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.

Diverted, never Defeated

rushing like water into its misted future
crawling like moss in a camouflage of the past
giving lie to our tiny present

a passing shadow of day-creatures
flit for their designated eight minutes
failing to fully grasp their moment

while the trees stand watch -
still present, pointing to a future only they see

Diverted, but never Defeated

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?

Love is a loaner armchair
Low enough to relax me
Built to embrace me
With arms that support me
While I return to my book
And sup hot tea

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.

it takes an uncommon mind
an ability to think at an angle
someone who's not been a stranger
to an occasional maniacal giggle

a willingness to set your own pace
a relaxed approach to normality
if you can embrace all of this
count yourself part of the family

my rosie
leaves, moves through pallets,
rises through the afternoon quiet,
strengthens, peaks,
reaches a crescendo,
a swallow of poured
perfection
and tells me
she is sweet enough

I sit in the light of my phone,
with memes numbing my mind
I search the fields for answers
I don’t expect to find
I don’t find very much of use
amongst the scrolling screens
They lead me down rabbit holes
where I’ve already been

I ask for better light by which
to see the greater truth
by which I might find something
to push away the gloom
and the answer comes from above
in the silence of the night
a sign drawn by the flight path
of a west bound starry light

And the star delivers a summons
to shepherds and kings alike
to Come and Behold a greater king,
timing it just right,
bringing east and west together,
offering peace on earth
- a peace in the light of a greater truth,
enlightening the world

This light’s an invitation to you
to come and behold a child
But I think I better warn you,
he’s no longer meek and mild
Baby Jesus is now a Risen King,
and no better light you’ll find
to set a brighter truer path,
for you and humankind

His name is Magic -
not because of the wand,
the battered pointed hat,
or his habit of not letting dragons pass,
but because, time and time again,
he was there when needed
and did what was required
to make life go a little smoother.
- Magic.

Sometimes
just the nod is enough
to acknowledge
the common struggle
and to impart
a spur -
a spur to go on

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.'

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

Simple isn't the same as easy.

Waiting isn't the same as staying
 awake
Hearing isn't the same as heeding
 commands
Walking isn't the same as staying
 dry
Shooting isn't the same as hitting
 your target
Advancing and isn't the same as dodging
 the bullets
Fighting isn't the same as killing
 men.

Simple isn't the same as easy.
Living isn't the same as living
 with your memories.
Dog, Easy, Fox;
an uneasy company of brothers.

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.

My dear Theophilus, I want to stress
that this gospel story is ever-present, continuous
and it’s by no means strenuous
to draw a straight true line
from the angelic choir’s ‘unto us’
through to the empty cross,

and yes, past the fall of Judas
to the day the lot fell to Matthias
and whilst Matt may have on occasion
felt a little out of place
and like us, have sometimes undergone
the syndrome that’s imposter-ous,
nevertheless, with the disciples he received Christ’s promise
of a collective Pentecostal renaissance

And so,
no, it’s not presumptuous for you, for us
to stand with Matthias and the rest
of the disciples of Christ Jesus,
to receive this same promise
and for Christ to continue
the same reconciling mission through us,
because my dear Theophilus,
we are, you are the one and present-continuous,
Spirit-filled church

Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.

Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.

Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.

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

One step at a time
One punch at a time
One round at a time
One fight at a time

And when life throws
all it has at you,
all at one time, then
every step
every punch
every round
every fight
that leaves you standing
is a win

and every time
you hit the ground
only to rise again
that is a victory
that is worthy
of the champion that you are.

The morning rained.
Down in the basement he lay flattened by bad luck and worse judgement.
The morning rained.
Despair seeped under the broken sill as his drained accounts stared back blankly and forcasted worse to come.
The morning rained.
Grey skies cut off the last hint of a silver lining.
The morning rained.
And he cried floods.

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.

Black futures -
not a month
not a meme
not hash-tagged and gone
past in a blur.

Futures built
on the foundation of the past,
but rising past past expectations
and housing future generations
of black lives that answer back
and build better black futures.

The future's bright.
The future's colourful.

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.)

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

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

Fear steps in,
into that gap between hearing and believing, seeking to fill that space, undermining belief until believing is turned away and faces fearing the worse and settling for less as the truth fades into the distance.

Jesus steps in
into that gap between fear and hope, and smothers the fear with an over abundance of reasons to believe in this offer to receive a power-over-death level of life that drowns out the crowd of unbelieving commotion until he sees resurrected hope get up on her own two feet and step into your grateful arms.

