I sit in my Edward Hopper moment, my half started keepacup of green tea cooling,  staring at the chess board floor while my mind slows, moving down the gears after A1-driven shenanigans and I mindfully let the beat of Magic Radio fade back into the 70s while some seldom used lobe recalls a blue wide-wheeled mini van (replete with an A-Team overthetop stripe) on other journeys North.

I close my eyes and focus on the duties and joys of single granddad-hood and try to ignore the give in the one-size-barely-fits-all plastic seating beneath my oversized frame. My eyes refocus and I'm struck by a three-gen family arguing over Burger Kings, and I hate their voices forcing me back to 1984,  RAF Scampton, forcing down a much-too-early, much-too-bleak breakfast ahead of a slow day taking stick from families of maddened miners.

I close my eyes again to breathe my regrets back into place, and I sup and look ahead.

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.

Steve the poet sat at his desk
Steve the poet made a great mess
All of his pencils and all of his pens
Couldn't help Steve make a stanza of sense

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.

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

I make a mug of tea and butter a slice of toast and am not surprised by her smile, years before and right there, waiting for me with the sound of The Express being folded, crossword almost completed, as she rises for a kiss and a 'hello love', and the trusted 'I've got the kettle on'.
We hug and I sit as she stands and takes down two mugs, just as she recalls something or another that she meant to give me last visit and now wonders where she placed for safe keeping for this moment - and she's gone,
leaving me sitting in the kitchen resting in the familiarity of her calls from the other room telling me she'll find it in a sec and chiding herself, until her cry of finding and her return
with something of my dad's that she thought I'd like or perhaps a grey photo, with a young me, head sliced to fit a frame long discarded, but having left its trace with a stain of Sellotape
- and then we talk of nothing but people and happenings that left family stains we cherish for the pictures they conjure and for the bond left undiminished by time and if anything made stronger by any mug of tea and toast and the still-left-unlocked front door always ready to receive me with a 'hello love' from deep within the home that stayed open forever and now keeps a space open for memories and a silent undertaking that I'll somehow perpetuate this welcome.

I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.

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.

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
letting 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

The great tree stood waiting
until he got there -
as far as there
at the appointed time
long before the promised time
before the arrival of offspring.

And the trees still stand
in anticipation
of the greater remainder of the promise.

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.

I just know I'm weak.
And now I know that
and that it's not that unusual,
I now know it better.
Like when you get to know
someone in your life better.
Like your dad - adult to adult
and you find words
that better describe him
and in describing,
you find understanding.
So it's like that.
And now that I know it better
(the weak bit),
I find that I can bear it
better
just like my dad before me.

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.

Embracing the collective.
Grasping the nettle.

Hugging the toilet.
Regretting the rebel
in me.

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.

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.

Banners of blossom
Hardy perennials
One big metaphor

The winter miracle of having enough settled with a smile next to the ample blessing of sufficiency and the happy gift of needs met. They chatted contentedly under their tailored shelter as they watched the prize of satisfaction coming up to meet them, bringing with her the familiar rumour of future plenty.
Oh, how they laughed.

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.

She opened her eyes
smiling at the memory of what was
laughing at what had been
looking back with thanks.
And thankful, she sang
And thankful, she shouted
with echoes of healing,
of growing,
of climbing -
to the Here,
to the Now,
ready for the Next,
anticipating the Not Yet
and prepared for all that is promised.

But for now
she looked back
with thanks
and she - just - sang!

Every fire fascinates
Each battle beggars belief
News of drought and death
Sees viewing figures increase

Solemn faces on the screen
Scenes that 'may cause distress'
Each prompt us to be thankful
That our lives are so blessed

Now move along the sofa
I've got a heavy tray
I'm ready for a horror
Just - press - play

That took less time than I thought

- got old real quick

This is taking longer that they said

- still not grown up

I love a portrait,
how it contains a moment.
- So many layers,
of the one sitting.

I love a song,
how it resonates with each voice.
- So much eloquence,
captured within a refrain.

I love a cloud,
how it moves with such grace.
- So majestic,
weather permitting.

I love the sea,
how it takes no prisoners.
- So wild and untamed,
tethered to the moon.

I love your eyes,
how they dance with mine.
- So revealing,
laden with secrets.

Parenting is a statement
of belief
in our future
in our potential
in our intent
to grow
and to change.

Parenting is a statement
of faith.

Searching for a piece of the puzzle
Pondering the last cryptic clue
Rethinking your intended tactics
Selecting the right block to remove

Whatever choice you're facing
Whatever age you are
Remember that it's just for fun
She's still your sweet old grandma

My familiar haematoma
was happy dying,
thinking itself resilient
and settled into the can't
of lasting scaring.

