If she says it is
then it is
poetry
and don't try to tell her
any different
cos that would be your lie
against her truth
and we've all seen
where that boot leads
- art reduced down
to out of 5 stars reviews
and the boo's of the many
smothering the true of the few
and that dilutes truth
for us all, including you.
So, if she says it is
then it is
poetry
and true.

Make your unwanted advances
- on the ****** predators.
Place an uninvited unmistakable hand
on the casual grazers
the brokers
traders
*** negotiators
anyone who assumes
his entitlement
to sate his primal appetite
by right
anyone who
coaxes
cajoles
coerces
controls
in order to pick away
at a vulnerable soul.
Now's the time to shout
to call him out
and expose him
to unforgiving light
reversing the shame
in bare plain sight.
And there you'll find
you don't have to fight alone.
No, he'll be shown that
you were never on your own
and together
we can show society
that we stand defiantly
claiming the right
for all to live beautifully
free of each and every
pathetic
*** starved bully.
Come out now
and claim your life
and live it truely fully.

Taking simple pleasures
drawn from simple things
Making simple treasures
from all that life may bring
Taking simple measures
to make me a little slim
And through whatever weather
I'll find just cause to sing

I watched my name
emerge from my pen.
It seemed strange
that there was so much ink
left at the end
of my letter.  

I watched my name
emerge from my pen.
So much ink
left at the end.

My name emerged.
So much ink
left at the end.

My name emerged.
So much ink.

Oh I see.
The real person living
is the person that I see.
The real person living
is the friend that I need.
The real person living
is the one who pays heed
to the real person here
who's ready to believe.

You walk
You sit
You kneel

You ask
You wait
You weep

I listen
I speak
I weep

I hear
I stand
I act

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.

My eye was drawn to the next bridge
before I had fully passed beneath this one.
I had thought it more appealing
until I saw it up close
and looked back at what I'd missed.

I left my other soul
in my late marriage
I'll be more careful with this one

I keep my spare soul
safe with my neighbour
in case I lose this one

My old soul has worn thin
allowing in the cold
but also the sun

My first soul was reliably robust
This new one feels more fragile
and needs holding with care

My soul and I buried our differences
We now spend time focused
on what we have in common

Every path has a bend
Each conversation an end
Every hug a releasing
Each kiss a sweet parting
Every friendship incurs bruises
some out-of-joint noses
Each love song will fade
to silence - or refrain
There are no guarantees
of a life without tears,
but be clear about this -
you'll remember that kiss

How you doing?
Not too bad.
What's new with you?
Oh, you know, not much.
Where you been?
Around.
Where you off to?
Nowhere special.
Well, it's been good to talk.

even with tears I still can't forget
slowly emerging from years of regret
clearly recalling the start of it all
the soul-felt promise forsaking it all
may I be able to make a new start
still accepting the truth that love played a part

Warmer or colder - that don't matter
Get your hands wet with clean running water

Now apply soap - liquid or tablet
Lather it up, both the front and the back

Between all the fingers, don't forget thumbs
Under the nails, there there be bugs

Carry on scrubbing, at least 20 seconds
Sing happy birthday, twice for good measure

Now for the rinse, with clean, running water
And once you have dried, you're a true virus fighter.

so much splendor we cannot picture
waving beyond our spectrum

so many hymns we cannot hear
pitched outside our range

so much love we cannot bear
unbearably tender

but one day we’ll see more clearly
hear more keenly
and love more fully

one day …

It's easy to be distracted
by each distruction of the past
It's harder to stay focused
on the fight of tomorrow

She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

The world is getting smaller
It's getting quicker too
But it's not getting any younger
A service is overdue

If you like your fruit soft
and sweet
You need simply segment it
with patience.
However
if you prefer
the earlier bite of hurry
the bitter crunch of
'time is money'
then pick it early
because you know
we don't all have all the time
in the world
but we do have better things to do
with our time,
which as you know
is of the essence.

But if you like your fruit
soft and sweet,
then sit in the shade of the tree.
Sit at his pieced feet
and listen to his patience.

I'm never alone
Not with my thoughts
Not with my dreams
never an excuse to be idle
never alone
I'll always have you
to intrude,
to distract,
to enlighten
shining your light
alerting me
greeting me
never letting me be
a moment alone

After a while they tell us.
We're being held at a signal.
But being held doesn’t feel like this.
When I'm held
I feel warmth.
I feel connection.

