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

The invisible, red chair
sat screaming, pleading, bleeding
and a priest walked past on the other side, preferring his pew.
So too, a curate saw the chair and with a moment’s pause
moved on, and unfolded a meditation stool.
Then later in the day, after many had almost seen and chose to pass,
a red-ribboned refugee stopped and saw
and she wept with the chair til sundown.

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”

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!

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

The right way to say something
something important, something of emotion
is a gift and a craft.

The right way to tell your story
is your's to decide.

So decide.

I focus on the apple, the glint
the fleck of gold on green
glazed and blurred with lashed tears
even as his gaze runs off to
the middle distance soon to
come round for its next lap
and our eyes will meet
for the first time
again.

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 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.

Thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Not too low
Not too high
Just the right level - enough
to warn me
to give me pause
to prompt questions
to seek answers
before I step forward
instead of bowling past,
passing through, regardless

Pain thresholds are good
and necessary
Setting a boundary
Too high and you'll burn, oblivious
Too low and you'll freeze
in place, never crossing over
into fuller life

Thresholds are good

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.

Oh, grant me a new song.
A start again afresh with no regrets song.
One with a bridge to a new accord,
a song with which I can get on board.
Something that strikes a stronger chord
with those who like me
long to be
fully
factory
restored.

A song with a fresher melody
(and I definitely need a different harmony),
something that's part of a wider symphony
maybe with an occasional solo part 
for me.

A song that I get to sing with gusto,
maybe to a slightly quicker tempo,
a step up from my imposed Adagio,
closer to a brisker Allegretto.

Oh Lord,
you see me.
You see that I long to sing.
Can you please
wipe me clean
and write a new song with me.

Ghost or shell
Be sure it's all me
Raising hell

We are each floating, and so it is right and kind to notice and greet those floating along side us - we are each driven by the same flow to the same sea but within our own stream (some main, some minor), but all heading down and meandering, slowly slowing, unless we find resistance and find cause for rejuvenation - and of course, we do.  We all do.

Dear Mr Finch,

I visited your village this morning.

I was struck by the lines of greens.
I was smitten by the mighty trees.
I was gripped by the citizens,
by the softness of a hand
placing change with care into my hand
by the ease of each smile,
the feel of less stress
and the kindness I found.
I was touched by the welcome.
They did you so proud.

Yours contentedly,
Steve the Londoner.

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.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet, square in the threshold, charged with a ready welcome and ruddy face.

He stood with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor who too stood in a similar red coat and sore shiny feet and with his own style of smile.

He stood until he fell one March morning, in his thick red coat and his sore shiny feet and with a heart that failed to live up to the responsibility that came with the threshold and the coat and the shiny feet and instead chose to take its rest.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet square in the threshold, charged with a duty to smile with an open face, with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor.

And he stood.
And he smiled.
As charged.

I will make old bones
Keep a silver mane
Flash bright emerald eyes
Scatter mischievous kisses
And carry a sweet song
With old school style.

Until I take that closing bow,
I - shall - be - Glorious!

Sitting relaxed with a bookshop coffee
Enjoying the spacious quiet of my own company
Absorbing the backdrop of aromatic percolation
Of released steam offering sweetened caffeination
The gentle mumur of friends in conversation
The swift taps of bowed students writing late dissitations
And wall to wall literature patiently inviting exploration
This is a bliss that aids meditation.

And then - uninvited -
I'm aware of a cold creeping consternation
At the realisation of the absent phone connection
So I pack my bag with resentful capitulation
Seeking a stronger indication of digital association.

She touched my ***.
I'm sure she touched my ***.
She's getting off on the 20th floor.
At least she did yesterday.
I've not got long.
What do I do? Turn and smile?
Do I subtly return the compliment as she passes by?
Did she touch my ***?
Or was it that bloke's bag?
I don't think she did.
She didn't touch my ***.
Don't be daft.
There she goes. 
I wonder why she limps that way?
(Sigh)
Blast, I'm late again.

This is spoken word
(that’s words aloud)
freed from the screen
sent out proud

words finding voice
sounds in word form
finding new ears
words outperformed

When words stay inside
they fester and blister
they poison and kick
sour and bitter

it’s only out loud
that’s words pass the test
it’s when they’re outspoken
they get off my chest

This is spoken word
loud words out-loud
ready to be heard
above the crowd

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.

Sadness is finishing a great novel
on the train to work
and carrying it home
empty of suspense,
with a faint hope
for the yet unpublished sequel.

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.

If you must breathe
Do it deeply

If you must cry
Do it openly

If you must laugh
Do it heartily

If you must run
Run with me

If you must hide
Hide in me

If you must believe
Believe in me

If you must,
And you must,
Do so now.

Good your journey
true your road
wet your mouth
loud your song

Good your journey
true your friends
wet your eyes
loud your song

Good your journey
true your road
your friends
your heart

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.

Arthur met a confounding god today.
A maze of a god,
with Arthur in the middle.

A god not hemmed in by history,
not bound within Arthur's worn, white bible;
beyond understanding, as promised.

Arthur met a god outside
his tarnished creed,
a god too slippery for certainty.
An untidy, script-ripping god.
A god who hovered beyond
the borders.

Not a guiding light, but a blinding night.
And blind, Arthur recognised little through his tears,
as his father slipped away,
as promised.

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.

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

Your tears will speak for you
while your loss dries up all words.

