The shorts I wear to bed
have a back pocket.
When I chose to buy them
in a twin pack with a tee shirt,
the pocket was not
a deciding feature.
However, I acknowledged
that it was there by design.

For months I gave it no further thought.
For months it was as redundant
as a breast pocket in pyjamas.

Then one morning,
as I was juggling
with a cereal bowl
and clothes from the dryer,
I slipped my phone,
still playing a pod cast,
into my back pocket.

And for a moment,
as the conversation followed me upstairs
back to the bedroom,
I smiled at the foresight of M&S.
I should have realised:
they know their stuff.

Her string of choice words rose and fell
Wrapping themselves around my eager ears,
Like the rise and fall of her pearls
Drawing my young eyes,
Like the swarm of her subtle scents
Filling my brimming heart,
Like nothing I had ever heard or seen or felt.
I was captive, she was captor
And oblivious to the spell that held me to her
As she handed my father our room key
And breathed her welcome to Leigh-on-sea.

The man of God slid through my door and up the stairs,
sliding out of his shoes to settle on the sofa,
eager to sup and to share a little cheer, a little truth,
laced with honesty and vulnerability.

He reminded me of the season and the reason we gather,
with song, with prayer, and why we rise refreshed,
ready for the Advent, for the King’s coming kingdom.

The man of God left something of Christmas in his wake
and I rose to lift seasoned cheer from my cupboard,
better ready to greet this Advent
with a strengthened smile.

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

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.

Extremists
tend to regard themselves
through a prism,
one of their own making,
faking exceptional,
answerable only
to their own scope for irrational
through which they see crystal clear
and consequently do not require
the inconvenience of relational,
the distraction of negotiational,
or those blind to their unique brand
of remarkable.

And occasionally, sadly,
they can sufficiently
fake credible to become
President
(which is not the same
as presidential).

Standing smoking under the front light looking out into the night on the step of another flat share which for a while I can dare to call home wondering when I will own a place of my own where I can kick up a stink or pile up the sink, where I can strike a light, where I can curse as loud as I like, where I don't have to take myself outside and stand staring at nothing with nothing but my key and the glow of my roll-your-own for company.

I'm full of long complexity
in this shell of masculinity
You see a pale reflection
of the inner deeper me

I'm not a likely poster child
but believe you-me it's true
I span across the gamut
between them, us, me and you

Don't judge this balding grayness
by the pallid, saggy skin
Start an honest conversation
- find the truer child within

I serve with a woman called Lois;
having her here is a bonus;
you know she is near
whenever you hear
laughter, loud and in chorus.

I feel like I should say
something of substance
something of meaning
something of the moment,

but I remain empty.

Blessed are you who know hungry.
Blessed are you who know thirsty.
Blessed are you who know both
hollow and empty.

I'm not talking to you peckish.
I'm talking to you who are conscious
of just how long it's been
since your last real meal.

Blessed are you when you pass up
on the offer of a fast food snack.
Blessed are you when you don't make do
with leftover scraps.

Jesus says:
Blessed are you who know your true need,
you who know where to fully feed.
Blessed are you who look to me,

- for I am the true life-giving manna,
sent down by your faithful Father-Provider.
I am the fresh-bread of eternal life.
Whoever comes to me -
be ready with a butter knife.
For you will never
go hungry.

Like the comfort of forged steel in your hand or between your teeth
Like the push of a brother's shoulder against yours
Like the grip of deep tread on your boots
Like the weight of a canteen on your belt
Like the pull of a loyal hound on your hand
Like the thunder of your horse beneath you
Like the loyal rays of morning cutting through the cold
Like the rumble of reinforcements across the Vale
Like the tight knot of a bandage on your deep wound
Was the reassurance of our Captain's voice ["Hold!"] in the absence of all else.

I felt myself begin to fall
in love with you but
I arrested that emotion
and returned to the equilibrium
of my life for one
- adhering to unambiguous instruction
- thankful for it's simple
red amber green ration
- grateful that I had avoided
the flood of voices
that inevitably follows the falling.

I'll have to be more careful.

I can only see half your story
in the part sunken stone
in the cracked and faded words
chosen by those you loved.

I can only see in part
what was no doubt a full life
with deep loves, long summers
and shared travels ending in West 7.

I can only imagine the rest
from my cracked path’s prospect
in the silence of ancient trees,
and the laughter of early birds.

Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds.
'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'

Always think before you move
This is no composition
Analyse
Strategise
Then move in combination

Always think before you move
Protecting your advantage
Concentrate
Evaluate
Take none of this for granted

Always think before you move
Always protect your king
Watch your flanks
Plan your attack
Push until you win

Give me a grain
of gravity, in a moment
of space time, tied to a thread
of string theory,  soaked
in one long figment
of my fantasy

and I will give you
a multi-verse.