Here I feel placed on hold.
I feel a coldness, distance.

I'll wait for a fresh signal.

That took less time than I thought

- got old real quick

This is taking longer that they said

- still not grown up

The dreaming cod
The rapacious gull
On the shore of Evolution
On the crest of Extinction
Sought harmony and discovered discord

But while we were dulled by our difference,
divided by distinct destinations
over facing horizons, we are destined
to discover our far dateline.

This cracked porcelain
This fragile identity
This inherited white-knighthood
This charging harbringer
of culture
of better
of superior
- has stumbled
under the weight
of warped history
and is on its knees

Seeds or Stones -
whatever you hold,
lay them down.
Let your hands unfold.

I took a breath
and I dived
deeper.
I pushed down til I saw the dark.
I reached down
dusted off my sea bed
and took hold of my bedrock.

I embraced to my chest
what lie there,
and pushed up,
retrieving, reclaiming,
bringing it to the surface light,

and once scraped free of neglect
it was seen
and noone would again wonder
what lay beneath.

I dived deep.
What choice did I have?

History snores at the back, too tired to notice the present company, and
Maths figgits nervously, his mind overwhelmed by possibilities and permutations, while
Geography let's her mind wander, dreaming of paths yet travelled and regarding this classroom as just another staging post, but
English mutters disapprovingly at the thought of so much hassle and any proposition that might disrupt his carefully balanced timetable.
French sighs and shrugs, unconcerned, but can't help but be curious about the
German sitting so self-composed and self-contained across the aisle, somehow managing to ignore
Science as he argues with himself and apparently agrees another working hypothesis. And at the door
Divinity wonders and ponders what brought us here today and says a brief prayer for forgiveness.

It's about GROWTH.
It's about what type of fruit
inevitability grows.
But you don't get to pick and choose,
you don't get to specialise -
You can't specify your choice of variety,
no, it's a job-lot, in its entirety.
But don't get stressed,
it's not about yield or performance,
it's not a contest.
It's about the kind of person you express,
the flavour of person folk taste
when you're most hard pressed.
It's about the fruit of God's Spirit,
the overflowing character of Jesus.
But don't fret,
don't boast -
it's about
GROWTH.

If I was content
I wouldn't write
Create
Sing
Love
Or even look behind the veil
If I was content
I would just be still
Lord, save me from content.

Find what you love
Live it, hold it like a long note
Behold it like still-wet art
and it becomes beauty to you.
It becomes magical.
Like family.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace and the prince to get tricky.
One lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, one died not guilty.
One spoke the truth and one shouted lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears and one with no pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought that was the finish.
The King rose on Sunday, his rule undiminished.

Help me remember the good things
Help me drink in the view
Help me find both my feet
Help me find my you

Proper good
Plenty loud
Mighty big
Deeply proud

Mega fine
Shiny bright
Scary close
Family tight

I bit my tongue
Spat out the bitter taste of failure
I forced down the bile of defeat
and lived to chew,
to eat another day

In the Spring, when kings go off to war,
when last year's battles are rejoined
and daughters lose their fathers to the egos of man

In the Spring, when dormant vegetation raises its head,
when bulbs reveal the colour within
and pollination can work its propagating wonders

In the Spring when frost gives way to dew
and the air warms in the sun,

- it is in the Spring that I renew my allegiance to my creator God
and look to him, and to his Son, for my path.

A poem is a flawed thing
made by damaged hands,
thoughts yet complete,
words unsound,
but close, like a whisper away,
as close as a line-break,
to the heart of something

I miss his deep bellow
 from the front hall as he went out the door.
It wasn't loneliness.  It was a familiar emptiness
and he always came back.

I miss the dark grease
 on his clothes in the wash. 
It wasn't an imposition.  It was part of the routine
and it usually came out. 

I miss the dank stench
 he brought with him at the end of shift.
It wasn't much different to dad's.  It felt  right
and it didn't fill the house for long.

I miss the certainty
 that he brought with him.
But it's hardly sad. 
It's simply the end of something.
He's gone.

"Who gets to call the shots matters,
but so do YOU.
So turn up,
take YOUR shot
and - be - your - most - excellent."

