I've collated my various poetryverses on one website nottoopoetry.com

"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.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I filmed it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and the transition
whilst still in essence 'dying'
was kinda exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.
I'll have to wait
and see.

A rabbit with a pipe sits in their shared space,
like there’s nothing that might move them unless they acquiesce,
like they have no better things to do than do exactly what they’re doing
and they’re doing what they do best
- contemplate the next word, the next note, the next sweep of their pen,
the next throw of the clay and the colour they have chosen to inject
into the next page, the next dye, the next stitch, beat, thread, chapter, adventure
that their maker has placed in their minds eye and it’s then that I realise
that in every moment they’re carefully holding a myriad of holy inspirations
and contemplating their ordering so that beauty may abound
so that their beautiful God may breath out yet more of the Creation.

"Once you have found it
keep your Voice on you at all times,"
my Uncle told me,
"you never know when you might need it.
Do not entrust it to anyone else -
they won't value it the way that you do.

"And do not leave your Voice
where they can steal it,
but slip it in your inside breast pocket,
close to your quiet heart -
where you can reach for it
at a moment's notice,
and when the moment comes,
you take it out with a steady hand
and you let them see
that your Voice is not lost,
it is not tired,
that it lies ready
that it is willing
to speak truth to power,
to voice comfort to the powerless
and sing in chorus with quieter voices."
And he patted my hand,
"You'll know. You'll know."

Years later,
when I found my Voice
far from where my Uncle had sat,
I knew it was mine
from its familiar shape and weight in my throat,
from the way it resonated
with the call I had suppressed
and the way it chimed
with the voices of those
who chose to stand with me.

And now that I've found it,
I exercise my Voice in song,
I practice it in comfort
and I school it in truth
and I always keep it close
to our quiet hearts
where they cannot steal it from us.

The surrounding lights drown in silence
Sinking without a struggle
Absorbed into this sea of isolation
Saturating every action into submission
Leaving me shouting at my strayed shadow
With each note falling flat around me
My mind fog-bound and lost at sea.

Silence
like morning fog
over a late sunrise.
Like a discarded novel
beside half finished tea
and cold buttered toast.
Like a last breath,
a released hand,
and my unfinished prayer
beside dad's bed.

Be present
and present yourself to the now.
Ready for the not yet, yes,
but fully engaged with this stage of your story
before you continue your aging journey.
Relish this stave, this chord
and let it resonate sufficient
for others to appreciate the accord,
the melody
that comes from ignoring the risk of arriving late
and instead embracing the reverberate.
Let it captivate, facinate while you wait
in your latest, lasting, linger-longer note of now.

I'm thankful for family
For sisters who love me
I'm thankful for parents
Who took their role seriously

I'm thankful for a home
That was open to friends
I'm thankful for cousins
And family that extends

To uncles and aunts
To grannies and nans
To granddads and grandpas
And in-laws and clans

I know we're not perfect
We've had ups and some downs
But together we flourish
We won't be kept down

Poetry can hand me
a hand rail for the steps down,
can steady me for the unexplored depths.

Poetry can hand me confidence
that I am not alone
that there are words
gifting markers of hope
leading me back to the surface
should I choose it.

A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.

This morning tomorrow won't be as expected - it will be far from this tonight and nowhere near as planned.  There's no telling when it will be back to its old self.  So for now, we'll make do and sleep and dream of another yesterday, because today won't do.  It never did.  It never would.

She opened the window above his bed
(How else will his spirit rise?)
I could have said
that his is a spirit that defies convention -
domestic or foreign -
his spirit would not wait for our permission.
But instead I smiled
at the February chill and the gas bill
that would have made my dad shudder.

I see you there, keep looking at me
but I'm not sure what it is you see

I’ve no canvas, I’m left unframed
so let me help you with my name

I'm no-one's 'boy', I'm not 'hey you'
my name's Mister, it's 'Mister New'

I've got old scars, raw scars too
but I'm not sure, it's clear to you

wounds can only go so deep
there's only so long that they can bleed

you see me ‘wounded’, black and blue
but save your pity - that's all about you

I've grown taller through broken skin
my roots sink deeper than you've ever been

when you're up close you'll see it's true
my fresh healed skin's a real break through

I've got a name, so I'd thank you
when you address me, say 'Mister New'

We’re all called to be sheep
watching the staff
held by the shepherd
led by his laughs.

