I'm a Londoner
I embrace diversity
I relish cultural complexity
I feed on cross border connectivity
I laugh at the concept of heritage unity
I revel in the uncertainty of multi race identity.
I love my God, in His graceful domesticity
Here across this broad city.

Holly and Ivy
Walked in the woods
Discussing who was the best
Holly was hoping her rosey complexion
Would maybe outshine all the rest.

But Ivy thought Holly was surely forgetting
The shock of her prickly demeanour
She was convinced for sure
The king would adore
All that was so special about her.

Now Ivy was bit of a hugger
You might say a lot of a clinger
But she was convinced
Her warming embrace
Would win over the king no matter.

And when the time came
For the winter queen crowning
The king of the woods was clear
He chose as his queen the lady he fell for
And it's Holly who now wears his ring.

Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
both ready for M&S dinner.

TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.

Toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.

The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, he can't relax,
his whining is remorseless.

Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.

Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.

Gran will talk of Christmas past
when everyone was home
'Cept in Gulf War 1 when Uncle John
went away, ....

Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.

Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster tesco trolley.

For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.

Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.

Some do remember Jesus
from half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

For there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.

He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
waiting for those who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Whatever your experience of Christmas
you can come just as you are,
His love is unconditional
He'll accept you warts and all.

So come on!
It’s a season to celebrate!
To dance, to sing and to shout!
Your Saviour invites you to join Him,
so when you sing this Christmas, make it count.

An early walk with the black dog
Can tire the beast.
And for a while
He'll sleep at my feet
And leave me be for another day.

By evening he'll awake and place
His muddy paw on my knee,
Demanding my undivided attention.

It's advent:
Angels invite you to
Adventures in worship in your
Annual observation in
Anticipation of the divine,
Awaiting, acclaiming the King.

The red coats are coming,
The red coats are coming
(but don't let them distract you).

The new front ears
Are eager to hear
All that the Spirit proclaims,
Giving a scare
To the old deaf ears
Secure in their waxy domain.

The passage is cleared
Good news can be shared
The word of the Father is heard.
It clears the dull heads
Of all the misled
With a cry that can't be ignored.

Whoever has ears
Let them each hear
The words of the Son of Man.
They cut like a knife
But bring you new life
Come hear the man with the plan.

a reluctant sun -
new grass reaches up for warmth
with growing patience

parched earth and blue sky
glare at the adandoned pool
- elusive relief

dark leaden clouds -
soggy leaves and damp cold feet
are not my friend

snow trimmed fences -
heated neighbourly disputes
make lukewarm relations

Man, slow yourself down,
Why you walking so bold?
Stridin' like combat,
Rushin' to get old.

We'll get there together,
Just lift them quick eyes
Don't miss the already.
Breathe in the realised.

That's how you move:
Slide your kung fu,
Put down your fists
And take a close view.

Come and speak softly,
Hear the real you
And before you know it
You'll see the new true.

A kiss takes a moment
While hugs keep giving
Wraparound comfort
And room to weep
Cheek to cheek
As a means to keep
Skin to skin tenderness
Even in distress
Exposing vunerableness
As we caress
Sighing long and deep
And long and deep
With contented peace
Whispering sweet somethings
And never having to release
and to kiss
goodbye.

Stand at Eleven
On Eleven Eleven:
When we recall the men
And all of the women
Who fell defending
Family and country.

We mourn
In the silence,
Resolving once again,

To do better.
      To honour the past with peace
And to stand with the makers
And the keepers of peace,
Together living and dying
As brothers and sisters
Of the Prince of Peace,
And as children of God.

As brave as a poet who knows
That this is too important for prose,
Willing to reveal his inner becoming
And patient enough to show
Not tell what He's telling,
Nor too intent on bringing
The thought down to land,
Happy to leave it hovering
Leaving us to understand
That the truth is more often
Found in the hearing
And not available on demand.
So whoever has ears to hear,
Let them hear this Son of Man.

(spot the Carol)

These three kings of orient are  
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,  
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly  
to lay them before the King.

Meanwhile three ships come sailing in  
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.  

Later,
in Royal David’s city,  
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming,  apparently.  
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;  
no wonder the baby’s awake.

All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;  
the king-of-angels  baby who out-shines any wondrous star.  
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;  
born to give us second birth:  
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,  
come to redeem us all.

‘Come – receive – your - king.’

Merry Christmas.