This dead line isn't
an alive line - it's
the end of the line
that chimes with little
and ends with a full stop
that's not a little empty
and that's not going to end there
not by a long chalk
at least not til it's taken its toll
and without being asked
you begin to see
that it tolls for thee.
And between its last echoes
this dead line declines
your pleas for more time
So this is indeed
do or die time.

When you give yourself permission
to be vicious
you can cause fear to rise
doubt to take hold.
No doubt, worse violence
is avoided
and disorder,
ordered,

but when you let your vicious out,
it's a ****** to put back -
and even when you do,
it'll know its way back out.

Give her more time, she said.
So I gave her as much as time allowed,
including much I couldn't spare,
but still she hungered,
eating up my remaining time
and in no time at all
I was left
starved.

Out into the weather
out into the heat and the cold
the rain and the humility
the sleet and the unrelenting sun

Out into the weather
wondering when seasons will stop
running into one another with no respect
for long established patterns
and giving no latitude to longitude

Out into the weather
checking the signs
wondering what today will bring us
and so putting on our shades
and packing our umbrella

If pain was a friend instead of a burden
– if I could make peace with the unwelcome
– if perhaps I could see it as a teacher, not in a lecture theatre (distant and with sharp echoes), but in a private tutorial with soft furnishings and perhaps a vase of flowers.
– If her lessons came with handouts, exploring with pictures the reason for the searing , the overwhelming

– but no, my pain is that annoying parent on a pointless trek, refusing to stay silent, incessant in her insistence that we can’t part ways

– if we came to a fork in the road and after a heated debate I could go left, and leave her wounded and helpless
– if I was free to explore the trees, to dance, to run and bask in the sunlight, confident to climb down every crevasse without fear of the return journey
– if on the path from the forest, when heading back to the city I saw her again, would I pass on the other side or would I Samaritan her, bind her wounds, carry her back with me, better able to support her after the respite?  Would I better appreciate her for who she is, or would I continue to carry her with resentment?

- If I came across the fork again, I think I would disable her as before and happily leave her bleeding.  I would lose myself in the forest once again.  

But I’d still be able to see the city.

I'm seeing new weather
Not a change of a few degrees
Not a rise or a fall
or an increase or decrease

But New

Weather not previously known
Never before seen
New weather, creating new
weather-worn scenes

Thick, slow rubber, raining
Single sunbeams of light
aimlessly floating
Heavy weight winds,
viciously falling
Warm salt, peppering
the horizon and once in a while,
if you're lucky,
Musical lightning

rumoured to be orchestrated by new angels
who aren't as predicable as their older cousins.

Not reaching
Not arriving at

but going through,
continuing past
this end

on to the next

ready for any number of ends that I may meet and greet and then pass, thanking them, but not being held by them

saddened by them
but not brought down by them

rather, finding myself a lot stronger and a little wiser, I walk on to find my end that will always be ahead of me past these ends.

I pulled down the love is blind
and shut out the outside light,
and in the dark I let my love lead me
by touch alone, and so alone
we filled the room with our light
and kept the healing between us burning
til first chill of night,
when we saw it was safe to lift the blind
and tap our way back out into the world
- still alight
with our love is blind.

don’t look at me like I don’t belong,
like me and my kind arn’t welcome
I’m no immigrant, I’m Kingdom-born
with equal grace-rights, a citizen

I've got God’s eternal leave to remain
so it don’t matter where I’m from
I’m access all areas, V-I-P,
unaffected by any referendum

you and me, we’re blood family
and He’s declared we’re all welcome

Look again
and touch the surface
of another view
Then reach up, deeper
and find yourself new

Poetry is the shortest way of conveying something really big -

I knew a formidable, tempestuous man
and whilst he did much to his credit,
his dark grey moods
and the air that turned blue
clouded his very real merits.

and not long after I caught a glimpse, just a glance
I saw colour and shape
as a half-heard voice brushed my fist,

or it might have been a piano chord, soft and gentle,
but only lasting half a moment.

whichever it was, it felt old,
like an empty hospital chapel or an unfinished letter

and when I turned to check, expectant,
it had changed
– so much so that I wasn’t sure it was what had called to me at all.

By some deeper instinct I only took half a step,
not daring to drop another tear, or form my question
– and over the course of a longest heartbeat, it re-emerged,

first the chord, followed a beat behind by the scent of the past
and the orange zest bled through the haze like a long-held breath.

I found I could breathe
and turn into its embrace

and the world left me in this grace.