And then the green came
and grew through the wounding,
imprinting its healing,
its green growing with hope
of growth, causing my pulsing
to phase into trusting
for perhaps
a whole new colourful beginning.

When bad motives are assigned to your art
When you're perceived as trouble in the making
When your audacious is seen as disruptive
That's when you smile and keep on writing
[painting, making, drawing, singing...]

Live by a compass of purpose
Not a map of achievement
Celebrate the discovery of the quiet
and challenge the call of the loud

Live by a compass of purpose
It does not circumvent the turbulent
But culverts the tempest of highways
where rage and impatience rule

Live by a compass of purpose
Point yourself to the path home
where you belong.

Lord of life,
Lord of breeze, of warmth and softest light
Lord of song and answered cries
Lord of long days and sleepless nights

Lord of rest
Lord of this sacred space to reflect
Lord of this gifted stillness
I confess you caught my breath

Lord of promise
Lord who gifted this anointed child
Lord of mercy, of goodness
I weep in the sheen of this just-fed smile

I breathe a quiet celebration (lest they waken)
and marvel at this wondrous sight
I wonder at this crowning moment
and whisper thanks for this new life

I pledge my life to raise my child
to teach the wonders of your kingdom
I surrender now, done and done
and pray they grow in strength and wisdom

I thank you, Lord, for this new life
and wonder again in mid-elation
how Mary contained her cradled delight
while swaddling the first-born of your new creation

can we skip the bit
where I'm not sure
what it is you feel
and if it's the same
as the feeling
that I'm feeling is possibly real
and possibly how
someone as amazing
as you is feeling right here
right now?

- can we dispense with the fear
that what appears
to be actually here
is actually just a figment
a fiction based on
a misread permission
to stay this close, mistaken
like a ghost of a reflection
in a tarnished mirror
that hides the terror
of being seen this clearly
by another.

- can we move on
to the unguarded laughter
and the freedom to touch
the surface of your face
and the assurance
that we've reached across
a safe place,
a within-our-reach shared space.

- can we stay in this moment
for as long as this path lasts
and can this path
take us from our past on
into a future without-masks
where we nurture
each other to greater
and to deeper
laughter?

- can we do that?

The sun sank down at dawn
The finch returned to its nest
The crocus postponed all plans
And peace went back to her bed

The light might come tomorrow
The birds may return in song
The flowers can rise in the new Spring
And there's hope to be had erelong

Learn from our Mother Tongues
Dance to our Sister Tongues
Laugh with our Daughter Tongues
and look to our yet-to-comes

Do you get me?

No shame, you know.
Just small self doubt
a violent chin
and contention for identity
for happiness
for unafraid space
with a smile and Stanley.

Do you get me?

"If we could bottle your personality,
we could poison the whole world," he said,
shaking his head in disbelief.
And my dad laughed
and repeated this
to colleagues
to friends
to family
for years
with a grin.
And no one laughed.

I come from inner-city, stand-up strong tea, delivered early with grumpy care, and a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you get down at full tilt, before Dad manages to shake the delivered milk.

I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest of us having to get up for the lack of a remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of home-grown wrestlers' faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments, the unity of the family three-piece, paying homage to the three-channel Buddha TV.

I come from tempers and broken locks, with after-work threats to knock your block off. I come from seeped in feelings of coming up short at each and every blue and white sport. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the upholstered cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from long family road trips with back seats sun-baked, and car sickness triggered by wafts of St Bruno Flake.

I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's got three jobs cos things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the Sunday stench of stewed-to-death cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, holding homes and gardens in common, one big for-good-or-ill clan.

And if I could, I’d plan a street-long celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with the Joe Loss Band’s All Time Party Hits, and no room to spare, with the kettle on repeat and biscuits bits in mum's faded Tupperware.

And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve moved across this city to find my own way.  I’d assure them that blood is still the thicker, but please do me a favour and get over me and mine living north of the river.

Curating multiple identities
Creating original content
Time on social media
is ( * ) time well spent

* never / rarely / always / dinner

Lord of life,
of green and colour,
of breeze and light.
Lord of bluebell and butterfly,
of birdsong and birds' flight.

Lord of space to think,
of time to rest.
Lord of movement,
of stillness.

I sit here and I confess
complete adoration,
my sunshine celebration
of this, your full spectrum,
this rainbow-wide gifted creation.

I sit and give thanks
for this sustained life,
of greens and blues in yellow light,
of fresh composed songscape,
of this colour full to the brim escape,
this God given land and sky-scape.

