This is my compilation of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Wrapped in eloquent grace,
Punctuated with tearful praise
User manual or admonishment
Hope and encouragement
Stories of enemies and friends
- where battles end
in the end.

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Soft like the call of a lover
Earnest like the tears of a running Father
Substituting justice with forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my compendium of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
This is where I hear words collide with joy
This is where words can fly

This is where you'll hear God's voice.

You see, my God is a poet.

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.

Each dent should lessen the value,
but curiously deepens character.

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

The socialist and the socialite
sat themselves down for supper.
Arthur wore a blood red rose
while Sophie went for feathers.

The socialist and the socialite
had only a little in common
and neither said much at all
about the paths they'd trodden.

The socialist and the socialite
ate with polite conversation.
He had the slow cooked brisket,
while she had the salad with chicken.

The socialist and the socialite
left quietly with an old studied calm,
but once their door was firmly closed
fast fell into each other's arms.

Keep to your own lines,
the interwoven, layered,
stood-the-test-of-time,
true-to-the-character lines.

Friend. Father.
Englander. Londoner. 
Hero. Hugger.
Reliable understudier.

Place your toes on the bottom line,
and take a look and take in a breath,
take inspiration drawn in from the borrowed,
from the passing,
from the whatever-passes-for-solomon.
And redefine yourself, for yourself,
once again.

But don't stray over those well-rehearsed lines.
Don't ever improvise.

You're safe if you keep to your lines.

God came in three -
they set aside time and space 
for collaborative creativity

God came in three
and in that 'us', 'our' and 'we'
metaphored an identity of mutuality 

God came in three
advocating once and for all
a celebration of plurality

God came in three
illustrating that all families
are a godly thingamy

God came in three
inviting you and you and me
to join them
together for eternity


Genesis 1: 26. 
Then God said, "Let us make humankind in our image, in our likeness, ...

Place the pen on the page before inspiration hits – that’s important.  You write – that’s what you do.  
And as the pen moves, a combination of memory and new ideas combine, they interact with the catalyst called inspiration and you’ll find that the further the process is allowed to progress, the more the New takes hold and memory drops to a whisper and before your mind can comprehend the words, you find an unexpected theme.  This time it’s about the evil of memory and how it needs to be subdued / reduced, put in its rightful place so that the New can breathe / can grow / create a new memory that will one day abdicate space to the next generation of New.  
One day we might find there’s no heir, no one who cares enough to continue the line, but until that day we’ll have generation after generation of New - each slowly growing old, gradually fading thin and becoming a memory that knows its space and gives way.
I pause.
That’s always a mistake.  
To Pause.  
That’s when memory sneaks back in, raising itself above its whisper, giving pause to the New and raising an appetite for a brew which lifts the pen…
Is blueberry jam on madeira cake wrong?

Things my mum asked for today:
To be taken home
Toast
The toilet
To be left to die

Extract maximum energy from every day
Turn you face towards the light
Turn away from the shadows
and at dusk
rest
ready for your dawning.

I watched, fascinated, at each Stag standing,
legs splayed wide, chest expanding,
one hand playing pocket billiards,
the other cupping an imperial panetella,
or the odd ***-end of a king-sized silk cut.

I watched each **** strutting, squinting
against the improbably impressive smoke signals
emanating from a side grimace, indicating
not just contemplation of past glories,
and an absent kin,
but a surprising level of self-congratulation
and not solo signals, but a tribe-wide cloud of pride,
bellowing in resonance, creating a crescendo of
'you just know they would have loved this'
coupled with an elaborate semaphore display
that would put any plume of peacocks to shame.

My family gathered to mark their history,
to reinforce a crucial coupler of family territory,
to shout their quiet authority like ancient royalty,
as monarchs of this urban manor, their laughter
rising in assumptive victory, leaving no doubt
that this clan would face all future threats
with no more than 'a quiet word'
and a micro-assertion of their claim
over their ancestral turf.

I watched my forever-family,
my forever-England, planted secure
in my ever-after summer,
on this once green, scorched earth.

Sometimes biiig
Arms-open
Welcoming

Ocassionally cold
Camera-quick
Calculating

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

Rowing isn't for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.
I'd rather raise my sails,
for rowing isn’t for me.
I prefer to let the winds prevail
whether light draft or force 10 gale.
No, rowing isn’t for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.