This year,
although I know
that you're keen
to set up that nativity scene,
I'm advocating an alternative means,
a change in priorities
for your generosities.

I'm annointing a reversal,
suggesting you parcel
a hamper of staples
and so turn the tables
on advent doors
that ignore the poor. 

I'm asking that you choose
to proclaim the good news
beyond the pews,
to pursue a change of people's views
of what they thought they knew this meant.
Yes, let's reverse this advent
and make something heaven-sent.

I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.

I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.

As I close down, switch off and give you time,

- I hear you.

As I reflect without assumptions, close my lips and focus on your voice,

- I hear your still, quiet authority over my life.

As I close my eyes to the tears,

- I see with greater clarity who you are and I call you:
Most High;
Sovereign Lord;
Eternal God.

As I acknowledge you and accept your provision, your protection, your prompting,

- I become less and you take your place at the top of my start up menu.

Dear Father - I am ready to meet with you.

Phantom feelings
For who we used to be
Radiate from the space
That we once occupied
Together.

Once a balm, but now a raw irritation.

I know we're not there anymore,
That the us that was
Has been excised.
Yet against all reason I reach
To relieve the itch.

Samarian oil
Samarian wine
On open Judean wounds
Bound by a Samaritan's hands
Never felt so good,
A salve to the national shame
Burning through the traveler's head.

Honestly,
It wasn't expected.
I've not been concealing my feelings.

They really weren't felt before
That walk in the park.

You lifted your face
To the leaf filtered sunlight,
And unseeing,
You quietly unveiled all I was missing.

You say that I'm not wanted
That I'm not of your blood
You see a problem
Not from your neighbourhood.
But I was knit together
By the same God as you.
I'm wonderfully made in the image of God
So now I'm asking you:
If God the Father was willing
To give you a second chance,
If God the Son is happy
To share his inheritance,
Why not look in the mirror
You may be surprised to see
A little, child-shape space
For a child a little like me.

God stood
On the edge of uncertainty,
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation
On a venture that would be his signature dish.
A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationships.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest is history.

You see,
Though unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Til Christ stepped up and paid the cost
Of the curse we deserve...

But as a foretaste
Of that greatest sacrifice
God was pleased to accept
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family repast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided
Undeserved forgiveness
And tasted of promise
That the Lord will provide
For a new world
With his own lifeblood.

When tested with power how do you fare?
Does dialogue fade by decree?
When given the chance, does your heart say, "share"?
Or prompt inadequacy?

Do you run to your fall, pride staining each step?
Or do you season your words with good grace?
Do you pray for each soul you're able to serve?
Or do you treat the whole thing as a race?

Will you grasp for the comfort that comes with position?
Or like Jesus see it your call
To forfeit self interest, preferring others,
So to serve them first above all?

I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
The right level of access.
I'll live in the past with my friend regret
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang
With more than enough to secure
Familiar safe harbour.
Or perhaps to suspend belief from high hopes
Long enough to cast adrift
With just the ever present wind to give direction.

Draft #2
I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more.
I'll harbour in the past with my friend, regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang,
With more than enough to fasten
To that familiar safe haven
And one day I'll suspend my belief from high hopes,
Forlorn and cast adrift
With a tried and true ill wind to give direction
And find safe pasture.

Draft #3
I don't believe you,
That I can't change my past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more
And so prise it open.
I'll shelter with my old friend,
Regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to a hope that I misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang from,
With more than enough to fasten myself
To that familiar safe haven.
And one day I'll suspend my belief
From high hopes, forlorn and cast adrift,
With my tried and tested ill wind
That will direct me and will find me
a well worn safe past and safe pasture.

If you never try it
You'll never know it
You'll ever wonder
Forever doubt
So break out
Be a chance taker
A faith placer.
Take the bruises
Absorb the scrapes
That come from escaping safe harbour
And storm the border
Of your known neat and orderly
Childhood home.
Welcome to London.

I've missed the late train of thought to catch the long haul flight of fancy on the first leg of my voyage of discovery.

I'm running wild on a walkabout seeking adventures abroad without a reliable plot vehicle.

I've worn through my home truths and need to leave to be able to return my gaze with fresh lenses and a new perspective on my soles.

But right now you'll find me left on the platform of potential motion.

Not looking back to see
You not looking back at me,
Knowing a sinking feeling
And that this time
It's really good bye then.
Not on a break, but a divorcee.
Not a "let's see", but a "smell the coffee".
Time to walk away and turn a corner,
Time to deep dive in this sea once more.