We’re all called to be sheep
some lambs, some rams
the flock flows together
bearing God’s brand.

We’re all called to be sheep
some to be shepherds
I’m a little of both
both serving and served.

The shorter the time
The more personal the view
Between the heads of those in front of you

The shorter the time
The stronger the lingering taste
The more intense the take away experience

The shorter the time
The easier to scoot and duck under
The inconveniently well placed barrier

The shorter the time
The more focused the afternoon stretch
On the sofa of your oh so limited rest

The shorter the time
The quicker, the swifter, the tighter
You'll find the undaunted feature writer

The shorter the time
To that unreasonable deadline imposition
The sweeter the release of the completed submission

The shorter the time
The better

I’m 59 ¾ in my socks, passing older in my dreams
waking in the throw of that first roll out of bed
in my scrambled strike of the percussion snooze button
and my prayer for a delay of the inevitable.

I’m 59 ¾ , but arguably younger in polished shoes,
a pressed whistle and flute
(my creased cover for my wrinkled birthday suit),
and with the adoption of a purposeful stride
to a cramped train ride, a half empty office
and a hybrid solution to a healthier space.

I’m 59 and counting, giving me a final warning
and a diary alert reminding me I have 3 months
to write my bucket list, 3 months before I’m due to kick,
to tick-off my been-meaning-to’s.
3 months of prep, 3 months to lose weight,
get fit, work out, work up a script
for an epic epitaph.

3 months, then I’m in the last quarter – maybe.
Or maybe that was it.
Maybe I’m too late for this pep talk.
Maybe too late by 10 years.
Maybe I should have just hit snooze
and stayed in bed.

The known universe was split into two parts.  They were almost completely separated by a thin membrane and had been for 55 years.

On the inner side there was room for one individual, secured behind a flimsy, somewhat porous and pliable divider. It had to be pliable as the individual concerned couldn't decide just how much space would be needed at any one time.

On the outer side the rest of the universe ebbed and flowed, only occasionally taking note of the activities that jostled relentlessly just a short distance away on the far side of the membrane. It was almost as if it was quite unaware of the inevitable collision that was to come once Steve finally published his poetry anthology.

Once he hit that button the two worlds would have to establish new terms for their coexistence.

Only time would tell if it would be a peaceful one.

Take an isolation of loneliness,
add one park bench,
sprinkle liberally with sunshine,
blend with mixed bird song
(and an optional warm breeze).
Leave to ferment for at least one hour.
Resist the temptation to disturb,
and you will have yourself
a healthy dose of solitude.
Take one as part of your five-a-day.

Interrupted and focused
on rare lessons of life,
punctuated by the full stops,
of death and of the loss
of childhood and childish dreams.

An education in sheltering,
dodging shrapnelled questions,
in bursts of splintered lessons
in how to button down
triggered emotions.

A wartime education
with faint hope of graduation.

Today will depart on cue
Tomorrow will arrive on time
Let's get this straight -
the future won't wait
for the perfect rhythm or rhyme

You cross the uncharted floor
And on the far side of your long hope
She takes your hand.

You fall into her slow dance
And smiling, you relax, close and warm
In her knowing arms.

You follow her graceful lead
And feel the eyes of the crowd around
And you dance on.

It's not the scale it's the detail.
It's not the breath it's the depth.
It's not about how much you gave.
It's more about how much you kept.

Did you give when you had too little to share?
Did you stop when you had no moment to spare?
Did you feel the difference to your rainyday fund?
Or did you budget to ensure there's enough to go round?

When you gave this month, did it cause you to pause?
When you stop to do more, do the angels applaud?
Have you learnt the habit of living on less?
And fostered the gift to give to excess?

All I'm suggesting is a little more thought.
Look at your spending, at what you afford.
Is there more room for a little adjustment?
Would your life be the richer with greater investment?

Next time you stop
next time you give,
is there room for some change
in the way that you live?

Are those my cream eggs?
Those look like mine.
Where did you find them?
I'm sure I had nine.

Are those my cream eggs?
They better not be.
Cos if they are,
You owe me!

Sometimes
what's offered is enough.
Sometimes
what's needed is less
than you anticipated
and you can live
with yourself after all.