Dive deep.
And push down
til you reach the dark.
Dust off the sea bed
and take hold of your bedrock.

If you don't
you'll sink anyway,
but without a tether
and without a way back.

So take a breath.
Dive deep.
And once you've got hold of
what lies there,
bring it to the surface,
scrape it off,
so it can be seen
and noone need wonder
what's down there.

Dive deep.
What choice do you have?

Now Joe's too big for his bed
But never let it be said
That this would prevent
Some time well mis-spent
Watching TV while outspread

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing,
   Lord, rudder me through to calmer waters.
Your words secure my departing,
   Lord, restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me tales from our voyage together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.
   Lord, ready me to weather this course
To its end.

Easter will be late this year.
It's still cold and the blossoms
shine pink,
carpet bombing indiscriminately.

Easter will be late this year.
March paces itself
striding to the end
of the tax year, the start
of price hikes and a train
of trans-continental refugees
from some god-awful war
just spitting distance from Lidl.

Easter will be late,
but Mother's Day will bring
a distraction of blue elastic bands
bound around barely blooming daffs,
happy in damp sticky hands.

And then they'll be the anticipated
crucifixion.

Resurrection
can't come soon enough.

Runners Run.
One stride at a time
One push at a time
One lap at a time

And when the climb is steep
when you feel like
you're losing ground,
then every stride,
every push, every lap
that leaves you in the race
takes you to your prize

And every time you stumble
only to regain your feet
that is a victory that is worthy
of your team captain
our captain, Jesus.

Boxers Fight.
One step at a time
One blow at a time
One round at a time

And when life throws
all it has at you,
all at one time,
then every step
every blow, every round
that leaves you in the fight
takes you to your prize

And every time you hit the canvas
only to beat the count
that is a victory that is worthy
of your champion,
our champion, Jesus.

And we will not be disqualified
from the prize.

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

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 cannot pay.

It's neo-consumerism,
with the soft bite of fascism.

We're infected by the bug,
so we take
the offered
drugs.

Shielded behind Met. blue
I shoulder my silver numbers:
A Papa-Lima protector
On south-east London streets.

Riding shotgun all night
Dripping with closing time doner
Adolescent adrenaline
Fueling my every move.

I scan the heavy streets
On the prowl for grateful victims, 
Burying old delinquent doubt
Beneath my cool, blue strobe.
-
A wet behind the ears
Raring juvenile constable,
Abandoned and sanctioned
To bully and to bruise,
And then perhaps to scar
For good.

("Art is never finished, only abandoned" - quote attributed to Leonardo da Vinci.)

I'm not finished yet!
I'm nowhere near complete
You know I'm not yet done
You know I'm not replete

So now's the perfect time
To pause and let me go
Time to pack away
Take that towel and throw

Put me in the drawer
Stand up and walk away
Go and fill the kettle
Or try that new cafe

Come back some time later
Then look at me afresh
Maybe ask your closest friend
To suggest some more or less

Once you've looked at me again
You may be surprised to find
You're not quite satisfied
And can't get peace of mind

I'm art, I'm not a race
There is no finish line
So please don't over-work me
I'm unfinished by design

I stole away to live
I kept it to myself
I never said a word
I kept it quiet
and to myself

Never risked
never chanced
just dreamed
and chewed over
and in the end
it was all I had
and no one had it but me
and no one but me

Oh I don't like this
This isn't right
It's another country
Everything's one long fight

It's like a foreign language
Nothing's the same
It's all gone wrong
Tell me her name again

I just wish it was like it was
I just can't keep track
Oh don't get old Steve
It never comes back

You won't leave me will you...

The yet expressed won’t stay repressed, won’t rest until we find a way to say out loud what lies within our still breathing, beating breast – grieving and weeping to attest to the love we feel even now though we can no longer confess that love to the one we miss but nevertheless can’t stop but manifest in our words, our deeds and indeed in our tears

- staining our chest where once we held them close and long to hold them once again.

There are things I don't speak of
There are those that stay unsaid
That remain untugged threads
and swallowed sighs

There are things that grow inside
There are those that ferment to full strength
That remain encased
Unrepented

There are remnants I don't share
There are those I keep to myself
Lest they seep out
Lest they drown out all else

There are things that will drown me,
that will **** me dead,

but not yet.