Jesus steps in and fear finds it has no place here.

Memory in tension
with expectation

Which wins?
Which informs?

And why do we settle
for either?

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.

The parent said to the child,
"Just you listen to me -
"Do as you're told, you'll be fine;
you need to wait and see."

The child smiled at the parent,
relieved to have someone in charge.
Their worry had been overwhelming
with much that couldn't be grasped.

The adults looked on, both curious
at the exchange that they'd observed.
They continued on their journey,
sharing all that they had learned.

There was a young woman from Richmond
Who dreamt of playing James Bond
She posed in her mirror
With the look of a killer
While her baby just giggled and yawned

To walk can be fine,
to run takes you further
I know that when I'm skipping
my heart will grow much stronger.

I have walked many paths.
I have made my amends.
I have run far enough.
Now I'm skipping with my friends.

You don't have much time.
No one does.
Time has never been
willing to be had,
to be spent,
- squandered.

It is
and it was
and it will fully be.
While it is the dance of your heart
that is finite.
It is your breath that will one day
be spent.
And you will discover
the depth of your squander,
the extent of your last deficit,
while time will continue on
to its appointed complicity
with eternity.
And in that apt company
time will run
at the speed of the last light,
remaining exempt
from any desperate attempt
to hold it in check.

But in your allotted splinter of time
relish its flight
and the oh so magnificent sights
that life hands you
for simple delights.
And rather than raging
against the inevitable last night
you might find at last
it's alright
to let the last grains
trickle through
with a life-long, contented sigh
having found time
for each gifted
timely good-night.

His still, small whispers melt into my mind
Like hot chocolate at dusk
Like a welcoming morning mocha aroma,
With an embrace louder than dawning fears;

Not demanding, but offering healing,
Inspiring and revealing -
Like a balm to my bruises
Like a brace to my body.

And so trembling, I wrap the echo of his words
Around my weary soul
But my weak heart
Cannot hold his words
As I bump and brush
Against other fragile hearts.

But still I sit in his serene shade
And he breaths these enveloping words:
"I understand."
And so I rest in his soft strong arms.

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

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

Confine your creativity
Limit originality
Dare to be different
But don't dispute authority

Blue sky thinking
With a few scattered brainstorms
Is no substitution
For you sticking to the norm

We do value change here
In its right place
Just so long as you ensure
It doesn't leave a trace.

I haven't got to where I am
Without these simple laws
Now that's enough chat
Let's get on and wash the floors.

The flash of parakeets in the rain,
in darkest Ealing,
raise heavy souls away
from the drizzle,
up from the road
long enough to gift
a memorable
collision.

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.

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.

My quick lie offered me
a knock-off respite, obviously overpriced and inevitably shoddy, but real and present and there for me even while it was dropping away like a slow knife, falling beyond my desperate dive towards the inevitable piecing of my carefully structured delusion, counting the cost of those few moments of delayed capitulation.
My quick lie lied to me.

Braced against the dawn
Rising above purdah mist
My solitude breaks

Lifted by morning
My lit face turns so slowly
Longing for lost hush

Stirred, shaken, summoned
My cautious foot stretches out
Into the first light

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.

Shielded in Met. blue
I shoulder my silver numbers:
a Papa-Lima protector
on south-east London streets.
Riding shotgun and
fueled by adolescent adrenaline,
I scan the A-to-Z grids
for grateful victims,  
and bury my delinquent doubt
beneath the cool blue strobe.
-
I'm a juvenile constable,
thoughtlessly abandoned
to law's sanction
to bully, to bruise,
and perhaps to scar
for good.

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.

Spring is a doing word
- quietly, softly, resolutely
repeatedly springing up
through the heavy clay
springing forward
past these ground hog days
offering an initiation rite
of colour, warmth and new light.

Spring is a doing word
- so do it right.

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.

He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 1st anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

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

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.

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?"

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.

Sometimes you won’t be, oftentimes you will
see spots and feel lost. If they persist make yourself
an appointment with a quiet man with unremitting sentences
and cold fingers which will explore new fears, fresh cul-de-sacs
leading to excision by a woman with a practiced smile,
knife-thin latex and a distance
that prevents inappropriate contact.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you find a new lump -
don’t wait, make an appointment
with the quiet man and he may say something
you won’t hear above the screams swallowed by old nausea.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you let regret rise
and tell your daughter all the too lates
that wait unopened.

And one day you will.