There's hope
and that's not nothing.

Someone to trust,
someone to talk to -
freely,
truthfully.
Someone to catch your laughter,
hold it
and pass it back,
and to let its echo grow
in resonance
in strength
with each rebound.
- And that's something.

getting what they think you deserve
settling for less than what's due
becoming the person you're pretending to be
rather than just being you.

making the same mistakes as me
not stopping to figure it out
not considering who you could truely be
living with much too much doubt

perhaps these words seem familiar
do you get most of my meaning?
maybe it's time to take a fresh look
and live the life you've been dreaming

Driving your son
is like dispensing a truth serum,
extracting revelation

Driving your daughter
is like tuning in to an ongoing drama
with you a minor player

All heaven screams its electric hues
The sun explodes in chroma anger
The clouds reach wide to embrace the view
And the sea gives up reflected grandeur

My eyelids filter this grace of lights
My tears rejoice at sunlight's candour
My breath gives up its futile fight
And my face absorbs this heaven's splendour

Make peace with your ghosts
- they're too hard to ****,
too tough to resist,
too close to the truth.
They will always be there for you.

I've started.

I'm building.
I'm developing.
I'm giving.
I'm discovering.

They'll be secrets inside,
obviously,
- plenty that I haven't envisaged,
that goes without saying.

I've started.
I'm discovering.
And that's enough.

I'm old
and I know things
but I don't know you
(but you know that)

I hold with care the value of the Wait
with a backdrop of the intrusion of the Immediate;
I relish the Not Yet,
not looking for an untimely 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,
to listen with intent
and to then herald the Promise of the Soon,
the ready-coming-King,
and I embrace the God-With-Us
Now.

he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!

I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great

I believe in choice.
I believe in the power of choice.
I believe in the God-given right
to freely choose
what we choose to choose.

Freely choosing -
Freely making -
Freely selecting -
our choice.

Freely taking
one of the options
offered to us,
freely declining
to take the others.

Freely deciding what we want,
what we will,
what we'd like
to choose.

I believe in our free will.
I believe in just one-more-
before-I-go
slice of cake.

...and each one was right.

Jack and Jill went up to Lidl
To queue for toilet paper
Jack got bored and soon he snored
Jill's patience was much greater

Jill queued on and moved along
Until allowed to enter
She found a pack and on the way back
Kicked Jack with pent-up anger.

At your denial you were at your creative all-time-best as you added vivid detail that distracted and buried the facts beneath a story that captured our imagination rather than releasing the truth of the situation and risking the shame of a truer declaration lying a few lines beneath your masterly woven but ultimately deceptive late night conversation.
And you left us none the wiser.

Freedom to stop
Freedom to ponder
Freedom to slow
Not freedom to wander

Freedom to worship
on FaceBook or You Tube
Freedom to pray
along in my room

Freedom to chat
on What's App or phone
Freedom to write
letters back home

Freedom to read
that book that's been waiting
Freedom to finish
my puzzle or painting

Freedom to thank
my friends and my neighbours
Freedom to help
without fear, without favour

So enjoy all your freedoms
within the disruption
Savour your choices
Retreat's not an option.

Once in a while take a rest from persuing well-being and practice your ill-being,  prepare your heart for sadness, so that once grief springs up from the darkness you will be better equipped to bear the weight and to use the now familiar tools to shape, to form your pain into something that includes a hand hold, something that maybe slows the unfolding, the unravelling that comes with that uncontrolled mourning, something that allows you to carry it with less stagger and while you're no less sadder, you may reduce your tauma and may have greater access to that part of your grey matter that allows more focus on where, in time, to lay that burden down.

The authorities in Jerusalem are appealing for the public's help in locating a missing boy from Nazareth (Galilee).

Jesus bar Joseph, 12, was last seen near the Susa Gate 5 days ago. We are concerned for his welfare.
Jesus who is described as a serious boy and mature for his age, is olive skinned, 4' 8" tall, of slim to medium build with shoulder length black hair.

He is understood to be wearing a brown and tan tunic and black saddles, carrying a small satchel.
Jesus is familiar with the area around the temple mount and with the mount of olives.

His mother, Mary, says, "Jesus, if you read this, please contact us. We are not angry with you, just very anxious."

Jesus also uses the name 'Son of Man'.

I met a man walking backwards,
head to toe in high viz.
He was happy to ask for directions
and overtook the crowd with ease.

I met a man walking backwards,
telling me what was to come.
'Keep both eyes on the past,' he said,
'for the future is just re-runs.'