The now and the not yet
looked on
while the now and the no more
looked back -

both hesitant
both tearful
both hopeful for peace
even without reconciliation
while both conscious of the tension
between all that was
and all that is
and all that will be

- and they parted
in hope

Don't push to take off the poppies
Don't rush to remove the wreaths
I know you long for Christmas cheer
But take time to give thanks and to grieve.

An inner page
frayed but full to four edges with marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence that nothing is ever finished only paused pending further inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond the perimeters of this captured inner rage.

Dance deep beneath the central bar,
jump, spin, step and blur;
bruise, slide, collapse, collide,
pick yourself up and ssmile
a grin that shouts: never give in.
Pick up the beat, refuse defeat,
skip, slap,
skip, slap,
skip, slap, - leap,
let your feet - fly
...and repeat.

Like an urgent *** on a winter's day
Like an expelled guffaw as I turn away
Like a released church **** as I say the amen
Like a line of poetry as I reach for a pen
Like the first slice of steak from a full warm plate
Like a longed for kiss at the close of our date.

That's the pleasure I feel with you on the phone:
The hope, the promise, of soon being home.

Have you ever tried to tell the time?

I mean really tell it?
Tell it what you think of it –
where you wish it would stick
its incremental ticking,
its incessant tocking
its perpetual passing?

Have you ever told it to just STOP!

To get out of your face
To give you some space
or at least to try and relax and shorten its pace?

Well, I DID.

I told it to pick a side!
I told it to stand aside,
or we’d have to take this outside.

It didn’t make a nano of a difference.

I still have to sit and watch my own personal doomsday clock
I still can’t get my body clock to slow or stop.
I still have to go to my blasted birthday party
to celebrate a tick closer
to that last
tock.

(sigh)
Many Happy no-returns.

Time here is treacle -

it's thick and syrupy, a rich golden glow that envelopes the spoon while flowing over the edges inevitably leaving a trail / a thread if you will, that will never be chased down or scooped up without leaving a sticky sweet trace that will last days before it fully fades to a savoured memory.

Time here is golden treacle.

The Son of Man came
To transcend convention
To translate divine love
Into cross border action
Spanning the gulf
Between God and creation
He reached out and touched
With a purity contagion.

He now offers living, flowing hydration
That slakes lifetime thirst with briming  compassion
Not a one time spurt, but a hurt healing transformation
So don't waste time on perpetual  dissatisfaction.

Come meet the Messiah
Who shouldered rejection
And you'll meet the God-man
With His bucket of salvation.

The radio reports no congestion
and the goings good with few delays.
Sat Nav tells me it will take no time
with light traffic the whole way.

It's apparently never crowded here
on this less travelled extra mile
I'm a first time pilgrim and I've not passed others
for a good lonely long while.

Yes, I embrace my personal spectrum of strange, maintaining my own range of a sense of self, my own present tense, a unique list of contents that expresses my deep down, my compound, my proper noun made up of all that I am and all that resounds and all that pounds within this fragile, fragmented, profound self that will rebound no matter how hard I hit the ground.
Yes, I am down,
but I am relentless regardless.

The world no longer fits.
Friends like fleece
Family like well worn wool
Triple wrapped for winter
Tea that's brewed stronger
None can now heal her

A smile to light the day
A hug to last the night
A keeper of peace
And ender of fights.

The world ill fits her
Her anchor won't hold any longer
She's lost and bewildered
No longer graceful as she grows older
And there's only this frail shadow
Of the woman I still ache to know
Mum, I miss you
Where have you gone to?

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold.
He stirs in me
in more ways than one, wonder.
I gaze into his face
and I can gauge his grace
in the way his body moves
with mine and by how
he embraces me bone and soul.
His gentle, generous whispers
infuse within me as he strokes
my spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed
in gifted innocence as I’m sated
by his thick milk and the sweet fruit of his vine.
- - Together, we sway
to slow angel-song
and he tutors me in timeless arts,
teaching me sweeping steps
and arousing in me
ancient senses. 
And so, hand in hand
I’m released,
liberated to know him
and to run with him
and to dance in step
- for – an - eternity.

Unplug yourself
And in that stark still shade
Enjoy the glory of your imaginings -
Often conceived, rarely nurtured,
Scarcely shared
Or allowed to thread through the laughter
Of the warm flickering shadows
Of hearth and home.
Give voice and shape and colour
To every faint ember
And you - will - soar.