In my dark grief I find more depth to life
than what appears to be there at first sight
There I see more in my shadows
than what was lit by my first bright light
and there in the lee, God whispers
with a new voice
with a depth that finds me
at my midnight

Some futures wait
biding their time,
maturing, slowly fermenting,
allowing their aroma to herald their coming.
Forecasting, politely waiting for a welcome,
a by your leave,
an if you please,
gifting time to ready ourselves
despite their inevitability.

Some futures are more impatient
and crash in with an oblivious grin.
Uninvited, unwanted,
giving no hint of a fair warning.
They waltz right through,
all elbows and no grace,
treading on tender toes
as if they own the place.
They arrive unannounced
without the warning of a fanfare
and make themselves right at home
in your granddad's favourite armchair.
Throwing themselves down,
taking pride of place.
Showing no awareness
of how they dominate the space.
Bringing in their king kong odor
taking over all that we had built,
imposing their change
without the faintest sign of guilt.

And all we can do is make more room.
All we can do is hold on to each other.
And all we can do is build anew
and rebuild our lives into this forced future

and make it our own once more.

This is what friends, what families were designed for
For times of grief, for times of can't cope
A surrogate for God's loving arms
A foretaste of an eternal hope.

Look, we’re the victims here!
You said multiply.
Well – that’s what we did.

You said fill the earth.
Well, it looks pretty full now, doesn’t it.

You said subdue.
Well, that’s what we’ve done.

You said never again.
Well, looks like we’ve taken that out of your hands.

We’ve increased and multiplied to bursting point.
We’ve subdued this earth with a world-beating chokehold.
We’ve out-numbered the wilds into a final submission.

And no amount of talk about stewardship,
or responsibility, or choices and free-will
will change the facts:
We are not responsible for flawed design.
This earth is not fit for our purpose.

-

What?
What manual?
What users guide?

-

No-one reads that.  Have you seen the size of it?
It’s full of technical details -
I don’t know anyone who could understand all that!

-

What Quick Guide?

-

You mean Jesus!?!  
Okay – fair point.

But can we have our New Earth now?
Please?

Happy-nings are those best
Kind of kindlinesses
That friends bring into my lonelinesses
When sadnesses are looming
Threatening to drown my hoping
And clip my wings so bringing
Me so low, I'm crashing not landing.

But lifting my eyes,
I'm seeing from where
My help is truely coming.
So I'm thanking the One
Who is overseeing
The mounting and never-ending
Coming-and-goings,
With happy-nings that are everlasting.

If you want to learn to play the guitar, you find a tutorial book, you learn the chords, the rhythms,  the techniques and you practice, practice, practice.  Sometimes its hard work.  More often it's fun.  

If you want to write songs, you write. Some are just play, with no real meaning;  some songs express your heart.  Both are worthwhile.

Some sound good and connect with others.  Some don't.  That's fine.  

If you stop playing, if you stop writing you will get rusty.  But you can pick it up again.  

Poetry is the same.

Keep writing.

I've not said ******* since Tuesday
The week is going just fine
The fates has relented
The Gods have consented
My stars have begun to align

I've not said ******* since lunch break
I thought it too much to ask
The lift doors conspired
My coffee went skyward
And I ended up on my ****

Give a man a round tuit,
so round he can't get out of it.
Give a man a round tuit,
they'll be nothing he can't do with it.
Give a man a round tuit
with no reason for him to lounge or sit,
cos once he's got around to it
it'll be done, and that'll be it.

Sharing cracked living
and hard fried eggs
Re heated
Re purposed
Re deemed

But we were early to heaven
Higher in the rafters
And closer to our dead

With a smile she built her man of the freshest snow with eyes of the coldest coal, - she laughed as she set his top hat at a song-and-dance angle and fashioned a fred astaire cane from a discarded broom handle, - she whispered her mischief, hoping for some reaction, but he kept his silence, with a marked chilled inaction - and as she began her dance, she couldn't help but be crushed by his stubborn hush and the steady fall of diluted coal dust.

I want those years. Promise me,
cos I want those years - it's not a lot to ask.

I want the years when you tell me our stories,
when we laugh and you sing our song,
when we dance slow and you breath on my neck.

I want those years and then we can sleep
together on our old bed. And we can keep the space
closed between us. And between us
we can have those years.

Please. Promise me.