He had a well stocked mind,
but with little stock taking
and with little order,
and so with little hope of finding
just a little rationale
for what sounded a little like tripe.

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.

Seconds before our first kiss
my clumsy words tore us asunder

and so I turned the rudder
from the sunset
into the full force of rejection.

We said nothing more,
and you did not notice my tears.

Behind the lacerated curtain
Assembled in triumph
We gorge on holy manna
Left by those who went before,
Behind the fire and the cloud.

We know one another
By the stone, pure and white,
More precious than any discarded crowns.
And we laugh loud with full mouths
At the names scribed by our Father,
While the angels just shake their heads and smile.

All dressed up and waiting for summer,
a summer as strong and as fresh
as this perennial dress.

All made up and ready for life,
a life as bright and as perfumed
as this fragrant woman waiting to bloom.

'Wake me when summer comes.
'Stir me when the sweet zest rises and the sun can kiss me as with the dawn.'

****** Vesta perched on the hearth
Warming her strong slender hands.
30 years is a very long wait
To have them warmed by a man.
However she knew she could rely
On the constant warm love of her sisters.
The men could wait while she matured
In sisters' softer caresses.

When I am seen, I flinch within.
My self makes a choice
between fight or flight
and I'm no fighter
and flight is a risk
that I'm not in a fit state for taking
so I freeze in place,
hoping the sight of me
won't cause offence
or, worse still, curiosity
and, worse case, sympathy.

Just pass by me.
Nothing to see here.

The choral fraternity
breathed coordinately,
perfectly quietly,
and (crucially) sequentially,
so that the consequent silences
went largely unnoticed,
fortunately.

on saturday morning we grace around recycled rustic tables, lowering our heads over gluten free brown toast topped with gently scrambled free range eggs, adding soya milk to decaffeinated, ethically sourced coffee, self contained in guilt free reusable cups -

and still we fret.

He steps in and our expectations ascend above the deep frustration, the anticipation felt by all creation as we bound into our liberation.

He steps in and we step out of age old bonds into endowed freedom, responding to the answer to our tears and groans and tears with redemption born of our adoption as children into a family kingdom.

He steps in and our patient hope is emboldened by Spirit-inspired words beyond words reaching deepest down, heart from heart to the throne of thrones.

He steps in and so we stand with purpose in the divine presence, secure beside divine  representation.

He steps in and choses us for gracious generosity with ultimate justification against all criticism, against all condemnation.

We step up in his image, secured in love beyond separation.

We step up, more than conquerors.

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

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me how much it would miss
me how much it depends on my
little choices
my small voices drowning
out the others and nudging
me to stay away.

The world doesn’t know how much
we depend on a little lack of leadership.
How much more devastated the world would
be with a little more co-ordinated lawlessness.

Little do they appreciate me,
appreciate that random acts of disfunction
are preferable by far
than my hordes of regimented devastation.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me to stay here
and not get involved.

The world doesn’t know how much
it needs me.

My life, at this stage,
had worn paper thin
- clipped to a board, hung
at my feet, open to review
with scant reference
to the source material.

My body had been fragmented,
parts selected and cut -
the changes tracked
for future reference.

And there were end notes
(if you were interested).

I was saved for later.

Her curiosity slipped in,
in silence, viewing
the clear, clean canal, exploring
the slow passings of time,
the wear and tears of years
of rough passage, ready to excise
any hint of a foreign body.

And his body lay, foetal,
while the nurse stroked his hand
assuring him the end was in sight,
but he kept still, his eyes tight shut
until she re-emerged,
and he could blink back into the light.

you can't go far wrong with chutney.
a large pickle jar,
gold topped
with a seasonal trim around the rim,
made with patience and love.
- just add a strong grip
with stronger cheese
and a selection of savoury crackers
- and there you have Christmas.

we don't get
that many things
to really care about

Maybe 3
Maybe 4
Maybe less

You made the right choice

there's nothing here
there's really nothing here

and that's pretty much it

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about bumps and scrapes
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs with desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving with more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
least there or thereabouts

Fathering involves running,
reaching out at full stretch,
as they get to the edge

Fathering involves running
close and distant alongside
a first bike ride

Fathering involves running
meeting them more than halfway
to reduce the faraway

Fathering involves running
to more accurately display
a father’s love
that will not go away

Fathering is being ready to run
all day

Believe in more than
you can imagine
Believe in more than
you ask to happen
Believe in more than
what you have seen
Believe in more than
what you have been
Believe in more than
your faded label
Believe in more cos
your God is able.

