My stomach retracted,
shrank into a black hole,
******* in any courage
that had been stubborn enough
to hang around.

The mic stared at me,
back lit and back dropped
with the steady throb
of anticipation waiting in judgement.
I gripped it
as the lifeline and shield
that it had become -
as I let loose the words
half remembered from an eon ago.

And after a blur of feeble utterance
I fell into the envelope of applause,
part filling the void within and lifting my heart,
until it reached my mouth,
ready for my next poem.

My stomach hesitated,
but held its ground.
...

Do not rise gently into the dawning light.
Young bones should relish the pause before break of day.
Let your teenage bones embrace what remains of the night.
Rage, rage against the alarm of light.

The welcome of the purple people pulled me in and provided a lift of a smile and the relief of a reception that kept me coming for more until I met the purple King for myself and accepted His eternal purple welcome.

I've been singing high up in my head
not aware I have a choice
not knowing in my heart of hearts
I've got a bigger voice -
that breath by breath, beat by beat
I'm able to release
in time with my heart's moving
the next movement of my suite

That as I breath in deeper still
using my whole body
my body becomes one instrument
growing in capacity
to compose something of my own
beyond my quiet moans
the music of my origin
and of scores I don't yet know

I’m getting closer to someone I used to know
I’m getting within an uneasy grasp of his shadow
a recognition of him beneath the scars
trusting the healing, the tender tissue
letting me feel beyond first sight and fading sound
reaching deep down to what has always been
inside

It's just a sleeve.
It's only a glove with loose threads
and small but growing holes
that let in the cold and allow
a glimpse of a frayed soul,
revealing the human that lies within
after all.

Earth, it’s so good to speak with you again.  Come and rest here with me.

- Okay, but I don’t feel this is helping.

Why do you say that?

- I knew you’d say that.  Always with a question.

That’s because I think you have the answer.

- [SIGH] This is not helping because - nothing - changes.  If anything, it’s getting worse – in fact I know it is - You know it is.  And the disease is spreading faster.

Disease?

- Yes, DISEASE!  How else would you describe it?  The illness, the infection – the dis-order.

And what order would you seek to restore?

- What?

You said ‘disorder’ – that suggests that there was order that has been disrupted.

- Yes.  That’s obvious.

When was this?

- When was what?

When was this order?  When did the disruption start?

- We’ve been through this before.

Well, let’s walk through it again.  Perhaps it will help.

- [SIGH]
…
- [INTAKE OF BREATH] Okay.  You win.  I’m not sure when the disorder began, but I know we started fit and healthy.  When things were smaller, less crowded, less rushed and less - well, less – I don’t know how to describe it.  Less complicated.

What made it complicated?

- [Quietly] Choice.

What was that?

- CHOICE!  You gave them CHOICE.  You let them CHOOSE to do this to me.
…
- It’s like you knew they would ***** this up and that I’d pay the price.  It’s like I’m just a pawn.  It felt so good back in the garden, life was simpler.  There was balance.  You were there, you must remember how my eco system was just right – you loved your walks in the cool of the day.

You know I still love you.

- You’ve got a funny way of showing it.

You know I’ll make good on my promise.  That I will make you new.  This is a season. 

- But you left me in their hands. You gave them authority over me, to do with me whatever they wanted.  Couldn’t you guess how this would go.  The abuse, the neglect, the greed!

There are those who still take their stewardship seriously.  My people are still active.

- Not active enough!  Not re-using, re-cycling, re-pairing enough to off-set the stench I have to inhale, the filth I have to absorb, the poison!

I hear your frustration, your groans, your pain.  Redemption will come.

- And what happens til then?

Until then, I have placed your fate in the hands of my children, that’s true enough.  Let’s hope that they appreciate the gift that you are and that they grow up quick enough to turn the tide.

- They’d better hurry up.  I can’t take much more of this.

You and me both.

Your warm armour enfolds me, equips me for loving battle.

Your warm sword stabs the cold, severs frostbite's grip.

Your warm shield shelters me,
shoulders the weight of attack.

Your warm tears flow artery deep, steel me for winter battle.

You're my warm core,
warm to my touch.

You're my warmth.

Most of my closest friends
have a sort of ‘flesh’ colour to them,
- some pale, some brown, some a lot darker,
but that, I’ve come to shudder,
is a shallow, simply skin-deep measure.

