enough to kneel
and get down to business.

My debt-ridden past,
more than I asked.

The transactional present,
less pleasure, more torment.

An easy-payments future,
more payments not fewer.

So many give-aways,
at a price I cannot pay.

It's neo-consumerism,
with the soft bite of fascism.

We're infected by the bug,
so we take
the offered
drugs.

(With a nod to Forrest Gump.)

Sometimes there weren't enough rocks.
Sometimes nowhere near enough tears.
Sometimes no matter how far I ran,
I was slowed by too many years.

Then once in a while the rain would stop
and the clouds would thin just a little,
long enough to show me the stars,
enough to shed light on life's riddle.

Is life just a box of chocolates?
Or can we choose whatever we please?
Are each of us here with a purpose?
Or are we feathers on a breeze?

Can our choices make a real difference?
Can we navigate the storms that we face?
In the end is it down to old father fate,
Or is there an offer of grace?

(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.

We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.

I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.

I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.

But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.

To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings,  8 thrupenny bits.

I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.

I sorted
and I sorted again.

I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.

I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.

I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.

Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.

4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.

My stomach retracted,
shrank into a black hole,
******* in any courage
that had been stubborn enough
to hang around.

The mic stared at me,
back lit and back dropped
with the steady throb
of anticipation waiting in judgement.
I gripped it
as the lifeline and shield
that it had become -
as I let loose the words
half remembered from an eon ago.

And after a blur of feeble utterance
I fell into the envelope of applause,
part filling the void within and lifting my heart,
until it reached my mouth,
ready for my next poem.

My stomach hesitated,
but held its ground.
...

Today we have the labeling of people groups.
Yesterday we had the suggestion of an inherent disposition to dishonesty and violence in some groups.
Tomorrow we will have the careful counting of individuals and the placing of individuals into each people group.
But today,
today we have the labeling of people groups.

For those of you who are new here, we recommend this period drama underlining racial differences with a subtle suggestion of inferior intellect in some groups indigenous to warmer climes.
And here we have a persuasive and tabloid friendly research paper that hints that children of mixed race tend to struggle in school. You'll be relieved to see that it hasn't any distracting data.
And on the shelf beneath you'll see there's a picture book version for younger children.

Over here is the arbitary divide between us and them, with a useful circle of arguments to differentiate ourselves from others.
Here we have colour coded lables to more easily distinguish between  people groups. Yes, that's correct, we have three labels: white, black and, a recent addition which is now available for added distinction, rainbow.
Oh yes, when engaging in any discussions, for your own safety please ensure you wear these ear defenders.
To ensure a free flow of visitors we have erected large signs in three languages marking where charity at home ends. Yes, after rigorous focus group testing we have selected the English language in three font sizes.

We are coming to the end of this orientation tour.  Please note the subtle but effective shedding of compassion for those who appear or sound different to us.  This underpins the necessary disregard for the rights of others that we assume for ourselves and for those like us. It is almost imperceptible I think you'll agree.

But the priority for today, as I say, is the labeling of people groups. 
No questions.
Shall we begin?

I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.

I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.

I'm waiting still.

Step up to the mic and strike first with a smile of one liners, with observations or tales that beguile them.
For a smile will disable them while your lines slide in behind them, almost whispering, selecting the sharp-soft phrases that will best penetrate those guarded places. Looking with innocence into their faces, turning minds stage by stages, persuading with insights, with stories of real life, with familiar tales of familiar strife. Then when you follow through and strike with the punch line they have no defence and have no time to decline the good sense found in this food for thought, laughing to a sudden realised stop, looking again at their lives, with a furtive smile of dawning delight at the shed light on shared lives found in your soft amplified lines.
- Do it right when you step up to the mic and you just might change lives.

Blessed are you wounded
for beneath your scars lies healing.
Blessed are you wounded
for you have survived.
Blessed are you wounded
for in your pain you found life.
Blessed are you wounded
for, though the world stares
from a safe distance,
Christ stands near -
closer than any enemies,
closer than any friends,
closer than each tear.
And He holds you.

The taste of well prepared poetry is something you won't fast forget.
Each phrase is fresh, seasoned with restraint and mixed with passion.
Patiently simmered or flash fried, the result is something to be savoured. 
Hold it on your tongue with relish, while the juices coat your chin, but be quick to scoop them up and sip them again for that unexpected echo of the explosion of textures held in each line.
The taste of well prepared poetry
is something you won't fast forget.
And there's always seconds on offer.

I stand in this messy state of grace,
granted forgiveness,
cleansed from my soiled trace,
and dressed in gifted innocence -

yet
I still stand peering through my dark glass,
seeking my father's encountenance,
seeking to keep pace
with a Saviour who appears
to respect breathing space.
Although He is as quick with an embrace
as He is to displace my misplaced fearfulness,
in His presence I'm all too conscious
of lingering idols which were once in place,
now giving rightful pride of place
to this harbinger of grace.