Each day I pray for an ear that will hear
above all the noise clearly His voice.
For while sometimes it's best to be serving with zest,
sometimes it's better to sit for a breather
and wait in his presence and enjoy this true essence
of sitting and being before going and doing.
So while sometimes I'll Martha I know that I'd rather
spend time being Mary, in less of a hurry,
for there at his feet I'll be that more complete
and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

Today - where can I mary and where can I martha?
There is time for both,
but I know which is better.

As sure as Sunday
As mean as Monday
As true as Tuesday
And Wednesday goes by
As dark as Thursday
As bright as Friday
As soft as a Saturday morning sigh

No cavalry
No rescue
No care
No balm
No dressing
Just an open sore.
And salt
- lots of salt.
Where can I find refuge?
Where does my comfort lie?
Oh Father,
My shield
My strength
It's only you.

On a late train
in the last carriage
within my hallowed silence,
I found a gentle rock of peace,
when a burst of blue laughter ricocheted
and pierced my hazy bubble,
killing any hope of snatched sleep.

This is me.
Fully, and only, human -
a human conditional
on compromise,
a very human contradiction
with a human capacity
for good
or ill,
but only as far
as it is humanly
impossible for me.
And then to turn
to my maker
and leave room for Him
to make all things possible
after all.

Never learnt anything
from a swing of a cane
but fear
and resentment
and that pain doesn't last
as long as the scars.

The veg of the Spirit is
a bended knee in the morning,
a prayer while fasting,
and a habit of listening
to God’s voice in the evening.

The meat of the Spirit is
open hearted giving,
open handed serving,
open armed hugging
and being open to weeping.

But the fruit of the Spirit is
Love, joy, peace,
patience, kindness,
goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness
and self-control.
Against such things there is no law.

The blossom landed softly
and spread its smile unevenly
- even wickedly -
before over-reaching herself
and fading
into an inappropriate pink
only then to be reinforced
by a cherry drop
and another,
eventually
pooling
and forming a flower
of its own
in full bloom

Distracted by solitude
I drove blind
and let the music pass on my inside,
undertaking,
seeking to pull me forward in its wake
- but deaf to its invitation,
I failed to hold up
my side of the conversation
and dropped back
in my own slow lane
alone again.

The completion
The utter exhaustion
Who could imagine that pieces of paper, overlaid and pressed down into a bottomless pit of my stomach could cause so much fatigue.
My house is now sold.

Too little of this is false
Too much of this is true
I'd love to dismiss all of this mess
as just some more fake news

All he was was cold...

The song meant nothing to me, but spilled brim-full of faint meaning to more attentive ears than my own.

The song meant nothing. While I stood bemused with my less than perfect pitch and my imperfected sense of rhythm, both played out imperfectly through my stubby finger tips.

The song meant nothing. I was only too aware of the thesaurus of love, but the language eluded me, all the more at the opening bars when it would have been most useful.

The song meant nothing and I resorted to the clumsy sign language of childlike affections and smoke signals signing hesitant expressions of late-conceived emotions.

The song meant nothing, its meaning remaining an octave beyond my range, stave after stave.

The song meant nothing, but still I sang.

Love is a loaner armchair
Low enough to relax me
Built to embrace me
With arms that support me
While I return to my book
And sup hot tea

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He sings for his milk,
he sings for his lunch
and he sings for his afternoon tea.

Reuben Col is a merry young soul,
a merry young soul is he.
He gives lots of love,
he gives from the heart
and what he gives, he gives for free.

A stronger sense of a shifting alliance,
a richer aroma of a growing assurance,
a longer shadow of an alternate position
and a faint echo of a younger ambition,
coalescing into a whisper
of a change of direction,
cracking open a narrow door
of renewed anticipation
and waiting for me
to PUSH.

I've faced change
and I've found it strange how

change stretches
change races

change strikes me dumb
change leaves me numb

change weighs heavy
change breeds worry

change twists and turns
change burns -

change leaves you standing
leaving you thinking

challenging mediocrity
offering opportunity

flouting comfy rules
removing familiar tools

stripping plans bare
making you scared

- but bringing you hope
clearing the smoke

increasing the pace
clearing some space

sweeping life clean
on to the next screen

- change is a constant
he shrugs off all constraint

he's fearlessly bold
with an irresistible hold

he bucks every trend
not afraid to offend
and he will fast become
your firmest friend.

Welcome change.

"A grain of madness is the best of art."
Second best is a handful of heartbreak on a base of isolation with a drizzle of self-reflection.

The truth of a person
cannot be fully known
without attention,
without conversation.

The truth of someone
cannot be quickly known
for their self-revelation
will be rightly rationed.

The truth won't just happen
will not be easily known
or take the direction
that you might imagine.

The truth will depend on
the wisdom in the question
and the greater wisdom
in the reflection.

Recycled conversations
won't ever save the world.
We need to stop recycling
and use more one-use words.