When I look again
I see some carry a seven-sea travelled view
with a dark, deep-water hue.
Some have an earth-olive touch,
giving a life-tinted light to all they brush,
all they touch.

Some shimmer-touch, charged
with a hint of dawn-dew in their scars
giving fresh unasked repair.
Some show an indigo major
generating a bright electric flavour
empowering both friends and strangers alike.

When they arrive, they each add true colour
and I’ve found that their skin-depth is nothing
compared to the rainbow-canyon impression
that they’ve left on me,

my friends.

He sits in your downstream
and, despite a list of jobs
sitting in his back pocket,
he sits and as you talk at him
in his second or maybe third language
he shouts back his still focus
on your dignity rather than your tears
while the weight of his hand on your shoulder
and the intensity of his eyes on your face
ensures he doesn't miss one sob.

We met halfway
we exchanged stories
of paths trodden
and, so encouraged,
we parted,
we moved on
to complete our journey

Camels and kings
shepherds and sheep
come round the crib
to get a clear peep

each would recall
the smells and the sight
of God made a child
and donkey *****.

A Psalm:

It is fitting to praise you with joyful song.
It is fitting to make stringed music to you.
It is fitting to sing new songs to you,
to play skillfully to you and to shout joyfully to you,
our God and Maker.
It is fitting to hope in your unfailing love,
to hope in your help and in your shield
to hope in your fearful, unfailing love,
our God and King.

It is fitting to praise you in the kitchen
with spoon and saucepan
with smart speaker on full volume.
It is fitting for the family to worship you
with loud bellows in the car,
with all the windows down.
It is fitting to praise you in the congregation,
in the Town Hall, in the parks and in the university,
in places of further wisdom your people praise you.

It is fitting
to play skillfully to you
to play with drums and cymbals.
It is fitting
to play with bass and keyboard,
to play with gong and cymbals.
It is fitting
to fill the Weston Halls with praise
to fill the corridors with the prayers of your people.
It is fitting
to stand together with your people
with both arms raised to you,
with our hope in your unfailing love.
It is fitting
for your people to praise you,
our God and Redeemer.

The new front ears
Are eager to hear
All that the Spirit proclaims,
Giving a scare
To the old deaf ears
Secure in their waxy domain.

The passage is cleared
Good news can be shared
The word of the Father is heard.
It clears the dull heads
Of all the misled
With a cry that can't be ignored.

Whoever has ears
Let them each hear
The words of the Son of Man.
They cut like a knife
But bring you new life
Come hear the man with the plan.

Bouncing back is a young man's game
while we put our mind to shuffling,
a little stumbling, but still climbing -
each foothold, each handhold
taking us up,
but no bouncing, just selecting
the safest, the least
arduous route back
and while we may not quickly reach
our past heights
we gain enough to preserve
our perspective
and perhaps gain a new one
while we hold on
to what we have.
But no bouncing.

Reputation - what they think they see
Character - what you prove to be

Image - what is seen from afar
Substance - what you truely are

The difference is what makes a man
a sure and steadfast gentleman

The ready empathy took me by surprise.
She took precise aim with her eyes
And pierced my worn armour
With ease,
Slowly and calmly
Drawing out my story
With her tears
Diluting my grief with her kindness
Lightening the weight with each smile
Beneath the spring blossom.

Was he a good child?
I mean good at being a child?
Was he good at play?
And was he loyal to friends
come what may?

Could you tell by the bruises,
his scrapes and cuts?
Was it obvious by his defiance
and by his reluctance
at the close of the dance?

Was he a good child?
I ask because I want a man
who’s good at living,
who knows his own priorities,
a friend who will stand by me
long after the music ceases.

So tell me,
was he good child?

Phantom feelings
For who we used to be
Radiate from the space
That we once occupied
Together.

Once a balm, but now a raw irritation.

I know we're not there anymore,
That the us that was
Has been excised.
Yet against all reason I reach
To relieve the itch.

Out here there is no screen time
There's nothing to distract
There's no Wi-Fi, no 4G signals
Just me and my old back pack

Out here my mind can wander
My feet can wander too
There's no sat nav here to guide me
There's just me and there's just you

Out here I can breath more deeply
Out here I can see clear through
Out here I can speak so freely
Out here I can hear only you

I look in the mirror and what do I see,
pure imperfection staring at me,
curiously wondering, wonderfully curious
at what new imperfection I soon will be.