Yet
I still stand peering,
longing for a fanfare,
hearing a distinct whisper,
feeling a familiar nudge,
and so I turn to His touch
in nervous obedience,
with a fragile confidence
growing only as I take a breath,
only as I take
this faithful, fateful step,
stating my allegiance
with every tread
through a messy state of grace,
ready for whatever I may face,
so Saviour, set the pace and lead on!

Ignore the lyrics:
You can't pursue love.
You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or had;
it's a doing word that you both have to work at.
Love is a language expressed in deeds
and so clear expression of your love best succeeds when you both discover what the other most dearly needs.
So spend time planting daily deeds of love, every one a fragile seed.

Continue to listen day and night
and learn what each other prefers and what you both like.
And then, when you get it right
you'll be answered by a unmistakable light in their wide glistening eyes.
-
Do it on a date.
Do it with your mates.
Do it when you're tired and it's heavy eyed late.
Do it in the everyday mundane way
you pair your own socks
and clear away last night's takeaway.
-
Laugh often and have fun
especially when you feel life has you on the run
and be sure to surprise each other both regularly and often
Maybe even invest
in a pair of water guns.
-
Share the fragile thoughts
you find at the forefront of your mind.
Reveal your vulnerability, the hurt you feel when life's been unkind.
-
And in response to that revealed insecurity, ensure you tread carefully  until you see the healing that comes from interlacing lovingly.
-
Speak your love every day.
Articulate it come what may.
And that way you'll ensure that it stays
at the forefront of each of your todays,
on the tip of your tongues
so when you inevitably take a step wrong
you'll both recall why you're together
and why it's worth the endeavour that it takes to push through that unexpected foul weather.
Love one another through that gale
and sail on to meet the adventure
that's yours to discover:
Through the miles of your wherevers,
for the duration of your whenevers,
strong enough for your whatevers,
standing together,
forever relentlessly loving each other.
-
So may the Lord of your tomorrows bless you together.
May the Lord keep you smiling whatever.
May his face shine on you in all kinds of weather.
And may He give you peace
that will never cease to give you pause to thank Him for his grace
forever.
-
And all the assembled people said
AMEN.

Yes, I embrace my personal spectrum of strange, maintaining my own range of a sense of self, my own present tense, a unique list of contents that expresses my deep down, my compound, my proper noun made up of all that I am and all that resounds and all that pounds within this fragile, fragmented, profound self that will rebound no matter how hard I hit the ground.
Yes, I am down,
but I am relentless regardless.

Broad eyebrows,
porcelain foundation,
pursed lips,
distain flying from painted digits,
resenting the imposed ****** proximity.

Then her eyes met her twin's
and both faces cracked wide in smiles and laughter,
her pose was momentarily forgotten,
as she was reunited once more with her tribe.

My tightrope stretched across the void.
Unimaginable pain on one side;
a new uncharted land on the other.
Balancing anger, pain, loss and a sack of regrets,
I concentrated on the next step and no further.
With no sense of what may lay beyond,
I went on.

You might be
blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Instagraming, Messaging
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
or good old fashioned
rambling Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again and again
the might of your words
over any old persitent swords.
Words of love over words of hate.
That's right - words that reconciliate.
Ignore the can'ts, hear the cans
Hash-tag: 'wordsaremightierthan'.
Facing those fears,
shouting through tears.
Redeeming the years
thought lost in arrears.
Letting them know
you're letting them go
and no longer able
to live with old labels.
Finding the roar
to voice who you are.
Finding the words
to blunt those old swords.
Thumbs at the ready,
hands nice and steady.
You're free men and women,
with a brand new beginning.

Blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Face-timing, Instagraming,
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
Messaging, Pinteresting
or good old fashioned
contemplative Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again
the might of the word
over the keenest, lunging sword.

(We're being held here to regulate the service.)
A captive audience,
I soaked in the silent stories
framed beyond the glass -
a snap shot of slow life
at apparent ease with itself.
(We apologise for any inconvenience caused.)
Where am I?

Her scars lay obscured,
shrouded by years of survival,
protected by safe distance,
masked by cosmetic smiles -
until you met her eyes
and there you shared
a fragment of her pain.
Wounded,
but after all,
the same wonderful woman.

The island's abandoned beauty
stayed on first name terms
with the coming storm,
oblivious
of its violent betrayal,
unmindful
of the berserker landscaping
that tore a new path towards it.
(Where are all the birds today?)

