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.

I am more than
the traces I rub against,
the dust I've gathered,
the crumbs in my pockets,
the mud on my shoes,
the dirt under my nails,
the gritty sleep in my eyes,
the deep wax in my ears,
the grease in my hair,
the bruises I carry,
the scars I bear.

I am almost the songs I sing.

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 …

Protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me and my mates will testify loudly that I've held them close and testified to their six percent proof deep into the beer fueled night, tears clouding my glasses and my judgement, cliffs hanging dangerously close to the edge of despair with my back up against the howls of derision which fall on deaf, hard ground and against all hope stand, still next to my protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me...

Decision to leave
Permission to enter
Right to remain
Hope for peace

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.

What is it about a national flag
draped over shoulders,
tied at the neck
or wrapped like a toga
that makes me cross the road?
Why do I suspect it covers anger?
Why do I hear a shout of challenge,
rather than a song of honour?
Was it too many urban marches?
Flying London bricks?
And cracked skulls?
Let's put flags beyond reach
on flag poles,
and preferably not at half mast.

May you live in interesting times
May you lounge in sunnier climes
May your roads be thrilling and clear
May you always find froth on your beer
May your friends be faithful and honest
May you fulfil most your promise
May you always be singing new songs
And may you truely know you belong

Where do we go when we're asleep?
Where do you go when I'm asleep?
Where do I go when you're asleep?
Are we asleep now?
Where ARE we?

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.

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.

There's nothing magical about being intentional.
It's about the beneficial, not just the permissible.
Don't be mindful of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency of every mouthful
Watch the size of your morning bowlful
And what you spread on a wholemeal bagel.

That way you'll find you'll be more healthful.

Although I should be a little more truthful –
I can get all emotional
And potentially inspirational
About my preferable, honey-based
Sticky sauce that’s truly capital (BBQ).

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?

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.

We’re told to watch the body language
that it may be subtle
and difficult to decipher.

But in the right hands
it cries out in its fluency
it sings in its inflections.

In the right company
you can’t tear your eyes away
from the clear meaning.


We’re told to watch the body language
so we watch his hands, his feet
each pierced to make a point.

We watch the words hanging there,
terrible in their eloquence
accentuated by His sacrifice.


We’re told to watch the body language
because in the right hands
actions speak so much louder than words.

And His can still be heard.

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.

Will the hurdles be high?
Are the footpaths steep?
Will the days be long?
and cause me to weep?

Will you be there too?
Will you have time for me?
Will you let me down
and return by degrees?

Will I fill my shoes?
Can I act my age?
Will I brave the crowds?
Can I seize the day?

The answer is Yes
it has always been so
so get off your ****
it's now time to go.

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.

"Bob, track some mud on the carpet"
Words from Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan, a nudge to take risks and leave a mark.
“You are the light of the world…let your light shine before others.”  Matthew 5.14. Words from someone who knew how to leave a mark. We can do the same.

I
Have you left some mud on the carpet?
When did you last leave a stain?
Do your words make an impression?
Will you risk sounding insane?
How will you best be remembered?
How soft are you tempted to tread?
How long will your footsteps echo,
in the years after you’re dead?
Why do you think you were here?
Why do you have breath within you?
Why do you have all these questions,
when there're answers that've always been true?

II
Created to be the creators.
Gifted to speak others' minds.
Your art is a voice unspoken.
A light to open their eyes.
So next time you walk in a room,
look for the ones in the crowd.
Those who show recognition
of the things you don’t dare say out loud.
These are your tribe and your family.
These are the ones you can trust.
Together you might find a way
to help new life form from the mud.

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

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
how tall the border wall
how faint their call
no matter how great the chasm
between you and them
between your point of view
between your world view
and where they have taken their pew

- Listen

don't write them off as blinkered
as closed minded, as none-so-blind
don't assume you're the more
twenty-twenty vision kind

- Listen

don't shame them or be all too ready to belittle them
don't be dismissive of them with no respect for them
and for what has led them and theirs
to their honestly held position

- Listen

assume their good faith and in a space that's safe
assume a position of good natured
mutual consideration and seek mutual revelation
of God-given wisdom

-Listen

And as you clear that common ground
you are bound to build a safer compound
a creator-shared hallowed ground
where the heard are found
while bound for wisdom –

together.

I can't enjoy unearned grace.
Where's the satisfaction in that?
Unfounded mercy sits uneasy
with self-respect,
(or with self-contempt come to that).

I can't enjoy what I don't deserve.
But it's not the problem you believe;
you see, I am fully self-assured
of what I've earned
And it's more than you'd conceive.

So, you can gift your lavish grace,
on those in acknowledged penury,
on those who are sufficiently naive
to foolishly believe
that they are in need of mercy.

But that's not me.

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.

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.

