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.

Pallet is just a trick of the light
Echo a deceit
All we have is reflected
- for all that
it's no less sweet

And when you read,
don't rush.
Theres no need to read
with undue speed.

And when you read
start with a suckle -
work up to a nibble -
until you can gnaw without a dribble.
I encourage you:
get down to the marrow
like there's no tomorrow.
Savour each word
as food for your soul
and live as a model
as to how to live whole.

And when you read
apply your mind daily,
apply each word liberally
(especially to those out of the way
hard to reach places).

And when you read
- study
Sometimes with a buddy,
but - study.
This is no hobby,
you can't afford to get sloppy.
It's as crucial for the soul
as five a day for the body.
- So study.

And when you read
treat each word
like a tutor;
it can teach you
how to live shrewder.

And when you read
sustain it like a seed,
ensure you pay heed
cos it will never mislead.

And when you read
do it to a plan,
always with intent
and be sure
to finish as you began.

And when you read
commit to it daily,
commit it to memory
to avoid thinking lazily.

And when you read:
Do it while a commuter
Do it on a computer
Do it with a kindle
Do it with audio
Do it with a paperback
Do it from front to back.
However you develop the knack
don't let yourself slack;
this Word is no throwback,
it will keep your feet on track.
- so just read.

I've seen redundant heroes
Inked and fully formed
They're faded from a lack of use
Like blunted dusty swords

I've seen redundant heroes
With no questing quite begun
Unknowingly replaced by you
The hero player-one.

"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"

So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection

If he was not tortured
If he did not hang
If he did not die bloodily and tearfully
If he was not buried in darkness

If he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels
to angel-splain what the disciples saw,

If he did not reveal himself and walk and touch
and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend
as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,

"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory."

A slow English Sunday must include
a brewing *** of Darjeeling tea,
hot toast with Anchor butter
and plenty of smoked Danish bacon.
Oh, yes - and Heinz tomato ketchup.
It makes you proud of your heritage.

The day's been seized
with no ransom demand
It's in a windowless basement
and will never see daylight again

The day's been seized
taken from those it loves
with no hope of reunion

The day's been seized
but so far unharmed

The days been seized
and reduced to tears

tears

When you make
a memory
use the very best
materials available,
select the ingredients
carefully,
mix them
patiently,
take your time
and over time,
as you hone your craft,
you will make less mistakes
and create something
perfect.

When you make a memory take each opportunity as it arises, don't hesitate, but be ready to grasp each moment, each nettle, whatever's to hand and to celebrate the here and the now - don't be tempted to wait for that perfect moment,
because it's here.

(We're being held here to regulate the service.)
A captive audience,
I soaked in the silent stories
framed beyond the glass -
a snap shot of slow life
at apparent ease with itself.
(We apologise for any inconvenience caused.)
Where am I?

Let's talk about your father.
How did that make you feel?
Let’s talk about that.

It’s okay, take a breath.

How did that make you feel?

Breath. That’s right.

Tell me more about that.
Did that make you feel afraid again?

Breath. Good.

Can you tell me more about how that felt?

That’s right, breath.

How do you feel now?
Can we talk more about that?

Deep breath.

Is that you?
Or just your memory of you?
There’re both real.

Breath.

No,
Not 'a little down' -
But ravaged
By a relentless demon
Of depression
Eating at my mind
Never satisfied
Robbing me of focus
Sapping me of strength
To push back the covers
Never mind the tougher challenge
Like eating
And deciding what to wear.
Maybe tomorrow
Will be better
Lighter
A harbinger of greater
Hope.
No, not 'a little down'
But a long way further deeper
With a frayed rope
Of a hand holding mine
Relentless in its determined
Caress.
God Bless you for being there
Please hold on.

KNOCK

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
to brand new frontiers
that He has prepared 
for you, His pioneers.

And then
you're ready
to knock.

My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better

I know Jesus can't turn in his grave
(because, well you know).
But if he could,
He'd be spinning most Sundays.