The spreading tearstains
on my shoulder
are eloquent enough.

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

It was a busy night with room only for small talk around the dark stained table.  She sat in half shadow, as still as bambi after the gunshot and just as alone. And they talked.

At her finger tips her glass brooded, part full of a rich emptiness and part of potential, the combination reeking of a love unexplored with a whiff of harboured regret.  They talked knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, all smiles and pork scratchings.

She sat and left her past week buried like old sorrow, glad to listen to those with less to say while despair trickled down her left cheek, unnoticed.   They talked, voices lost in the clamour of glasses and the void of wet laughter.

"You're quiet tonight, Silvi. Your Tom not around this week?"
"No, not this week."

She sat and they talked, knee to knee and miles apart.

Making sure
she kept to the right
of her best misdemeanors,

Rising slowly,
incrementally above her
sub-basement failures

Looking for all
the world like the world
owed her a life
time of favours

Striding unnoticed
past her past
jailers, her angry slavers

Throwing her chains
into the back of her dark
red Daimler

Passing sixty
screaming for privacy

Dying for worthy.

He leads me by waters of rest,
waters bubbling with competing song,
each voice heralding restored souls,
flowing down perfect paths through the greenest pastures
where our master-shepherd has prepared my rest.

Even in deep darkness,
I need not fear
for His rod and staff protect me.

Surely steadfast love follows me
as I return to dwell in the house of the Lord all my long days
and there I shall feast at my Lord-Shepherd's high table
forever.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of the sun,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of the wind,
Depth of the sea,
Stability of the earth,
Firmness of the rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's hosts to save me
Afar and anear,
Alone or in a mulitude.

Christ shield me today
Against wounding
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the mighty strength
Of the Lord of creation

She smiles at speed and leaves my fingers sparkling
with flashes of leather and steel.
She catches my eye in the mirror then falls away
while emerging afresh from around the next bend.  
And somehow she lingers long enough to inject my lap and push me
back deep into each crack in the road, caught in filtered sun
through the crash of leaves, drawing out fear with a surge of adrenaline
pooling in the pit of my stomach and sinking into my sack of stones
that ache and hunger for the straight and the late brake
over the reek of grease, oil and fully leaded fuel,
dyeing my skin a slippery shade of tarmac, diluted by blood
and black rain blinding me with a flimsy sheen shimmering
between me and a dark montage of cries and stillness,
til I pass a pyre that devours young ambition for long life
and casts shadows of a long breath held at the finish,
its threat caught in her smile,
until the next time.

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.

God waited in my margins,
in my discomfort
of being close
to the edge of others,
and invited me to
intentionally trust
incidental strangers,
because there He resided,
in my threshold love,
in each adjoining reaction.
So I went to my margins,
to the verge of my comfort,
reached out
and got closer
to my marginal,
cross-border God
and there I found
the small moments,
the quiet places
of gentle surprise
and true challenge
that heralded adventures
beyond my ken,
outside my norm,
but within His plan
for this day.

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

It’s before nine.  I have another chilled hour
before the Swallow cafe opens for cooked breakfast
and a day before the family funeral.

The sky is clear to the east, but further north
there’s pre-spun wool resting lightly on the hills,
heavy with possibility and miles from home.

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 plenty of cream,
That thin paper hats are as cheap as they seem.

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

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

That without the real Jesus it's a real waste of time,
That if He was here He'd call it a crime:

The way we ignore those under our feet,
The times we brush past the poor on the street.

Jesus just cries to see our behaviour,
So far from the path He set as our Saviour.

So this Christmas ask Jesus to soften your heart
He'll give you forgiveness and bring a fresh start.

You can live with new hope and sing with new meaning,
Dont waste any more time with any more dreaming.

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

May the Christ of this Christmas visit this year
And give you good reason to be of good cheer.

The inner city rose garden
Rested high above the fumes
Soaking in the filtered sunlight
Like the tired old lady on her balcony
After her third marriage:
Still colourful
Still fragrant
And not without her unfair share of thorns.

A life can be told from different angles
A different moral every time
A fresh perspective from greater distance
Puts the truth to familiar lies

A loving dog is an unmatched prize
unconditional devotion and unrivaled joy
highest pleasure in the smallest of treats
persistence with (ocassional) fearlessness

unmatched energy for short car rides
turning inside out in excess excitement
highest stretch for meat thought beyond reach
rarely without a glorious itch

A loving dog is an unmatched prize
and our loss unmatched at this, our last goodbye.

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.

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.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
less you become monstrous.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and arm yourself with truth.

When fighting monsters
- watch yourself
and shield your deep innocence.

When fighting monsters
(and you must fight your monsters no matter the depth of the abyss)
- watch yourself
and let your whole self stand.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
when it rages in the dead of day,
when it leaves you cold and empty -

that's then you long for ashes,
for an end to the flagrant flames,
for tears in their rightful lashes.

That's then you crave kin and friends,
voices of long affection,
words of kindness and remembrance.

When the wrong fire's in your belly,
that's then you need a fresh flame.

this is me,

hurting, but healing with care,
and living with purpose.
falling, but dancing with grace
and keeping my footing.
trudging, but keeping pace
with someone who's been this way before.

head high, not bowed low.
speaking up, not keeping it down.
living loud, not hiding out.
welcomed home,
not cold shouldered, but bolder
in the image of the original.

now this is me!