I bowed before the grieving wind,
Screams streaming through the ranks of sodden planks,

Each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
Fervently recalling every loved life lost.

I trudged over those memorial boards,
Guiltily treading on the grief borne by each grain.

Then I laid fresh brine into the insatiable mouth of the Severn,
While my loss and I contested every callous grey wave,

But we were beaten again.

Line suspended.
Train decanted.
Commuters frustrated.
Work belated.
London isn't working.

I'll tell something about Joe
There's one thing he'll never outgrow
Entertaining his mates
With tales of new scrapes
He'll always put on a great show.

I have a great mate called Simon
Who refuses to put more weight on
He'll watch what he eats
Week after week
And soon he will look like Mike Tyson

I know a poet name Chris
Who will tend to think it remiss
If he can't get together
Some poetry matter
I guess it's one of his gfts

There is a young woman named Jenny
Whose skills and abilities are many.
She steps in when she's needed,
Expectations exceeded.
She's nothing short of uncanny.

There is a young man named Josh
Who's decided to make a big splosh.
Don't be facetious,
He's a follower of Jesus
And due for a thorough good wash.

There is a young lady named Kay
Who loved to go shopping all day
She'd keep looking around
Until a bargain she found
And no one dared get in her way.

There is a young lady named Anna
Who just can't stop smiling no matter.
She laughs everyday
With no sign of dismay
As her boys simply love her and hug her.

There was a young couple in Hanwell,
Whose love just couldn't be hid well.
They opened their home,
With never a moan
And ensured their friends were fed well.

There is a young man named Billy
Who can't help but laugh himself silly.
He sniggers and snorts
Gaffaws and contorts
Enough to make him feel dizzy.

There once was a magpie named Abi
Her friends would make her so happy
By leaving around
Shiny things to be found
Whether useful or a tiny bit tacky.

There is a dear lady named Betty
Who is always willing and ready
To sing and to dance
When she's given the chance
And never seems to get sweaty.

There is a young lady called Marsha
Who's German, so whenever you ask her
What type of food
Goes with all kinds of moods
She'll tell you it's a frankfurter.

There is a young pastor named Jason
When he studies his bible he's brazon
He praises and prays
By night and by day
His knees have serious abrasions.

There is a young woman named Amy
Who is more than a little bit brainy
She studies real hard
At home and abroad
But is also a little bit zany.

There is young lady named Tessa
Who loves a good meal and a blether
She studies God's word
Although she prefers
To do so with friends altogether.

I know a pastor named Pete
Whose day is never complete
Until he's concluded
Which quote to include in
His sermon due later that week.

I have a sister named Janet
Who has a wonderful habit
When you need a friend
You can be sure to depend
That she won't get into a panic.

I have a sister named Jenny
Who is always willing and ready
To offer a smile
While cooking with style
I can smell the results already.

I have a sister named Sally
It's hard to keep a clear tally
Of the number of times
She's cheerful and kind
It really makes you feel happy.

Come walk with me in the daylight.
See through my triple glazed eyes
and into my insulated soul.
Gaze gently on my fragile human heart
and sing softly.

Love you, mate.
Love your contagious tears
as they breach your ducts
and gloss your cheeks,
running free and reaching down
past the lump in your throat
to your vulnerable heart.

Love you, mate.
Love your resistance to temptation
to back hand compassion,
emoting with no hesitation,
never embarrassed
to tell the world
that no-one's too big to weep.

I'm trying to focus
On subtle ****** propriety,
While having to resist
Challenges to paternity,
Questioning my certainty,
Seeding suggestions of ****** flaccidity.
And all I want
   is to *** with credibility.
-
Five 7s are 35
Six 7s are 42
Seven 7s are 49
Eight 7s are.....
(Contented sigh)

Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.

I see your consternation,
But you can be sure
Addiction's cure
Is not legislation,
Nor condemnation.
It's not incarceration.

The cure is connection.

We addicts need Relationship,
Not a guilt trip.

If we conceive of a deity
captured perfectly
within our trim theology,
we fool ourselves.

He's true to his word,
but too big for a book
that fits in our human hands.

"Remember your eights,"
He grandly announced,
Intently surveying his interns.
"If your work appears beyond you
Negotiate,
Delegate
Or work late."

I stared rabbit-eyed,
Stunned by his smug, well-worn rhyme,
As I saw my evenings fade away
Knowing which of my numbers was up.