Lord, save me from empty lent abstinence
Protect me from light hearted choco-resistance
And stir in me longer-lasting adherence
A dig down deeper ringing resonance
That falls in step with your quiet insistence
to follow a path of greater resilience.

Lord, save me from a temporary temperance
And lend me your eternal Spirit of endurance
That I might take lent as a growth accelerant
And so hold my head higher
in your post-Easter presence.

Here's a favourite poem of mine:
https://m.poemhunter.com/poem/chocolate-cake/

And here's s poem of mine that it influenced:
 https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2174519/the-love-of-money/

I leave myself all over the place
then retrace my steps
and while I try to collect myself
there's pieces I forget

She said, 'its okay -
it's not what we thought
So it's time to stop short,
to let go, step back
and take a different route.
It's time to play a new track,
one which gives more scope
for dancing without tripping
for singing with no mind to the heckling.
So step back,
let go and go your way
while I go mine.
It's okay,
its just that this time
we both ran out
of each other's time.'
And she went.

I sit thinking a little faster than the speed of penning, thereby having to repeatedly press pause on my thoughts to let the ball of blue catch up with the image / the sound of the phrase in my mind / on my quiet tongue that flows fast down my right arm into my slow fingers and out into the ball point that hits the page with part-satisfied impatience

And in that pause, resisting the urge to edit / to revise / to reform the original thought that is crying out to become embedded in the page / begging to be seen / to be loved and so to sit and to stare back at its origin, safe in the curated space to stay / to settle and perhaps to become part of something bigger / longer / older, something of possibly permanent beauty.

And having gotten over that feint-ruled line, my first thoughts face the risk of being transposed / transformed by typing thumbs before becoming something that will last on a plain white screen and later be posted at the speed of competing broad bands into a world wide cloud of words.

Later, having hovered / waited, my wet words just might find a place to soak / to stain / to marinate and later be memorised perchance recitied at a more appropriate speed within a crowd of like-minded minds and perhaps for a phrase to lodge / to be recalled / to form part of something that fate redirects through a ball of blue, back out into the flow.

More than one previous careful
Much more than moderate use
Less than unreasonably hoped for
Subjected to excessive abuse

Above your typical mileage
Much rusted under the sills
Worn patches in the fabric
Stains from occasional spills

Go faster stripes have been added
The rear windows now have a tint
Extra headlights recently fitted
A perfect first car, don't you think?

Why can't they invent silent tech?
Design tech that bit closer to quiet?
Why does it need to hum or to whine
to constantly remind me
it's watching, listening, waiting,
biding it's time,
denying me the silence
that might breed peace
... or perhaps simply echo
my emptiness.  
(Thank heavens for tech.)

I hold with care the value of
The Wait
despite the loud backdrop of
The Immediate.
I relish
The Not Yet,
not looking for a premature rush into
The Unfinished.
I anticipate
The delicious Hope,
ignoring the clamour of dissent.
And not taking anything for granted,
I do all I can to clear space:
space to listen with intent
and space to herald
The Promise of the Soon,
The ready-coming-King,
and space to embrace
The God-with-us
Now.

If this wall could talk
If those eyes could see
If those tears could fall
would they fall for me?

If this face could smile
If those lips could part
If those cheeks could blush
would they claim my heart?

Not horrible, but incredible, not nasty, but dynastic - some fantastic stories (I'm talking histories) - that pre-existed our weary scurries across this all-the-worlds-a-stage, so pay attention to this sometimes sage narrator and you'll be glad you did later on when you find that the story's on repeat and despite calls to the contrary lessons are rarely learnt and once burnt doesn't lead to twice shying away from the danger of descending down frequently encountered pitfalls, so pay attention and you may hear a history that lends itself to self discovery and avoidance of common snares and having to ask - "haven't we passed this way before?"