I've found its important not to be perfect
not replace imperfections for better or worse.
it's when we make peace with our faultless defection
that godly perfection starts getting to work

Auntie Janet asked me to say hi and that she doesn't blame you.
Grandad sends his regards and says he needs a little more time before he can see you.

Pete says hello and he'd like the long skewers returned if you get them back.
Mary sends her apologies and says you can keep the hachette.

Mum says you're invited to Uncle Bert's funeral if you're up to it. She'll deal with Uncle Arthur. 
Sarah says to thank you. She and the baby are doing much better.

Jim said he'll see you when he gets out. He owes you a major one.
Dad says you were right and not to beat yourself up. What’s done is done.

The nurse says you need to rest. It’ll take as long as it takes.
- Do you want those grapes? Don’t want them to go to waste.

I am not
as you see me now
I stand straighter
walk taller
speak clearer,
- but just now I've shrunk back
to a fragile tenacity
that can easily go unnoticed.
I am not as you see me now.
I am more -
you'll just have to take my word for it.

I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day

I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more

I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece

Faith is a choice
Not a compulsion
Not a feeling
It's a decision
And it has to be made
by you.
So make it.

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

It was hiding in plain sight, yet eluded me for days. It had adopted a 'keep still and maybe he won't see me' tactic, proven to be successful on many an occasion.
When I came into the room with one purpose in mind, that is to find it at all costs, it repeatedly contended with my scan of each surface, employing its camouflage turned up to 'you'll never find me, not if you looked for the rest of your life'.
And then I remembered, I simply had to give up, and as it relaxed, it would emerge from the background, and I'd be able to put it somewhere safe where I was bound to find it next time.  Perhaps.

Neither Gentile nor Jew
neither captive nor free,
neither female nor male,
you're all Abram's seed,

all one in Christ Jesus
to him you belong,
all promised heirs
equal parts of the song,

singing out your own "Abba,"
getting childishly closer,
as his Spirit within you
cries out louder,
"Father".

Not by fashion or passing trend
Nor by my standing with foe or friend

Not by whim or sweet-toothed appetite
Nor by what others tell me is right

Not by what I think I would gain
Nor by how best to avoid risk of pain

I will not be controlled by any of these
But by my Spirit-filled self, when I’m on my knees.

And there you are.
But what am I?

You are my sadness
My hope
But mostly my love.

A memory made real.

We have said goodbye before;
so it stands to reason,
we'll say hello again.

So long, darling.

Whether Noble by name or noble by nature
this man is for you no matter the weather.

Whether noble in thought or noble in deed
I need to be vocal that this man's in need

of a woman who sees what's hidden in me
that I need a woman who truly believes

that together we're whole and separate were less
that together our God our family will bless.

I'm thankful my God was gracious to grant me
a woman as noble as my lovely Ivy.

brother elder
brother younger
brother blood
brotherhood
brother arms
brother guards
brotherly love

As a kid, was I
as accomplished a storyteller
as I remember?
Did I truly evade consequence?
As an adult, was it a little similar?

Is it just me?  
Or lately have I found more truth?
Do the stories seem to you
to be intertwined with unexpected twists?
Do they immerse you,
despite their incompleteness?
Do you find that this gives space
for imagination, for permission
for grace to flower?
Are you surprised by the colour?
Does the sweetness of the fragrance
stagger you as it does me?

Have I always been a storyteller?
A teller of stories?
And are they really unfinished?
Is there more fragrance to come?

Saint George is an englishman
Who never came to England
Born in ancient Turkey
Fighting for the Romans

Saint George is an englishman
Who never met a dragon
Willing to be martyred
Killed for saintly passions

Saint George is an englishman
Adopted as our own
Our nation full of mongrels
Imports a classic hero

I sit
beneath the sign that reads silence
conscious of my imminent sneeze
and the threat of its violence.

Listen and Learn
from
Insight and Wisdom
giving
Instruction in Prudence
producing
Knowledge and Discretion.
With thanks to
Mother's Inspired Utterances.

