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/

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.

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?"

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.....

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.

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.

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

Treacle-ly can be nice
Treacle-ly will be sweet
But never when making decisions
Don't treacle when we meet

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?

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.

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

It didn't matter,
for he could smell the sea
and thought it just enough
to season the past,
the remembrance,
slowly curling
in the flames at his feet.

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.

Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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'.

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.

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

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.

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.

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

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Curiosity over Certainty
breeds Questions
that have Validity.

(Thanks to Ted Lasso
and Richard P. Feynman.)

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