All he was was cold
And all he held was gone
Every flake fell flat
And every step dragged on

All he said stayed silent
And all he felt was numb
Every tear was frozen
And every seal undone

All he'd dreamed had faded
And all he'd saved was spent
Every hope stayed distant
On this his last descent

"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she nudged her son: 
'The wine has finished. This - is - not - good.' 
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'. 

And Mary said 'Listen to your mother.' 
And Jesus sighed.

And Mary told the servants, 
"Do whatever he tells you." 
Then Jesus saw that it was no use arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water". 
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine". 
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.

And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this, 
and she whispered to Jesus: 
'This just the start you know.' 
And he did, - and it was. 

There was a mother's faith 
and gallons of glorious wine. 
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom 
with this original third day miracle. 
A sign of things to come.

And there was a party and singing 
and much laughter, 
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.

I've got all my ducks in a row
Turned out 1 is rubber
2 are decoys
And the other 4 are vultures
But they're definitely in a row

praying to dad, kneeling in the cool of the day, feeling cursed as an olive tree, lost in the red-deep shadows of inevitable choice, looking through tears, years in the making, staring into the stillness of a longest goodnight, with a dry kiss goodbye, facing an undeniable betrayal, secure in the blooded palm of God's hand, in agony

Blinkered and blindfolded
and hooded for good measure
- I run.
And when I run out of road,
that's when I fly.

They haven't gone yet,
they're still sitting there.
They're ready for someone
to lend them both ears.

They don't need solutions,
or ill-formed direction.
They just want a chance
for human connection.

So ask them a question,
let them be known
by a simple soft voice
on the end of a phone.

Give them your time,
listen with length,
affirm them by hearing
in silence with depth.

Give them permission
to break the taboo,
to voice the unspoken
to someone like you.

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was good - good and powerful
And so those in power dictated what was allowable
Claiming the rights of absolutum dominium
But soon found it too strong to be restrained by barriers of the tongue

And while they thought the Word was securely locked
It turned out to be the kinda Word that could not be blocked

It was still very good - good and angry
And in righteous anger in duplicate it broke free

To invade the hearts and minds of the laity
Of men and women like you, like me

to shake off the shackles of the antiquated educated
And to settle into the more readily disseminated.

The Word was out and stayed out after curfew
Keen to travel as far as it could do

To spread wide it's indelible red ink stain
A no matter how hard you scrub it will still remain kinda stain

Recklessly stubborn, to colour, to infest
to fully extend its world wide out stretch

Using every digital tweet and text
And to go on to cast its world wide net

So now you can all binge-feast on the freed up goodness
Of the eternal Word who was once made flesh

I concentrate on being me,
observing attention deficit,
wanting someone else to see
the view from where I always sit.

I turn and then begin to chat
to the person that I'm facing,
surprised that from where I'm sat
I find them almost fascinating.

Very soon I realise
that the person sitting there
is seeing me with two fresh eyes,
blinking through each tear.

We were once called
Children of the Sky
with a focus on the by and by
and whilst I still have one eye
on the coming hereafter
I'm a child with plenty
of here and now laughter
which speaks volumes
about what my pastor would call
the priorities of our servant master
to keep my feet rooted
and booted with readiness seeded
with the good news of his peace
and to celebrate this life
that he has gifted us
as a precursor of the eternal
celebration of the wedding feast.

The ground work
The art work
The craft work
The hard work
The life work
of a working poet
works on long after
the pen rests
and the mind drifts
to pouring wine
and making dinner
at the close of the journal
at the close of another
working day

The words dance on
The mind works on -
fermenting
gestating
wordplaying -
while the pen
and the journal
lie in waiting
ready for the release
of fresh ink
at the start
of another working day

We're all writing stories -
some in ink, some in blood,
some are less well read,
some become well-thumbed.

We're all writing stories -
some for laughs, some in tears,
some soaring sagas,
some stuck in first gear.

We're all writing stories -
some in first person, some in third,
whatever your perspective
take care with each word.

The last flag flying
over the last lady singing.
The last dance ending
after a last minute warning.
The last laugh fading
from the last man standing,
at long last seeing
that it's over bar the weeping.