(Judges 1. 1-3)

Judah shall go first
Judah shall go up
Judah takes the lead
With thanksgiving in his heart

Judah shows his brothers
Leading by example
How to take new ground
Knowing God is able

Praising God in prayer
Praising God in dance
Praising God with singing
Letting God advance

'Cos Judah is a fighter
Judah lifts God's banner
Judah is a front man
Worshipper and warrior

A li'l touch'll do ya
A li'l be 'nough
Ya just need a li'l touch
To get ya thru the rough

A li'l touch'll do ya
A li'l'll see ya thru
One li'l brush and touch
Will make ya feel like new

A li'l touch'll do ya
'Though He'll give ya so much more
He'll wrap His arms 'round ya
Til ya can't take any more
He'll stay by ya whatever
He'll stick with ya like glue
His touch will stay on with you
Yes He's truely tried and true.

How much more
- passion
How much more
- protection
How much more
- affection
Full and overflowing
Unconditional
Demonstrable and
Lavished on each of you
Will your Father in heaven
Give to those who ask

The lump in her throat
Grew
Beyond a chew in disguise
Became a tickle too much
A frog that fought back
Packed a punch with every hack
With each and every cough attack
Her breath caught at the back.

Til it was excised
Leaving her speechless -
But not lost for words.
If you listened she still screamed
Beneath the neat white dressing
Still eloquent to those who paid attention.

I breath in to find my inner Geezer
ready to speak with a more common vernacular.
I channel my South Londoner
and ensure I have my chipped mugs
ready out on the counter.

I pull the Nescafe and PG Tips forward
from the dusty recesses of the top cupboard
and locate the white sugar, checking that I have
at least five heaped teaspoons’ worth
for the coming encounter.

Later, from behind the net curtains,
I see him sizing up my roof from his van
and I wait for him to walk up the drive to push the doorbell.
Oh, no, THE DOORBELL!

And, too late, what credibility I had pieced together cringes
at the anticipation of the Batman themed doorbell ring,
which until that morning had seemed an appropriate ice breaker.

There are cross roads
and there are roads to a cross
- both require decisions with resolution
- both require a sure step, a clear head
and are better approached
with a clear vision of what's ahead
through the lens of a clear decision,
framed by a determination
to follow the true compass spirit within.
And at each turn it's advisable to count the cost
of whatever toll the path will demand of us,
while bearing our eternal destination in mind.
And as that last true hope settles into a smile,
we consult the map book,
make our choice
and walk on.

I sit face to face, the stage set
For stories to fill the space
Free to meander through my head
The voice on the page
Leaves nothing unsaid
Revealing the reflection of a me
That I so dearly want to be
Seeing what was once misread
Refusing to be so badly misled
Sighted on the possibility
Of life in step with a golden thread
The voice on the page
Lifts free and I find myself
In every word he said
Ready for a fresh first person
In my very own new narrative.

The journey,
The torque,
The chase,
The lap-time,
The playlist,
The company,
The view,
The joy,
The purpose,

not the destination,
matters....

- with thanks to T S Elliott

Life is a workshop
and you are the project.
Listen to the tutor,
collaborate,
expect messy
and have fun.

A little yeast
A finger hold
A way inside
Shift of control

The counter contagion
The heel coming down
The firm push back
Control of my own

[written with Isaac Cornford. Thanks mate.]

He loves me because he loves me
He loves me because he can
He loves me because he chose me
He loves me - that’s his plan

It’s always his plan to love me
To cast out all my fears
His love will always surround me
He loves when no one’s near

He loves me most and loves you more
His love will never run out
His love is true and gets truer
His love is never in doubt

His love is nothing that we’ve earned
It’s nothing we deserve
His love’s a perfect gift to us
A gift we can return

The first problem
is solitude, it's isolation.

It needed a befriending
It needs a communing
Not just with our maker
But also with one-another
with an attitude of a no-greater,
never failer, a coming along-sider.

It needs you and me
to greet with a holy kisser,
to bury and plant something
that will grow straighter
(perhaps sometimes leaning counter),

carrying, confessing,
praying and bearing with,
building one another
up into a more no-greater
love than this:
laying down ourselves
for our friends
no matter.

The first problem
was isolation.
So let's embrace a friendlier
God-given solution.

Let's be friends.

"All the stuff in our veins is the same." Guy Garvey.

Some stuff is the same.

First school,
Graduation

First pet,
Grief

First bicycle,
Grazes

First kiss,
Heartbreak

Some stuff is only yours and makes you.

I never chose my chromosomes
I never chose my genes
I never chose my race
I never chose my skin

I never chose my name
nor any of my family
I never chose my native tongue
nor my nationality

I never chose very much about me

But I chose the ones I love
I chose you for me