Where are you now?
-
Well I'm here. Here at the -
-
I can't see you.
-
No.
-
Well I'm looking at it n- Yes.
-
What do you see?
-
Okay. Okay.
Yes.
-
No, I'll come to you now. Yes. You stay there.
- -
What a *****!  This is going to be a long day.

Where have you found your Orkney?
Where do you find you're centered?
Where would you say your true self is?
Where can you best be remembered?

Is it in a familiar voice?
Is it in a sound?
Is it in a childhood smell
or is it more place-bound?

Is it when you're free to dance
or when you get up to sing?
When you pick up a favourite pen
and your mind has taken wing?

Is it as you walk or stroll
or in the pace of a run?
Is it when you find your chill
or when you're having fun?

Is it when you're home alone
or when you're there with others?
Is it found when standing solo
or within greater numbers?

Where is your Orkney?
Where are you centred?
Wherever it is you're true self is -
go there and remember.

In this less than
a few rungs below
my idea of a perfect year,

in this off-cut cast-off
and near redundant cluster
of never quite within my grasps,

in this now,
but not yet of a year

I found a light
high in your smile,
a familiar chime
deep in your laugh,
a welcome rest
on the cusp
of our brief touch

and I found hope.

It's so loud - like a thunder
like the storm of the girl she was
quick as lightning and gone

It's so loud
louder than ever
I don't remember her heart
being so loud
so proud of my little girl

I didn't find enough time
to listen to her
to listen to her heart
to listen to her heart beats

I didn't find moments to hold her
I could have told her
- look after your heart
it's so easily snatched away

I didn't hold her
---- hear her
--------- dance with her
nearly enough to know her heart
I wasn't nearly father enough

Listen
listen to her heart
with so much more life to give
with more life to live

Listen to me

To know one's limitations, my captain told us, is a lifetime's study.
For just as you think that you have the measure of it the sands shift, your heart moves and you surprise yourself once more.
So keep probing the flesh, keep asking the mind, sound the depths of your reserves.
For it is in that conversation that the answer may be heard and understanding found.
But it will not be found today.
You will not reach the bounds of your limitations on this field.
No.
Today you stand with me.
Today we will push on.

Storm-stilling fury and wreaking ball laughter
Lie still now,
Encased in his pale, goliath frame.

Harbouring agony rather than giving an inch,
He faded a morphine-dose further,
Withdrawing himself as only a father can,
And made his last withdrawal.
Finally releasing me
to follow no model but my own.

Know this - I am.
Know this - I can.
Know this - I will
and know this - I will, with you.
And yes, that's a promise,
about which I am serious.
You can be sure of my presence,
confident of my grace.
Come and together let's change this place for the better.

When tested with power how do you fare?
Does dialogue fade by decree?
When given the chance, does your heart say, "share"?
Or prompt inadequacy?

Do you run to your fall, pride staining each step?
Or do you season your words with good grace?
Do you pray for each soul you're able to serve?
Or do you treat the whole thing as a race?

Will you grasp for the comfort that comes with position?
Or like Jesus see it your call
To forfeit self interest, preferring others,
So to serve them first above all?

The island's abandoned beauty
stayed on first name terms
with the coming storm,
oblivious
of its violent betrayal,
unmindful
of the berserker landscaping
that tore a new path towards it.
(Where are all the birds today?)

'- just as you are.'
These gracious words
Soaked down
And nourished my deep
Until I could lift my head
Until I could look into his eyes
And laugh once more,
Tears and all.

A little delusion
going a long way
A little dreaming
bringing fresh clay

A little quietening
bringing me change
A little challenge
to my forces at play

Don't be so quick to judge.
Not until you've walked a mile
(or at least for a while
in the park)
in my soft bedded,
anatomically shaped,
suede mules.

Then you'll appreciate
the air with which
I bear my superiority
with barely a hint
of complaint.

God's not choosy,
He chose me.

bananana and cinnamonon
betray a lack of discipline
while gingerer on melonon
shows tasteful imagination

My bones don't fit anymore
My hair grows heavy
Bearing down on my neck
Like a vice.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings
While my ears are consumed in flame.

But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.

REDRAFT:
My bones don't fit anymore
My hair infuriates
Growing wild with rebellion
My eyes fill at the slightest provocation
While my ears are consumed in flame.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings seeking flight.

But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.