Immeasurably more than
all we ask
Immeasurably more than
all we imagine
Immeasurably more than
what we deserve
Immeasurably more than
mere human passions

Immeasurably wider
Immeasurably longer
Immeasurably higher
Immeasurably deeper
Immeasurably more
full to the brim
Immeasurable love
to the fulness of Him

Fierce potential
For pain
For hate
For fear

For love
For joy
For care

Forever potent
In every moment
For success
Or disappointment

So take each day
And squeeze it dry
Choose with care
Your closest allies
Don't want for trying
Don't fall for the lying
Stay true to your dreaming
It's yours for the taking.

I see a solitary windmill on the horizon.
I can't see its stem, but its petals are clear enough.
Moving apace.
Chased by winds unseen.

And as I watch, they seem to slow,
as if the wind has waned.
And I expect I told you so's will rejoin the fray,
damning the whole enterprise.

But I see the intent as worthy of patience,
worth my invested expectation.
I see the petals power on
and they slowly turn again.

turn, turn
     turn, turn
          pure, power-ballad, turn

I don’t know if you know this,
but I'm a tolerant non-conformist.
I know it's easy to have missed this,
but I've found it essential to co-exist
on an island as small as this,
in a city as full as this,
and that if I want to both resist conformity
and live with a degree of grace-ful harmony
I must persist in my pursuit of resistance
against an unnecessary distance
between me and those who live with difference.

And the more I live my difference
I find that non-conformity
doesn't necessitate exclusivity
and needn't be an excuse
for a self-righteous harsh disharmony.
And instead I'll walk with those most unlike me
to find and celebrate the common thread
of our mutual uncommon humanity.

Steve Page the elder
Sat with real pleasure
Eating his birthday cake
He took a large bite
And got a great fright
He'd swallowed his tongue by mistake.

Herbie ain’t no herbivore
He’s more of a feasting guy
His taste buds are testy
His jaws are real itchy
For a succulent turkey thigh

No, Herbie is no herbivore
And when he’s in the kitchen
He’ll alway stay focused
Ready to show us
Food is much more than nutrition

Herbie is no herbivore
There’s more to life than greens
But it shouldn’t be said
That his mum and his dad
Haven’t taught him to love chilli beans

Herbie is no herbivore
This Christmas there'll be no doubt
He’ll feast like a prince
On pies filled with mince
And turkey and maybe a sprout

You have memories
to look back on,
on-this-day ago
one year, three years, five years
ago, all-your-yesterdays

fade, perhaps repressed
or once carved with care
to exhibit the best
to omit the stuff you'd rather forget
and so the sculptor shaved

keeping with the grain
until the rather-not-dwell-ons
fell before the sweep of grace,
each scrape joining
other eliminations
to be gathered up
and cast into the fireplace.

The sculptor sanded, polished
and revealed the much loved
gargoyle within
proving once again
the effectiveness
of shaving away the best
forgotten.

theoneintwelve
longstobecloser
achestobenearer
tothosewho matter
but instead
s   i   t   s    
a    n    a  r   m   s    
l   e   n    g    t    h
l   o    n    g    e    r
f    r    o   m     a   n     y
h    o    p    e     o     f
e    m    b    r    a    c    e.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows where he belongs.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben will recall where he is from.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's word is true.
Reuben's word is strong.
Reuben's word is wise beyond his years.
Reuben's speaking loud.
Reuben's teaching truth.
Reuben will be heard beyond his peers.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows who he'll become.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben knows he'll dance to heaven's drum.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

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.

Bare clean carpets
Make for a lonely house
But big boot prints
Means Santa Klaus

Somehow has delivered
To every household
His bones they creak
But don't feel the cold

He dresses in red
With a bottomless sack
He has quick feet
And a broad strong back

He works his magic
Year after year
Then races home
For a well earned beer

He guards our dreams
For a kinder world
Saint Nick he delivers
He never gets old 

So this Christmas
Open your mind
Stand with Santa
And break out the Kind.

Listen like you're deaf
Like your very breath is dependent on
turning up every sense to the maximum
become one with each and every sign
this aint a talkie so align your whole self
to complete concentration
embody the revelation
until you're full in the face of emotion.

Listen like you're deaf
and then you'll hear the whole person.

Speak like you're deaf
Like your very breath is dependent on
turning up every sense to the maximum
become one with each and every sign
this aint a talkie so align your whole self
to complete concentration
embody self revelation
until you've released full emotion.

Speak like you're deaf
and then you'll show the whole person.

And the Prophet stood before the people
(in his polo shirt and straight slim jeans)
And spoke, (and laughed, and sang)
and shared some of their Father’s dreams

“Step out and be unspectacular
Leave the weird behind
God selects right royal mess-ups
And then renews their minds

“Think God-thoughts, glimpse your destiny
But be willing to get it wrong
Father rewards the risk takers
Not those wanting perfection

“The Spirit searches all things
Even the deep thoughts of God
And we can grasp what God is saying
Because we have the Spirit of God”

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!

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.