Who do you wish to be?
Who do you wish to die as?
How will we remember you?
As joyous or as pious?

There's nothing magical
About intentional
It's the beneficial
Not the permissible
Don't be mindful
Of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency
Of every mouthful
The size you choose
For your morning bowl full
What you put
On a wholemeal bagel
And then you'll find you'll
Be more healthful.

(And I can see you
Get all emotional
And inspirational
About the preferable
honey-based
BBQ
Sauce.)

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

It took a little time to get this old, but it wasn’t hard.  
It was rather just a case of taking one day at a time and not letting the day that is yet to come dominate the day that is.  Each day is sufficient to fill the time we have and cramming in that which has yet to have its allotted time will just cause angst.

It took a little time and that’s how you should keep it – little.  Don’t let any one moment inappropriately inflate, lest it lord over the moment you have in front of you.  So, whether this year amounts to a 10th of your life span, or a 40th, a 50th, or (as in my case), a 60th, give it equal honour.  Let it have its moment in the sun.

It takes a little time to build a life.

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

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.

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.

B-stream Steve looked both ways
Longing for what he saw.
Thinking he'd be much happier
With those boys he held in awe.

Instead he floundered midstream
Never quite feeling satisfied
Telling himself that one day soon
He'd climb or slowly slide.

B-stream Steve looked both ways
And found as he got older
The gulfs between a, b and c
Were more in the eye of the beholder.

While streaming helped those in charge
He needed to keep in mind
A boy in the middle was much better placed
To befriend those ahead and behind.

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.

Speed is cold.
Speed is cruel.
Speed is merciless.

Speed is a smile, at speed.
Blink and it's gone.

Take your own life
violently by the scruff,
and LIFT.
Once you have its undivided,
wholehearted attention,
stare it straight in the eyes,
and say 'Enough!'
'This is a self-interest intervention.
'Get over this,
shake yourself free
of this mid life need
for a preoccupation
by hostile thoughts
and self-absorbtion,
put to one side
self-indulgent fictions
and get real,
get serious
and get a life
that is true to the person
you now are.
And start by ending the comb-over.
It's a non-starter.'

Hannah has her cleaning boots,
they're really rather fine.
They match her rubber cleaning gloves
and her yellow cleaning sign.

Not too old to dance
Not too big to rumba
Not passing up the chance
To feel a little younger

Learning brand new steps
Hearing brand new beats
Sensing strange new rhythms
Finding both my feet

Using unused muscles
Controlling my meander
Feeling a new freedom
To release the inner dancer

Old friends say they knew
The dancer sleeping there
They recognised the steps
From long forgotten years

So whilst I can't regret
The years I waltzed around
I'm pleased to take these steps
And retake my long lost ground.

Past and Future stabled together – both present, tethered, and unstable.

Kindred ghosts pushed-pulled by a hopeful anxiety,
agitated by the yet unknown morning, eager to be

free.  And once freed, breaking fast, bolt-bursting, in competition
– in unison,

leaving Present to peer from the darkness
– who will win after all?

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

He left me with a London Kiss
along the length of my body
deep enough to cost me
long enough to teach me to be careful
whenever I left myself exposed
and chose to be vulnerable
in this city of disputed space
and contested dreams.

He left me
poorer, but wiser.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe.

I never see him, but I believe he's there,
sitting near with his low hum,
refraining from making a show,
rather staying below, but making enough for me
to know - comfort, making me safe,
making the difference between sleep and awake,
between making zeds and making a peep,
making space for me
to make myself at home,
snuggled deep, quietly full of the stuff
that makes great mischief.

And when I awake I know he's gone,
taking his low hum back to where he came from.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe
and he'll make a return when I need him.

The slow tea flowed with a knowing tease, letting the flavour seep bone deep as I watched with a growing marrow-level ease, feeling the aroma sink gently down lower than ever before, leaving a lasting trace of exotic leaf, as her voice broke through the spell with her ancient enquiry: "milk and two sugars was it, dear?"

One of my earliest memories in my history
(if not THE earliest)
features a tree.
A stump of a tree
in the middle of our back garden.

And my dad and his friends removed the tree,
maybe an Oak, I don’t know,
I just know it was there first
and we removed it to make room for growth.

That was an unnecessary necessity
and the start of something that lasted.
Not as long as the tree, but still,
you can’t have everything.

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.

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.

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.

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!

It was a long long way
through dark days
and dank nights
taking dark sides
against the other
against the distant
against the odds.
Trusting the relay of work horses
to drag our destruction
to haul our backsides
to dredge our pain
to our hollow -
to some kind of victory
that I'll never speak of again
outside of my nightmare prayers
for some kind of forgiveness.

-----------------

Blessed are you, who are conscripted ,  when you are dragged into wars not of your choosing -
For you will be remembered.

When is a stray fleeting thought
a senseless young fool's distraction?
And when is my sudden idea
a true sage-like inspiration?

No weight of long experience
No number of tried and tested
No diet of **** it and sees
seem to provide me true wisdom.

But then I slow and I listen
I daily make time to wait
I consider what it is that God has to say
and Wisdom opens her gate.

Stones and Seeds -
Whatever you hold,
lay them down
and unfold your empty hands

Wakey wakey
Rise and shine
Grab the moment
Start your climb

Get off your ****
Put it in gear
Raise yourself up
Your moment's here

Pull up your socks
Tie up your shoes
Now seize the day
This time's for you.

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

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.