I thank you, Lord, for this gateway,
this fresh every morning,
gifted new day.

Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares

While smoking my mother's ashes
in my father's stale pipe
I felt a curious high, which was strange
- the rest of the batch had been expectedly bland

and homely. I walked the aroma through her discarded bungalow,
into the kitchen, out into the bare garden following the line

of the absent washing over the sunken stepping stones,
ending in the cul-de-sac of her rock garden of heather and herbs.

I sat on the concrete steps of the dismantled green house
letting the hit of the ash fill my lungs, holding it there

until it filled my head, before very slowly
breathing out the deep memory
of mum and dad, shouting and laughing and l allowed myself

to float above the colour of the border plants, up out of reach
of the childhood sprawl until I was back in her smoke filled room,
full of her emptiness - chin raised in silent prayer for one last breath.

And still gripping the warm bowl of my high, I sang her songs,
knees-up with the best of them and with mum on both arms, chin raised high

with a chorus of belief in family and friends and neighbourhood
and how this was never going to end well,

but meanwhile we'll have a party
making sure the whole street knows they're welcome
- and all the more if they have grief to smoke and memories to sing
- surely this is a life worth living.

Put another record on,
there's tea on the ***, ashes in our pipes
and songs to sing.

Little lies.
Purposeless perhaps.
Arguably with little effect,
but nevertheless, flowing
off the tongue and keypad
with little thought.
Born of habit.
Born of a child's need
to be on the front foot.

Little lies,
building up into a facade
behind which I hide
my ineptitude.

The truth is better spoken,
that's how it becomes the truth.
It's when you form the words and speak
that truth will be true to you.

Your love is better given,
that's how it shows its worth.
It's when you find someone to love
that true love will emerge.

Your life is better lived out loud,
that's how it is fulfilled.
Its when you truly live your life
that your life is truly real.

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that there’s a path just beneath the current uncertainty.

My faith is a step, a one step at a time
not much of a leap, but me taking his hand with mine.
My faith is a day-by-day holding,
a minute-by-minute treading
of my boot in his footmarks left for me as a blessing.

My faith is choice that needs repeated repeating,
a daily seating at his feet,
it's not a fleeting feeling,
it’s a morning and evening both-knees kneeing.

My faith is a decision and decisions were made
to be made,
so pray,
take him at his word and take the next step,
but don’t be surprised if it involves you getting both feet wet.
Cos that is where you’ll find Jesus
at the point you find yourself out of your depth.

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that whatever my path,
my God has gone before me.

Shadows don’t get deeper
when they overlap.
They don't get darker
under a brighter sun.

Dragonflies out in the sun
They know what I mean

We share the same
filtered sun.
We share the same
moving shadows.

And we are all the stronger for the sharing.

Is it as I get older that I become less sure,
more inclined to explore,
looking for words that better call
for open minds and open hands
– letting our stones fall
to give room for embrace.

Is it as I get older that I sadden
at the confidence (arrogance?) of those
who fashion words as weapons
who channel living streams into moats
with no thought to building boats
with all efforts on draw-bridge defenses
less our certainties be conquered
by those with much bigger shields
and sharper swords.

Is it as I get older that my bent prayers
creak louder and are prone to deeper pain
and I better appreciate why Jesus barely contained
his despair at ill-disciplined disciples
and the divergence of their words and actions
because I am Peter and John – I run
with more questions than answers
but with tears at how he manages
to love me after all.

If I
when I'm shouting
when I'm shouting in the tin-roof rain
against the stadium crowd
If I
when in the white shadow of her pain
bone marrow and head to toe
If I
fail to make myself heard
then I only have myself to blame

- I'm practiced enough
in finding a way through
through careful positioning
through forceful attention grabbing
with her head in both hands
taking her head to mine
and catching her eyes
brow to brow and toe to toe
until she knows I'm there
and that she can come back to us here
where the quiet is.

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

By the time the day catches up with me
The moon is full
And my tears have dried.
Tomorrow will be better.

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.

Promise me
not to promise me any more
don't say don't dream don't plan
any more
just show just do
what your heart
what your gut
what you want
and if you want me
you'll find me here for you
I promise

Is nothing sacred?
Is nothing enthralling?
Is nothing worth sacrifice?
Is nothing worth fighting for?

I clench my battered fists
I shift the weight of sword and shield
I feel the press of brothers in arms
I cheer in chorus
I know the answer
It has always been, 'Yes!'

The bigger my heart,
the greater I hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I think.

The greater my reach
the more I need grounding.

------------------

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the harder I weep.