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.

-  I have some questions.
We have a written guide.
- I'd prefer a conversation.
I'd like that too.
- so I guess my first question is Why?
Simply because it gave me great pleasure.
- And How?
With a few tears, much love and a lot of imagination.
- What am I here for?
To be with me.
- Just that?
(a smile)
- For how long?
However long you wish to stay.
- Are you sure?
I've never been surer. 
Now, take my hand and let's begin.

Work through the *******
through to the other side
where words may make more sense
and your mind be perhaps less dense
and where your poems may at last materialise

You said no heart has imagined,
but you gave a few hints
of a massive mansion, a river
and a fruit tree with 12 varieties,
spouting monthly.

You said we couldn't imagine
what you've got prepared,
but I can't imagine anything beats
a Coronation Chicken sandwich,
with Branston,
on a warm summer's afternoon
with friends and laughter
and Monty's head
resting hopefully on my knee.

You called it paradise
and you mentioned wine.
If that comes with a new body -
one that doesn't protest
to a fine Merlot
then that'll be fine with me.
That would be paradise.
That'll be heaven indeed.
So long as you don't forget
the Coronation Chicken
and the pickle.

Holding my relevance
close to my chest
in case it's dropped
and lost

'Move more, eat less,'
I heard the GP say.
You'll find the weight
will just fall off.
Just take it day by day

'Eat less, move more,
ignore the painful knees.
'Get off the train
one stop before
and lose weight by degrees.

'Move more, eat well,
resist that chocolate treat.
'You really can
offset a little of
the life-long balance sheet.

'Eat less, move more.'
I followed the sage advice
And now you'll see
I tend to take
a snack while on my bike.

Startled at the turn of twelve
Not any other time
Her cultured tones sound so amazed
Before the expected chime

What is it that's shocked her so
Whatever could be the matter
Is it the echo of some past time
Or some rival chronometer

At the third stroke she'll be oh so precise
And disclose the appointed hour
She'll watch each minute slowly disappear
My most reliable of voyeurs.

The last drop of hope
is the strongest.
That's why it's last
why it hangs on
why it holds out
why it pushes back
why it refuses to fall
and instead in defiance it stays,
waiting for your last word
in hope.

Tell me,
how did you keep your heart?
how did you guard it under such relentless assault?
how did you keep it whole?
how did you keep it open?

'I had you.'

Long ago before the world was round
before it grew blue and sprung green
there was no song
no music
and words were flat
with sharp edges and holes
with nothing to fill them.

That was until the hummingbird hummed
and the song-thrush found its voice
and the humans,
who prospered by copying the best ideas,
lied and mimicked and parroted
until something like song
smoothed the edges
and filled the holes
until the world was full
and it's edges round
and music began

The rabbits sit smoking their pipes
content in their shared space,
like there’s nothing that can 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 refrain,
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 together
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.

He's lost,
miles away, miles deep,
detached from his body
even as he wears away the groove of thought
ploughed across one brow
And then he sees me and says,
oh, hi -
that last syllable drawn out
to invite me in with a beguiling smile
and an innocent chuckle
at the ridiculous,
at what has brought us
to this point,
a dual study of single-minded
singleness about to diverge
into a joint pursuit with women of worth
and a marriage of ideas
from which who knows
what will birth

And now,
15 years past his singleminded passing,
I recall his laughter
and the friendship that came unasked for,
unexpected, and unmatched since
and I miss him still.

I hate knees
Knees hurt on the way down
the stairs to breakfast.
Knees hurt on impact
when I pray in earnest.
Knees transmit pain
signals to my brain relentless.
I hate knees.
Whether on necks
or where they belong,
on the ground.
I hate knees.

I gazed through the window
of missed opportunity,
considering the colour
of the grass,
remaining undecided
-  as ever.
But determined all the same.

London.
What do you need it to be?
The Capital?
A powerhouse?
An icon?
Your career boost?
A short city break ?

For me
it's home.

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes, my indecisions, just as I bear the bruises of long gone twists and turns.

The present continues to whistle by, blinkering me from any hope of reflection, of consideration before I'm blindsided by flashes of my maybe futures.

I try not to stumble, to stay in the present and steady myself, ready for the next silent bend, trusting intuition and an all-seeing grace as life roars past me.

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes.....

May your bells jingle all the way
May your snow be crisp and even
May your ding **** merrily on high
And may Saint Nick keep you believing

Not too big to weep: A poetry anthology https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1549894706/ref=cmswremapa_8MWfAb6PF8Z0F

What remains of the day
is of greater value due to
its failure to yet emerge,
its ability to yet be known
and it's there that lies
its potential
to not fail to meet
its true potential
- unlike the past

Once in a while take a rest
from pursuing well-being
and practice your ill-being,
a time for holding your heart
in its sadness.

Then, when next grief springs up from the darkness,
you may be better equipped to bear the weight
and to use the now more familiar tools to shape,
to form your pain into something that includes a hand hold.