You can't clasp onto my hand
While applauding my achievements.
Let me go.

His stillent, smally whispers ooze into my mindconscious like a dusk-sweet hotchoc,
like a mocha sunrise welcoming wide with embracements louder than fearage, not instructioning, but come in mending,
pushing enlightenmentations, praisements and incouragabilities that I inseep onto my naked black and bruises. 
I tremble-wrap his echo within my born-worn soul but he stainleaks through my weak cardio when I bumpbrush against heartbeatings as fraggi-brittle as mine also.
His hushed shade cools and breaths an enveloping:
"I understand."
And so I restilax in his softly stronging arms.

The Speakers for the Dead raise their head
and speak softly and measuredly
So to be better heeded
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead dress modestly
Not drawing attention to themselves
So that the living listening can focus
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead inform themselves
Of all aspects of the life of the dead
So not to drift into speculation
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead aqaint themselves
With local language and idiom
So no misunderstanding should arise
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead
Ensure that we can be heard
By the living and the deaf
And so to ensure that the dead can be answered.

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

"Come!", and again we say, "come to the Kingdom":
The Lion of Judah has triumphed,
The Lamb of God is encircled
With the mighty voices of his angels
With the floods of tears of his saints
With the climbing praises of his people
With the rainbow prayers of the nations.

Every creature sings, "Come".
Every angel shouts, "Come".
To He who is enthroned,
To He who is King,
To He who reigns forever.
This is His promised Kingdom Come
Sign-posted, sealed and now delivered
To you.
"Come."

Step over the threshold
And through the front hall
Full of shoes and possibilities.
Come to a kitchen table
Able to shed the cold
And unroll your soul
Against it's worn and warm knots,
Flavoured with cookies and coffee mugs
And echoes of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.
Let the love that pools here soak
Into your marrow
Put aside tomorrow
And so launder your heart clean of fear.
Our home is your home,
Come pull up your chair.

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 can never pay.

It's new-consumerism
With the soft bite of fascism.
And I'm badly infected now.

God of mystery?
I don't think so!

A God who
Embraces
A transformer
Defender
Affirmer
Way clearer
Stand by you whatever-er.

A God who
Endures
A giver
Kisser
Hugger
Commender
Showing favour no matter-er

A God who
Comforts
A deliverer
Protector
Forgiver
Builder-upper-er
Never put downer.

A God who's
Proud of each of yer
His followers.

Step over the threshold
And explore the front hall
Full of possibilities and shoes.
Let me lead you into a kitchen where
You can meet the family
and greet the mutt too.

It's warm and smells
Of cookies and coffee mugs
Of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.

Let the pool of love
That regularly floods here
Soak into your bones
And so wash out your fear.

Our home is your home,
Come pull up a chair.

A crack of hope through the gap
Telling me to hold on,
Nudging me to knock on the door
And so to be let in
To his arms-open-wide
"Welcome-home!" embrace.
Putting darkness behind
And reaching just a little more
To ensure I cross the threshold
And get to be held longer in his arms
So that I might laugh and sing
At last bringing peace and rest
To this troubled mess of a heart and soul.
 --- I'm home.

A lack of foresight with
A limitation of imagination.
An aptitude for apathy and
An inability to emote.
An incapacity for chat as well as
An impatience for punchlines.
A distrust of discordance shackled with
A flair for unforeseen offence.

Alone
And a knack for nothing else.
Here I can relax.

Sometimes biiig
Arms-open
Welcoming

Ocassionally cold
Camera-quick
Calculating

Now urgent
And a mile wide
But always far
From his cobalt-blue eyes.

Lord, depose our Apollo,
Be our true Lord of Poetry
And so give us poetic licence
To fulfil,
To craft,
To create
With a God given palette
In your own imagery.

Blaze a trail from your heart
To the spirits of men,
Taking captives and setting them free
To feast on your words of life,
To move to your music of love,
To emerse into an eternity of dance,
To celebrate and so to reflect
Your devine Artisan Soul.

'Under God' is no longer comfortable.
How can it be, with the company?
Spiritual Laws cannot precis
morality with integrity.
Sunday Prayers can't contain
all the complexities
of humanity's
Spirituality.

The tolls imposed
on primary roads to righteousness
cause an exodus
to less exclusive paths
where a moral minority
seek a more patient deity.

As I mature
I'm getting so much better
at distinguishing
between the inspired ideas
and the drug-induced ones.

If only politicians could do the same.