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

I see Beauty
Brighter when clouded,
Bolder when challenged,
Brilliant when questioned.
I see Beauty
Burnished by affliction
Blossomed with age.
I see Beauty
In you.

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 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.....

coats are discarded, but the hall hooks stay empty
*****-top wine is opened without ceremony
fingers are favored over tooth picks without apology
conversations touch past pain and current joys effortlessly

shared memories are shared and new ventures discoursed
loved books are returned (unread) or offered
repeated yawns are ignored, reconnection preferred
until later… and dark rain greets their departure.

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.

I have several names.

My first was the name
my mother wielded,
but she later conceded
I had an earlier name,
a longer name
that my father gave me,
a name borrowed
from the long dead,
the name authorities
would know me by.

And later, you adorned me
with shorter, snappier names -
names loaded with love
names that could be sung
and in which I took comfort
and pride.

When as a student I arrived,
wheeling cases through customs,
I saw the linguistic gymnastics
reflected in their eyes
but I kept silent and smiled,
lest they felt they fell short
lest they sensed that I found fault
in their command
of each element of my name.

But the truth is I hold
my true names elsewhere,
in my place of song and friendships
far from these shores.

I have several names
and accumulate more each year
as I spare acquaintances
the shame of verbal stumbles.

I have several names,
but I know who I am
with you.

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'm in my grandchild's bedroom.
She's not here yet
so I get to sleep beneath
a floor to ceiling green forest
and within arms reach of shelves of fairytales
buttressed by well-read tigers,
ad I hear Sheer Khan ask me to choose
my character - the grandad I would aspire to be -
A bare necessities Baloo?
Or nearer to a prudent Bagheera?

So I ask myself,
what would Baloo do?

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Face-timing, Instagraming,
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
Messaging, Pinteresting
or good old fashioned
contemplative Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again
the might of the word
over the keenest, lunging sword.

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

My life experience.
His timeless scripture.
Which is the lens?
And which is the picture?

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

Queuing -
When I was growing
it was second nature.
Then we got out the habit -
and started congregating and lingering,
vaguely hovering til the bus arrives
and then converging
with no reference to order
or deference to aging.
Or begrudgingly taking a number
and waiting our turn
til called forward, bringing us
out of our revelry.

It's different now.
Now we get there early,
expecting a wait, a line,
spaced out like it's leprosy
that we're suffering -
Like we're resisting
being associated with the others
who are queuing.

Shuffling.

Waiting.

And once arriving,
being begrudgingly admitted
by the high-viz guy who's masking,
and he's insisting
that our partner
has to wait outside
where it's freezing.

Now queuing
is our new necessity -
our communal normality.

Maybe it'll stick
and we'll be sticklers
for a queue that's orderly.

And maybe - just maybe
we'll find that the queues move
a little
more
quickly.

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.

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

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.

Sometimes
it's about pushing through.

More often
it's more about
timing the next turn

or taking the next bend

with a tight grip
braced against the rain.

Jack of all trades,
master of none,
but oftentimes better
than master of one.

There was a little boy
who was so sad and so scared
all he could do was be grown up all day
(or as grown up as he knew how).
That was how he could
keep wading through the sadness and
climbing over the scariness
while keeping his eyes on the important stuff
while keeping his mind off the sad and scary stuff.

But eventually he got to end the day, and
that’s when he turned off the light and laid down.
That’s when the sadness and scariness grew louder -
so loud that his eyes couldn’t stay on the important stuff,
cos they were closed.

In fact, it was in his sleep
that the sad stuff and scary stuff grew more important
and the other stuff
(you know, the friendships and the purpose-ness),
well, that became like a dream
– and not a good dream.

The weird thing was that
the more he lay with his eyes closed, and
the more he got to rest his eyes
on the sad and the scary,
the more tired he got and
the harder it got
to lift his eyes and
to lift his feet and
the easier it was
to roll away.

If that had been the end of the story,
then it would have fed the sad and scary
and the boy would have never got to
lift his eyes and
lift his feet ever again.

So, we can’t let this be the end. Cos if
‘it will be alright in the end’
and it isn’t alright yet,
then it’s not the end, is it?

So, let’s all write some more.

I hear talk of Space Jesus:
A prince escaping a slaughter,
Surviving a journey through the desert,
Joining with the people
he came to save

- and then he rides giant worms....

I prefer the historical version,
the Christ Jesus.

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.

The men of God met together
early in the morning
Would 4 dozen eggs stretch?

The men of God cooked together
early in the morning
Would Pyrex or Crackpot be best?

The men of God planned together
early in the morning
Would Barney remember the chives?

The men of God sat together
early in the morning
Would Logan allow open fires?

The men of God prayed together
early in the morning.
Would Jesus prefer bread and fish?

The men of God laughed together
early in the morning
Could anything ever beat this?

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.

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

"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.

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.

As a kid I was an accomplished storyteller
an evader of consequence.
As an adult it was a little similar,

but lately, I’ve found more story with truth
intertwined with unexpected twists,
and immersive but unfinished narratives,

which gave space for imagination,
for permission for grace to flower
in familiar but unexpected colour.

And sweet fragrance.

I have always been a storyteller.
A teller of my stories.
And they’re unfinished,

with more fragrance to come.

I'll brush my teeth before I die.
I'll shave and shower
and empty my bowels.
I'll put on a pair of my comfy underpants,
select the good socks,
slip my feet into my birkenstocks
and wrap myself in my father's heavy dressing gown.
That will be enough for my Maker.
And for the poor sod
who finds me in my arm chair.

But I'll be sure to leave
my bath towel on the floor.

To be as grounded as a kite,
dancing wild in the wind,
eyes on the sky,
but secure in my roots,
in my tether
to excited, nimble hands.

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.

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

Can a mailbox truly expire
or does it simply get archived?

Can a text really be deleted
or does it move to another folder?

Can I simply log off and shut down
or do I remain partially connected?

When I manage to restart
I hope I retain some memory.

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.

I identify as a poet,
a writer-poet
with a bent towards rhythms and patterns that are pleasing to the tongue
and to the ear.
On paper, the words are captured
with clear order and definite lines.
Spoken, the sounds wrap around and seep into ear canals,
flowing with less order, with greater freedom.

I identify as an artist,
a sound-artist,
with a bent towards the human voice, using words that worm their way into the human consciousness,
lodging there to make a new home,
free to morph into new installations with an art of their own making.

I identify as a poet.

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.

Big Art: The art of collaboration.

Big bouncing, cushioning,
resonating, in-phasing.

Small piece-by-piece-making,

patch-working, ingredienting,
combining, conjoining,
absorbing,

- collaborating.

"What have you got there?"

"A few particles of joy and this.  I found it hidden when I last looked in my quiet."

He opened his hand tentatively, not sure if it was safe to do so. He had unknowing saved a small remnant of his original soul.

We looked at the torn corner resting in his palm. It was more than anyone could have hoped for for someone who had remained in London.

"How have you kept hold of that?"

"I'm not sure. It might be from my old prayers. I thought it had been used up years ago. Is it worth anything?"

"It just might be worth everything."

The lie is that
where I lie
no one else
sees or cares for -

That the world lies
someplace else
somewhere different
separate
alien.

I hear the lie out loud
and drown out the voices
so I must imagine
the sound of truth
so that one day
I might recognise it
and we will lie together.

None of my best friends
are poets

They live different
They walk faster
They're more organised
They have more friends

They are readers
occasionally
And writers
spasmodically
- never pathologically

My best friends
are breakers of silence
and I need them more
than they need me

Kiss
Dry
Try
Miss

Kiss
Wet
Met
Lips

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

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 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.

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