You will then have something that maybe slows the unfolding,
the unravelling that would come with uncontrolled mourning,
something that allows you to carry it with less stagger
as you walk through your trauma, and, while you're no less sadder,
you may have greater access to that part of your heart,
that side of your grey matter that allows more focus
on where, in time, to lay that burden down.

Not flags
Not borders
Not faces
Not skin
Just hearts
Just souls
Just ask -
what's within?

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

Unfallen tears glisten
unsaid words choke
unspent rage fades
at the back of my throat
I stare at the wet windscreen
my phone in my hand
the silence still falling
draining like sand
through fingers that stop grasping
as my eyes close to see
that this is the close
of our long closing scene

This is me
This is who I am -
No-one will ever mute
The real and present me.
I am here to display
So stay close and pay heed
To the true me.

It's not that I hold my zeal in check.
It's always burning in my gut
coming out in different forms
as befits the ocassion:
compassion with tears,
generosity with wine,
challenge with disappointment,
each tempered with discernment,
watching my Father
and what's on his mind.

And yes, on this ocassion
that called for the grip of a whip,
for upset tables
and upset temple authorities.

They had taken their eye off their Father
and missed the whole point
of God's temple.
They had replaced prayer with profit.

I'm always zealous
and, yes, sometimes it's right
that I shout its fierce light.

Sometimes they need to be reminded
of just whose house this is.

I think in 3D
I need real depth you see
I need more than one surface
to do my thoughts justice

I need three perspectives
to avoid a disservice
to any ideas that swim their way
to the disturbed sunlit surface

I'm not saying my thoughts are wordless
just that the words are surplus
to the primary purpose
of the thoughts that win
that struggle and that finally
find a thoughtful purchase
to become rooted
to bear fruit
and so to fulfil
their true purpose.

I think in IMAX 3D
- sit back and see.

Sitting in the space made by her leaving, I'm far from comfy, but no-where-near lonely.

Cooking for one is far from easy and it's easier to succumb to the micro-wavable and the processed in a process that suggests sadness, but in essence is a life past survival and a start of a moving on.

Leaning on past memories for a more reliable sense of self, I walk back beyond the years of this boken partnership.

These years from the off were tainted with discomfort while threaded with laughter and it's the laughter I now follow to earlier layers that might form the start of a fresher, better fitting wardrobe and a comfort that is more than this - sitting in this space of her leaving.

More than this, I'm sure.

god is not a proper noun.
It’s more a job description.
Jesus is very different:
god embodied in a person

So, don’t go exploring
a systematic doctrine.
Begin with seeking out
a person worth discovering.

A weary world, a muted cry
uncertain plans and pleas denied

But then a star, unearthly bright
a glimpse of dawn, a new-found light

The thrill of hope, a hope of promise
Behold the birth of joy and solace

The birth of love, the gift of life
Behold a child, a born delight.

The world in need calls out once more
prayers for relief, pleas for a cure

And then he comes, the world rejoices
Emmanuel, we raise our voices

His people stand, as one we sing
to our Messiah, our Saviour King.

You may know
cruise control is of no use off-road.

You need both hands
all four by four wheels
and good independent suspension
especially in your posterior region.

Cruise control is useful I suppose
when the road ahead is predictable
and you don't expect the unexpected.

It's not an option
that I've had cause to opt for,

but it's good to know it's there.

Family is not an F word
however family was for you,
cos when family leave you raw and bruised
friends are family in lieu

It's not the force of the blow
it's the force of the feeling,
the grit of her teeth
and the words that's she's snarling.
It's the loss of the mother
I remember her being,
it's the hate on her face
that leaves my head reeling.

It's not the force of the fist,
it's the fear that this
is all that is left
of the mother I miss.

She took the crisp offered
- not for the flavour, but for the high offer
of a connection across the tallest table,
balanced on tall stools, with tall tales
that fired unfettered, unfiltered
from her so much taller son,
each word spittled with snorted laughter
as they floated in their isolation,
cushioned by a child's unhesitate honesty,
silky and cloud-light and nothing like her fears
which had continued to hover and to threaten
to sink her float and fade her laughter
and to let the dank win.
Instead she stayed afloat,
tethered only to her son's fingers
as they drew her further into his world,
pushing away her lost years,
floating her free to explore this genesis
of something like a second chance.

I want, you want, they want,
in want,
sludging through want,
wading shin-thigh-waist deep,
as we sink-or-swim
this ******* swamp,
with a raised chin
just above this slow loss
of living want.

I want, you want, they want
in a new normal
right state of want.

Look around.
In a very short time
This will be a long time ago.
Your eyes will be full of the present
Your mind will reach
And fail
To recall your passion
Your impulse.
Only the bruises will remain
And the ricochete
Of your man sized dreams
Off hard-won love.

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 and have left 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 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 sooths me for a while, 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 despite what the poet said.

I work with a lady named Nicole
Who thought it ever so droll
To switch off her phone
When resting at home
So she never heard from a soul.

I spent my day breathing life into my memories.