Press continue.
Click OK.
Go on, please,
say you'll stay.

Swipe once more,
take one more look.
It won't take much more,
to know you're hooked

Sit a while longer,
the signal's still strong.
There's no better offer,
you know you belong.

Don't go out now.
Don't wash and shave.
Don't deny what you need
here in your cave.

We love that you're here,
you know we'll be true,
all night and all day
we'll be here for you.

You don't need daylight,
it's brighter in here.
That's right, sit back,
you're safer right here.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.

I don’t do sides
–--- I’ve chosen my side
at least not yours
–--- and it’s not yours
They’re too far apart
–--- I choose peace
and no thread will mend
---- it’s not yours to decide
the chasm you defend
---- this choice is mine

Being white is a responsibility,
a privilege,
an advantage,
topped up by a y chromosome
for some,
and this can not be worn lightly.

Don't kid yourselves:
despite the painted ceilings
God is not white.
Yet being white
is a still responsibility.

And guys
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender defining genitalia.
God designed all that
for us to enjoy
out of His love of diversity
out of His mischievous plan
for procreational play,
out of His need to be reflected in the image of 2 genders
because one was not diverse enough
and Adam could not bear God's full image alone.

As I was saying,
being white is a responsibility -
placed on our shoulders
by each generation that
denied
pushed down
held back and
placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate
of humankind colour.

God is not white.
No, he chose the olive skin
of His chosen, His select people
and wore than dark complexion
with pride.

God is not white.
He is translucent.

Being white is a responsibility
of our own making -
so let us bear it responsibly.

Welcome iron on iron
and words to the wise
Accept kind rebukes
and reject foolish lies

Sit with your father
Listen to your friends
Review what you're seeing
through a God-given lens

Get in the habit
of accepting hard advice
and soon you too will be
counted as one of the wise

Kiss
Dry
Try
Miss

Kiss
Wet
Met
Lips

(With a nod to Forrest Gump.)

Sometimes there weren't enough rocks.
Sometimes nowhere near enough tears.
Sometimes no matter how far I ran,
I was slowed by too many years.

Then once in a while the rain would stop
and the clouds would thin just a little,
long enough to show me the stars,
enough to shed light on life's riddle.

Is life just a box of chocolates?
Or can we choose whatever we please?
Are each of us here with a purpose?
Or are we feathers on a breeze?

Can our choices make a real difference?
Can we navigate the storms that we face?
In the end is it down to old father fate,
Or is there an offer of grace?

I see you there, looking for me.
I see you; do you see me?
I see you distrusting yourself.
I see you and all your doubt.

I see you much better than you do.
I see through the you in the rearview.
I see you there out in the desert.
I see you and your trembling heart.

I see true and love you still.
I see you and always will.
I love you more than anyone else.
I love you more than you love yourself.  

I see you.
I see through.
I see true.
I love you.

Each line,
each sound enters a secret combination and swings wide a door of opportunity to me who follows
And as it appoaches it's close, the line turns and holds open that door, just for a few moments, before moving on,
and if you're quick enough, if you time it right, you who follow can take the weight without the skill needed to open it, and so you say your thanks
and then you too can pause as you look back and pass the weight , the opportunity onto a someone who follows on.

And so we follow, on to the turn of the next words of revelation,
timing and attention crucial to maintaining the flow of opportunity
until every now and then a mis-step necessitates a stretch, a reach and catch of the door, giving effort to reverse the swing and maintaining the offering of access
and in return we might receive a thank you from they who follow us.
And smiling, we follow on.

A life of self-censure is life
on a knife’s edge,
balancing, filtering,
hesitating, holding self back,  
placing pitiful tack over ruthless honesty,
hedging truth seeking to closet self
and not out of self-modesty,
but honestly, out of self-doubt,
coupled with arguably
some reluctant scam artistry.

A life of fearful self-censure
is no life at all -
I think you’d agree.

What will the tide bring in?
What will it later reveal?
Like time,
        it won't keep waiting.
Like love,
        it can't help but heal.

Come little brother
Keep hold of my hand and we will climb
Over the last rise and into the green
Where we can let loose and run free
Through a knee high time machine
Throwing us back to a time when we
Were care free, hard and lean
Running under an eternal sun
Squeezing fun from every minute
Throwing a blanket of light laughter
Conquering every summit
Echoing around the valley
Skimming smooth flat stones
Refreshing reviving
Bringing life to our wearied bones
And reminding our old souls
Where home truely lies
Just keep hold of my hand and climb
Just over that next rise.

The weight of my potential
The heat of what may be
The giddiness of each and every
possibility

The loneliness of greatness
The solitude of win
The intoxication of evening
final victory