I never loved
Til I did
I never loved again
Til when I did
And then I never did again
Until maybe now
I might

Ask now about the former days,
ask before praying
before this pause
passes

Listen now about the former days,
listen before rising
before this story
ends

Speak now about the former days,
speak before forgetting
before this memory
fades

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of a new option
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation given for heavenly interruption
A deliberate choice for a fresh listen
A much needed full-stop punctuation

A calming - a sit stilling
A waiting - a head spacing
A surrender - a release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected end-of-the-road Peace
Here on this path, walking with the Prince

life's not a race, it's more of a dance
and some choose to dance in formation,
others pair up, even more dance alone
while some spin a DJ vocation

Love is patient.
Love is .... slow.

Love doesn't hurry.
Love doesn't celebrate brevity,
it doesn't interupt,
it doesn't rush.
Love refrains from finishing
your sentence,
and never jumps
to the punchline.
And love loves
a long shared lunchtime.

Love is happy to hesitate.
Love slows the pace
for the slowest of us.
Love - always - waits,
always protects,
always - makes - space.

The greatest love is slow
patience.

It's so easy to drift into a slow 'if only' and wander again through a past possibility that didn't blossom into an anticipated actuality leading you away from activities that hold greater profitabilities while smothering you with unhelpful wistfullies and miseries that blind you from embracing future feasibilities and your Father's generosities that will exceed our feeble fantasies.

Some boys know what it's like,

to have straight teeth
to have an infectious laugh
to see the girls smile
to look forward to PE
to have a blazer that fits
to feel his hair fall back into place
to raise his hand in class
to find the right words
to hand homework in on time
to be hugged by his dad at the school gate

and some boys don't.

Afterwards I started feeling
like I am a human
being again.

That's what this place did to me
it brought back my human
in the reflection of the hills,
the lakes, the trees,

but doing nothing to fade the ink.
No one told me that I had been liberated,
I had lost my knowledge.

So I ran free to find my voice last heard
before the years lived with the lasting dead,
the years sat with the lasting hunger,

but I had everything, I had paradise. So I ran -
taking my time to reclaim my body for the hungry,
taking my time to reclaim my voice for the silent.

I stopped living through and started living slowly.
I slept and ate and grew into our new normality,
together again alone.

Running not marching
Breathing not moaning
Swimming not dying
Living not surviving

and my voice lived to tell.
This is where I belong - not alone.

Am I still me?
Am I still m
Am I still
Am I stil
Am I sti
Am I st
Am I s
Am I
Am
A
Am
Am I
Am I s
Am I st
Am I sti
Am I stil
Am I still
Am I still r
Am I still re
Am I still rem
Am I still reme
Am I still remem
Am I still rememb
Am I still remembe
Am I still remember
Am I still remembere
Am I still remembered?

The two of them staggered in
and flopped onto the worn sofa.
Neither spoke.
Neither tried.
They were just grateful for another day.
An earned break
A pause poised at their tipping point.

Chaos rose with a broken smile,
raising a slow arm,
'See you tomorrow'.

But Order was already asleep.

When I tell you of my story
Will you lean in or turn away
When I share the cause of my hurt
Will you weep or find an escape

Can I trust you with my story
Can I rely on you to stay
Please tell me now not later
It's late, too late for games

If you stay to share my story
They'll be laughter with the tears
But they come with me as a package
With the wounds under repair

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition 
I'm even sometimes partial to
suggestion by omission 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes 
and silly with alliteration 
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency 
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhymic lunacy 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this

Fluffy ain't easy
Fluffy ain't weak
Fluffy is tough
a close-knit physique

If you're sure
then take the first
and maybe even
a second step
until I'm within the incomplete circle
formed by your arms -
until I can lean
until I can rest
until I can answer
with my cheek on your chest
and press forward
in my own time stepping forward
moving in time
and in time completing our circle
that caught me here