Let's collaborate and coordinate, cooperate and disseminate.
Let's not disassociate or dare to hesitate, rather let's keep going til we reach a state of counterweight that celebrates the gifts our Father freely donates for us to re-dedicate and elevate His name til we resonate with the angels at heavens gates.
Amen.

As sure as Sunday
As mean as Monday
As true as Tuesday
And Wednesday goes by
As dark as Thursday
As bright as Friday
As soft as a Saturday morning sigh

we struggled
long into the night
it was a gruelling fight
with ***** tactics
on both sides
and even a bite or two

but you can't blame me
it was brutal
it was him or me
and I won
I fought my conscience
and I won

pass me another cake

he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!

I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great

Dance deep beneath the central bar,
jump, spin, step and blur;
bruise, slide, collapse, collide,
pick yourself up and ssmile
a grin that shouts: never give in.
Pick up the beat, refuse defeat,
skip, slap,
skip, slap,
skip, slap, - leap,
let your feet - fly
...and repeat.

The radio reports no congestion
and the goings good with few delays.
Sat Nav tells me it will take no time
with light traffic the whole way.

It's apparently never crowded here
on this less travelled extra mile
I'm a first time pilgrim and I've not passed others
for a good lonely long while.

The *** sat enthroned,
serene while concealing
the heated turmoil within.
Matching cups laid in wait,
straining against imposed patience,
anticipating the flow of flavour,
the afternoon pleasure
enveloped around the familiar ritual
of shared sweet-musk darjeeling,
while lemon slices rested, reclining,
indifferent but ready if needed.
-
I sat transfixed in Sunday best;
awaiting my slice of black forrest,
impervious to this most grown up delight.

Some people prefer to walk,
some will always run.
But the perfect way
to spend the day
is to stroll
arm in arm
in the sun.

By the time the day catches up with me
The moon is full
And my tears have dried.
Tomorrow will be better.

Spider-Poet, Spider-Poet,
Writes free verse haiku and sonnet
Spins a verse, any size,
Catches rhymes just like flies
Look Out!
Here comes the Spider-Poet.

("Art is never finished, only abandoned" - quote attributed to Leonardo da Vinci.)

I'm not finished yet!
I'm nowhere near complete
You know I'm not yet done
You know I'm not replete

So now's the perfect time
To pause and let me go
Time to pack away
Take that towel and throw

Put me in the drawer
Stand up and walk away
Go and fill the kettle
Or try that new cafe

Come back some time later
Then look at me afresh
Maybe ask your closest friend
To suggest some more or less

Once you've looked at me again
You may be surprised to find
You're not quite satisfied
And can't get peace of mind

I'm art, I'm not a race
There is no finish line
So please don't over-work me
I'm unfinished by design

With a smidgen of talent comes great responsibility.

With great grace comes greater responsibility.

Not
'in this light'
not 'just now'
not 'at first sight'
not 'from this angle,'
but
timelessly,
universally,
after scrutiny,
from all perspectives,
you are absolutely -
wondrous.

I met a young woman named Megan
Who's either laughing or grinning
Whenever she's near
She spreads serious cheer
And then she gets on with the mopping.

I know a young lady named Ivy
Whose kids are constantly smiley
Her calm and good grace
Pervades the tent space
From Monday to late on a Friday

I know a great lady called Abi
Who's started an interesting hobby
As well as her teaching
Cooking and singing
She now does professional cleaning

I met a dear woman named Bev
Who won't look at a Chicken Kiev
She says she prefers
To bake flap jack squares
And fry up some great eggy bread

I met a dear woman called Debbie
Whose mood is consistently peppy
She readily hugs
All her old chums
And makes new friends in a jiffy

Now Rachel is a woman of class
All you need do is ask
She'll readily help
And if nothing else
She'll be ready to fill up your glass

I met a dear lady named Gwen
She's a perfect motherly hen
She cares on instinct
Her fashion is dis-tinct
And she scored a perfect round 10

I've met a great bloke called Mark
Who's been heard to pass a remark
That despite all attempts
To live life in a tent
It's an idea that Abi has parked.

Forget any Chris Rock, Kid Rock
Or any Dwayne Rock Johnson.

There's a greater
Surer
Higher rock
That rocks all wannabe kingdoms.

This cross-border nation is a world-wide, mountain-rock-hard awesome kinda kingdom;
It towers taller than other soon-to-be-dust kingdoms and then some.
A mountain-refuge that is never over-run.
A no-messing, let's-get-things-done kinda kingdom come.

It's a rock with deeper rhythm
With purer wisdom
With a you-can-rely-on firmer foundation.
It's a rock that's a clearer reflection
Of God's always-as-He-intended creation.
Not a win some - lose some, tried it's best til it succumbed, kinda innovation;
But a tried and tested place for ALL those called by the one and only Son.
Yes, a place for ALL those called to His holy mountain nation.
So COME
Step up and place both feet on the Rock that IS God's all-conquering Son.
And stand with us, crying:
"Thy kingdom come".