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

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

O Lord, my Saviour, my spirit rejoices in you, for you....
-
Oh, Jesus. This isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
Oh, my son, my child, my beloved child
- now my Saviour.
My whole being worships you, and yet
in my heart I still treasure those times when it was just you
and me.
Holding you close,
hearing your first words,
shepherding you
as you took your first steps,
watching over you,
binding your first scrapes - you were sooo adventurous;
it was always a challenge keeping you out of your father's workshop.
-
And now you watch over me.
-
-
Jesus, my heart still aches
when I recall your body arched
in pain, bleeding.
Your cries still haunt me.
It's hard to shake the image
of your lifeless body
wrapped in cloth and lying
- in a tomb.
-
Forgive me, dear son;
I almost lost my mind with grief.
I was blinded with my tears,
and in my fear
I didn't understand.
All I could feel
was the sword
piecing my very soul,
just as old Simeon promised.
-
And then,
when I saw you again,
whole, restored....
Oh how I loved to see that smile again, to feel
your arms around me once more, to hear
your laughter, to draw in
your warmth as we shared a meal,
just like we used to.
-
But you were taken again so soon.
-
I know you had to go, but
oh, how I missed you.
-
(Deep breath)
-
But I'll tell your story
- so many want to hear my story.
The boys promise to write it down,
but I'll still tell. It thrills me every time I tell it,
for how can written words capture you, your love, your presence.
-
-
You spoke of a gift.
Well, as you probably know, it arrived
right on time.
You said that if we waited here in Jerusalem,
we would be bathed in YOUR Holy Spirit.
And now I see.
I almost weep with joy when I hear
young John and the rest of your friends
speaking in your name.
-
I recognise your voice, you see,
I recognise your heart,
in their words.
It's -
it's just like you're still here.
Thank you for not leaving your old mum alone.
I'll see you soon,
my Jesus.

God creator, God enthroned,
God in heaven, juxtaposed
with a green hill
not so far away,
but still a long way
from a throne room,
and just a day's walk
from Bethlehem,

a God walk beside us
a God walk with us,
a God walk like ours,
and now enthroned,
- still with us.

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its dependable
and Lord I don’t feel I qualify
Faithful sound daily, faithful sounds every
day rising with no need to apologise

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its consistent
and Lord, my consistency’s low
faithful sounds predictable, someone reliable
and Lord, you know that’s touch and go

Lord, grant me a spirit of someone who’s faithful
someone who’ll last til the end
Someone like you, who when the going gets tough
gets going and dies for his friends

Lord, grant me your Spirit, full to the brim
reliably and consistently there
so I may be faithful to you and to those
you have placed here in my care

I learned gentleness from a giant of a man
whose reach
reached full round the world and deep into my wounds,
offering a strength and a healing
that was light as a whisper
and heavy as a salve
that gave off an aroma which took me back
to my mother’s arms,
her safe smell and the music of her song,
rocking me gently and teaching me more about strength
than any wannabe giant of any size.

He gave me a giant’s confidence to hold tight to Him
while holding all else in an open hand
– not grabbing,
nor forcing,
but holding out for Him
and His gentleness
that I find invites more
than it commands.

Memory in tension
with expectation

Which wins?
Which informs?

And why do we settle
for either?

The future's bleak
The future's orange

When we offer
a sacrifice of praise,
our lives as living psalters,
are our hearts altered?

The kinetic energy
contained in this resting pencil
will soon be let out
in accelerated shouts and whispers
and the odd word of wisdom.
Just wait.
You'll see.

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.

A pen,
a notebook
and idleness

- the three requisites for the manufacture of poetry.

The panic speaks
eloquently and persistently,
telling me that I need a new filter
by which to drink in, to inhale
the good
and like an extreme diver, hold it in
while exploring the dark places.

You see,
the panic we feel on the surface
only serves to take us down,
while it denies us the means of rising again.

But if I can learn to pause,
to take in the good,
the wholesome, the nutritional,
then I can ready myself
to face the dark
and, having done so,
I will find the light again.

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

Why shatter the window when my door is wide open?
Why shout with frustration when I'm standing right here?
Why plead so loudly when you have my attention?
Why slap me so hard when I'm wiping your tears?

I see you're so lost, I see you're so lonely
I feel your hot anger, I feel your deep fears
Whatever you do, even when you disown me
I'll sit here beside you, until the fog clears

When you hold your grudge
handle it with care.

A grudge is volatile
and can become unstable without warning.
Close contact with your grudge for prolonged periods
will leave a stubborn stain.

Please wear the insulated gloves provided,
stay distant from others
and leave your grudge at home at all times.

Its weight will quickly increase with age,
put it down as soon as possible.

Don’t tell our parents, but I think I’m ready
for the next step, I want to hold your hand
and perhaps walk the longer way home.
I’ll shorten my stride and keep in time with us
because it all slows down when you’re talking
when you lick your lips to keep them moist
and they manage to reflect the dipping sun.

I’d like to sit face to face with your face
while you talk about the sky and the stars
about the horizon and what lies beyond
the slow canal and the horse that’s pegged there.

But let’s not tell our parents yet,
I’d like to find out what this is like
before they talk and spoil it for us.

I believe baubles have way too much glitter,
That another new year won't make it all better.

I believe turkey tastes bland without stuffing,
That my secret santa was better than nothing.

That rich Christmas pud needs a helping of cream,
That thin paper hats are a waste by design.

I believe parties can get out of hand,
That more still silent nights need to be planned.

I believe Christmas can bring people down,
That relentless fake smiles hide many a frown.

Happy Christmas to all and to all my best wishes,
May your Christmas be more than all merry wet kisses.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father,
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation.

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are,
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also,
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother)
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great
sacrificially.

For example,
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed,
He'll proudly walk
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride,
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

Ed the saint lost his head
and opened his house to the arts
artists and poets
came and amazed us
and touched our heads and our hearts