I often walk or sit with them.
I give them the attention they ask for
to maintain their roots.

I administer the moisture they desire
to retain their colour
their scent.

I know they aren't what they used to be
but they grow with me
and give me hope for more
more beauty
more life
and more to live for.

I spent my day with my memories.

Is truth now a muddy thing?
Is that how we prefer it to be?
Is truth a muddy clay
ready to be shaped ‘til it pleases me?

Is truth now a muddy thing
thick and deep, hiding what's beneath?
Designed to hide my face
as I seek a private relief?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
wet, heavy, gritty and cold?
Can I scrap it off my boot,
leave it outside my safe threshold?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
slowing me wading ashore?
Immune to curses and stumbles,
dragging me to the floor?

If truth is now a muddy thing
can I filter it and sieve?
Is there pure clear truth that's not been eroded?
Will I still find true truth within?

You kept on pressing down
as if my heart couldn't break at all
As if the pressure you applied
would not take it's heavy toll

You kept on pressing down
as if my body could absorb
Every blow and every insult
rebounding off your inner wars

You kept on pressing down
not believing I'd react
But now it's me who's pressing down
and you who's on your back

I had grown out of time-outs - those imposed minutes of inward reflection, of self confrontation in wait and ponder. I had forgotten that slowing and pausing could be a productive use of time, and that eternity does indeed wait for all who have the stamina to stop the clocks and drape the mirrors.

I had instead lived for the future, passing abruptly / obliviously through the momentary present, robbing myself of the present time to consider, to discern, to consult, to learn from those like my father who had travelled further through time, having time to use the time-honoured travel method of patience.

And now, in my father's cooling presence, I stalled in an unfamiliar, unexpected hiatus between generations, and was forced to wait for what would come next.

And I paused.

I will love you
until the moment I die away
until my last words pass
until my last chord fades

I will be true to you
until the next track plays
until the playlist moves on
and we become forgone
unless you choose 'repeat' to replay

Lately
he will simply sit enclosed
focused on another world
somewhere he feels more at home
with a script he and his can own

Later
he will emerge,
shifting focus,
slowly taking notice
adjusting to a slower gravity
reverting to a lesser fluency
but no less forthright
not giving his words away
without a fight
and so we fight.

When I create,
when I build and make,
I seek a transfiguration,
a hope-full salmon-leap
toward the new creation.

I rise and dance beyond redemption,
I reach and pour the full fruits
of God's fresh fermentation.

I embrace God's ancient intention
for us to dream with His vision
taking us toward His now and not yet
new heaven and earth re-creation.  

When I create, I'm not just fixing,
I'm building with His blessing.

What choice of paint
Which layer of wallpaper
What chance haircut
will you dig down to to find
the former you -
the era that feels most
like arriving home
after night-turn
to a crazy-paved front,
a pebble-dashed alley
and tea and toast
and sisters' shouts and laughter
and Rikki's cold nose
against the house wake-up
and the cold bed waiting
in the sunlight,
offering the prospect of quiet
and space to process
the night's violence
its ****** silence and chaos.

6 nights to go before
a quick change
to afternoon shoplifters,
junction prangs
and more palatable stories
to take home with white lies
and shielded emotions

May you find a true friend when walking alone
May you find someone there to embrace
May you find deeper joy than you've tasted before
May you offer more love than you've faced

May you dampen your haste to self criticise
May you find the off-switch to self-doubt
May you recognise when you're just talking *****
and tell all your demons to get out

May you give more time for self celebration
May you find more inside to love
May you recognise more of your God-given beauty
and see gifts to be truly proud of

When you don't echo lies you're hearing from others
When you speak more of truth instead
That's when you begin to live life again
and you're ready to enjoy what's ahead.

The corner story-yeller
held her eye to eye
and told her with a cry
"If it's worth telling,
then it's worth yelling

and if it's worth yelling,
then it's worth having
a listen.
So listen, why don't yer!
This is the moral of life:

If yer don't look after yer feet
then yer feet won't look after yoo."

And with a throaty 'harumph'
the story-yeller limped away
dismissing her audience
with a spit and a sigh
ready to launch
at the next passerby.

Walking in time
picking up pace
lifting it high
taking up space

Stretching the truth
when bending the rules
chancing your arm
digging your holes

Losing the plot
burning too slowly
seeing it through
the gaps in the story

Taking great stock
but failing to pay
attention that's due
at the end of the day

The sensuous snow layered soft flakes over her long limbs as she reached and raised the deep red cloak from where it had slidden, chiding Nicholas for his haste, while inwardly relishing this moment of personal pleasure in the back of the now spacious sleigh.
"Happy Christmas, dear," she whispered.

A sense of something underlying,
giving time to speak,
taking time to listen,
digging through the outer crust
to find the softer beneath.

A sense that people are aching,
about to press stop,
to spend time to sit
and invest time in slower thinking
before they're ready to drop.

A sense that some folk would rather
take the slower path
and bearing a little late-ness
with a little more space
and making more time to laugh.