I know it’s all-encompassing, but you know something?
it’ll pass, and we’ll move on
and we’ll try to forget the moments when we thought we could all be goners.

We’ll look forward, quote verses about new things and we’ll be assertive
and we’ll trust God for the future, post memes on our computers
and it is right that we do this with honest good humour

but let’s not waste this season by simply surviving,
simply grinning and bearing, and us hiding our crying.
Let’s not miss these moments, these weeks and months
when it's more honest to pray with tears and sobs,
asking for answers to our cries for life,
for the lives around us,
- for those who have died,

for our sanity cooped up and us barely coping,
our routine getting worn with daily repeating
without much needed hugs and with limited ways
to meet and to sing and to share our long days
with more than these same four walls

Pause

– don’t forget how this felt for you,
cos that's the way we seek his truth
and be better able to rely on him
next time our lives lose their rhyme and rhythm,

when (let’s be honest) our faith gets wonky,
and each one of us alone can be tempted to worry

and sink inside.

Let’s be honest with him and next time
our vision may be better aligned
and we’ll look to him and rather than hide,
we’ll stand that much straighter, knowing our God is so much greater,
our God is wider and higher and untold deeper
and he has this frail life in his two pierced hands that are so much bigger.

I know it's all-encompassing,
but you know something,
he is all Father,
all Creator, all Redeemer
and the all-encompassing more Grace-giver

He is the one holding it all together
and he wants to walk through this grief together

with you.

So, turn down the news,
make some space, seek his face
and let’s pray.

The thrill of hope
A hope of promise
Behold the birth
Of joy and solace

The birth of love
A love for life
Behold a child
A born delight

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

Forget any Chris Rock, Kid Rock
Or any Dwayne Rock Johnson.

There's a greater
Surer
Higher rock
That rocks all wannabe kingdoms.

This cross-border nation is a world-wide, mountain-rock-hard awesome kinda kingdom;
It towers taller than other soon-to-be-dust kingdoms and then some.
A mountain-refuge that is never over-run.
A no-messing, let's-get-things-done kinda kingdom come.

It's a rock with deeper rhythm
With purer wisdom
With a you-can-rely-on firmer foundation.
It's a rock that's a clearer reflection
Of God's always-as-He-intended creation.
Not a win some - lose some, tried it's best til it succumbed, kinda innovation;
But a tried and tested place for ALL those called by the one and only Son.
Yes, a place for ALL those called to His holy mountain nation.
So COME
Step up and place both feet on the Rock that IS God's all-conquering Son.
And stand with us, crying:
"Thy kingdom come".

Some futures wait
Biding their time
Maturing slowly
Fermenting
Allowing their aroma to herald their coming
Waiting for a welcome.

Some futures are more impatient
And crash right in uninvited
With no warning
Not allowing us any time to prepare.
Some futures arrive unannounced
And make themselves right at home
Taking over all that we had built
Imposing their change
Without waiting for our permission.

And all we can do is make room
And build anew
All we can do is hold on to each other
And rebuild into the future
And make it our own.

And when you pray
Ask from your heart
And when you pray
Seek from your soul
And when you pray
Sniff around without ceasing
Through your tears
To find the doors
That He has prepared
To brand new frontiers
For His pioneers.
And then -
Knock.

No climate
No seasons
No expectations
No turn or tide
Just what the weather decides
To bring to my garden.
Get used to the change -
This is Kent, the Garden of England.

Sometimes reality is just too much and I pop out for a while.
I step into a story.
I make it my own.
A space shaped just for me.

Then I expand my space to accommodate my latest imaginings.
I push, stretch, build and take new ground with every new thought, with every fresh fruit of each branch of each path.
And once I've created sufficient space, I invite my friends, my close friends, my network family to join me and to join my story and so to enjoy the strange fruit of my imaginings.

Octothorp had never thought
her day would finally come,
but she gradually found
she was drawn centre stage
and the source of laughter and fun.
But even as she was prefixed
to all kinds of wit and quick banter,
her name was dumbed down,
she soon lost her crown
to 'hash-tag' the younger pretender.

https://en.m.wiktionary.org/wiki/octothorpe

I don't think she'll hear you.
- I'll give it a try.
I don't think she's listening.
- I'll try it again.

Son,
I don't think she's worried
about the high tide
and I don't think she cares
about the late time.
She'll return when she's ready,
let her drift while she can.
Just give mum this moment
of peace on the Seine.

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.