You walk
You sit
You kneel

You ask
You wait
You weep

I listen
I speak
I weep

I hear
I stand
I act

Curiosity over Certainty
breeds Questions
that have Validity.

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

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

What now?
Where do I go?

Home.

Where's the trust?
Where's some loyalty?

What did they do with the respect
that came with shared courage,
with the common courtesy that competed
so well with the tired and bitter?

When did the fear win?
When did suspicion succeed
in dividing us? When did we fall?
And how long can we wait?

How long will we wait
for our disquiet
to override our distrust?
To make us love again.

And what if we don't?
What if it never happens?
What if we never forget to lock the door?
What if this is as good as it gets?

But what if we do?
What if we get to try again?

We’d go for a 4 in the morning walk.
We'd pick up some warm rolls,
And I wouldn't worry about the cracks.

If there is a God, he whispered 'garlic bread' to Peter Kay
and 'Yellow' into the ear of a younger Coldplay.  
He gave Picasso a brand new angle
and told Isosceles the deep secrets of the triangle.  
He opened the eyes of a struggling Van Gogh
and calmed Will Tell Jnr. in the face of his father's levelled bow.
God's whisper and touch are as present now as ever,
just heed the prompts of our ever-present creator.

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

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.

Of the reading of maps
and the keeping of diaries
there is no end,
but the LORD directs those who pause at dawn.

It seems wise to number,
to measure appears right to the mortal mind.
What is time,
but our need to gauge eternity?

We search without regard.  
We take the answer
before we finish the question.
But Wisdom rewards those who return to her.

We watch when we should sleep.  
We linger when we should walk.  
Much is gained by those who mute temptation.

A true friend is found in joined silence.  
Likes do little to feed the soul.

An isolation of poets.
A distancing of poets.

A contagion of poets.
A household of poets.

A necessity of poets.

The curse of incuriousity
is accusation
that you lack care,
that you fear answers,
that you seek quiet
in place of truth.

Flee incuriousity,
pursue truth
no matter how well hidden,
how well disguised,
how painful to hold.

Embrace it
and save yourself.

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

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

Oh, that we'd all have
huge and messy hearts,
that we'd expel
the shrivelled, the trimmed
as no longer fit for purpose.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the aroma,
the touch of love,
the echo of hearts
that rise to adore.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the savour,
the weight of feast,
the press of voices
that sing with laughter.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise Christmas
within the heat,
the fire and glory
of Christ's forgiveness.

Children understand Christmas.
Look to them.

Like a piece of my jigsaw
Like a block from my jenga
Like a bridge for my song
Like a love forgone

You are missing from me

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

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.

Perch up here
so we can judge you,
analyse and season you
so to help you redefine you.

Let us make-up for the blemished you,
for the degrees of the damaged you
and so apply a brand-new
foundational layer to you.

We can enhance you
with a new shade of you,
we can sponge, brush and fill-in you,
conceal the less-than-perfect you.  

We can blush you,
highlight and contour you,
fade you and blend you
right into the crowd
of all our just-like-you’s.

We can make-up for the real you
and ensure no one ever gets a clue
as to what is the essence of the beauty
of the true you.

Just perch here
and let us re-make you.

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.

I want to express my indefinite joy
that you've settled indefinitely.
Joy that needs no further permission.
Joy that carries no expiration. 

You and yours are definitely loved.
You and yours are definitely valued. 
And you are all definitely welcome. 
Indefinitely.

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

The truth and power of our faith hangs on the cross,
on the height of sacrifice,
on the lengths and depths Christ was willing to go
from holy conception to physical resurrection
from Passover supper to Emmaus meal,
to fish on the beach, to the promise of a feast
at his Father's family table.

The truth on which we stand hangs on God made man
and on us made new, all due to our LORD Jesus Christ,
God's most loved Son, our loving Saviour,
our once and for all time holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power of our faith
hangs on His cross
but now stands on a rolled away stone,
revealing the empty space
that left Roman minds blown.

The truth is, the power of God is an early riser
and loves a walk in a garden
whether at the dawn of time
or before dawn on an Easter Sunday morn-ing.

The truth is, Jesus didn't waste time,
but got up early to be Mary’s before dawn guide
who promptly anointed his feet in tears one more time
(but he didn’t seem to mind)

and she spread the news
that the Truth was up and walking
way before the doubts and lies got talking.

She told them
the truth is, there's no need to rage against the coming of the night
for Jesus entered death’s domain with his pure and living light.
And before sunrise, he rose in plain sight.

The truth is,
Jesus is the Way and the Truth and New Life
and He walks with you in the early-morning Easter Light.

So rise, let your song and your life
glorify the living Christ
and share his creation-wide invite.

And tell them this truth:
Jesus is Alive.

And the people said in one voice, Amen.

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.

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.

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.