Awake in the night listening to rain
Well placed ice packs when feeling the strain
Spacing those tents to ensure a safe distance
Getting it right aides coexistence.

Welcoming all with smiles and sweets
Giving assurance with replies on repeat
Directing the lost with maps and good grace
Shifting the freezers to maximise space

Finding the child who wandered from mum
Keeping kids safe while ensuring their fun
Spraying the sinks and mopping with vigour
Trying and failing to pull down that zipper

Queuing for showers at early 5.30
Teens these days don't tolerate *****.
Whenever you need them they'll sort out the flushes
And when the loo blocks they'll get out the brushes.

These are the heroes of New Day each year
Whenever you see them give them a cheer
Enjoy your time with us, have a real blast
We're all here for Jesus - the first and the last.

'- just as you are.'
These gracious words
Soaked down
And nourished my deep
Until I could lift my head
Until I could look into his eyes
And laugh once more,
Tears and all.

Dan was a vegetarian-wiseman
A three square prayers a day man.
So deep in the den Dan stuck to the plan
And ended the night as he began
With ALL his limbs no less than
Before the lion became his new best fan.

Now the king saw Dan was no mere stunt man
So he sent out an urgent all points telegram
And overturned his ill-concieved prayer ban
(Which was previously proposed by a bunch of conmen)
And he told the people of EVERY clan:
"We must ALL fear the God of fearless Dan".

Auntie Janet asked me to say hi and that she doesn't blame you.
Grandad sends his regards and says he needs a little more time before he can see you.

Pete says hello and he'd like the long skewers returned if you get them back.
Mary sends her apologies and says you can keep the hachette.

Mum says you're invited to Uncle Bert's funeral if you're up to it. She'll deal with Uncle Arthur. 
Sarah says to thank you. She and the baby are doing much better.

Jim said he'll see you when he gets out. He owes you a major one.
Dad says you were right and not to beat yourself up. What’s done is done.

The nurse says you need to rest. It’ll take as long as it takes.
- Do you want those grapes? Don’t want them to go to waste.

Consider what to cease
With a view to increase
That margin needed to keep
Your essential level of peace

Maintain a healthy fringe
Rather than pack each inch
With no room to breathe
When circumstances pinch
 
Protect rest on your pillow
And the rest will follow
Make enough space
For more of your mellow

You're not who you were.
You're not who you will be.
You're part way up your steep frail stair
And always will be.

You're a part completed work.
You're perfect as you are.
You're emerging as from aged oak block,
A part-seen piece of art.

You're a faint chime in the wind.
You're a symphony by Brahms.
You're an orchestra tuning up
At last night at the proms.

I love you as you are.
I love all you will grow to be.
As I hold you in my arms
Lost in your newborn beauty.

Oh I don't like this
This isn't right
It's another country
Everything's one long fight

It's like a foreign language
Nothing's the same
It's all gone wrong
Tell me her name again

I just wish it was like it was
I just can't keep track
Oh don't get old Steve
It never comes back

You won't leave me will you...

God's not choosy,
He chose me.

Tomorrow I'll rejoin the fray,
Seeking to keep us all a little safer; Restraining, revoking,
Cajolling, provoking,
Addressing those who fail to see
A more enlightened way
Of treating the wider community.
Workers seek to save
And secure a future for their families
While navigating over-selling audacity,
Under-disclosure with a lack of clarity,
And obscure charging opacity
Or plain old mis-selling strategies.
So thanks, but I'll pass on that job hint
And continue rummaging through the regulatory tool kit,
And find the spanner that'll fit
The next nut that I'll inevitably be faced with.
It's great to hear your stories,
But for now I'll continue where I best fit
Pursuing retail investigations
With my best forensic slick.

The Son of Man came
To transcend convention
To translate divine love
Into cross border action
Spanning the gulf
Between God and creation
He reached out and touched
With a purity contagion.

He now offers living, flowing hydration
That slakes lifetime thirst with briming  compassion
Not a one time spurt, but a hurt healing transformation
So don't waste time on perpetual  dissatisfaction.

Come meet the Messiah
Who shouldered rejection
And you'll meet the God-man
With His bucket of salvation.

Will we sing just a little
Will we dance a few fresh steps
Will we glance a glimpse of heaven
Will we start whatever's next?

Will we smile with glad approval
Will we laugh with no regrets
Will we pursue our walk together
Will we shout a heart felt Yes!?

Let's turn this corner boldly
Let's run the last few steps
Let's trust the call within us
And answer with our Yes!