Like-minded
Christ-minded
Like-Christ-minded
(Not small-minded)

I entered love willingly - and with a little trepidation,
but definitely with the intention to explore,
to gorge through each room in the home of my love.

As I dived deeper along the passages,
through the portals that beckoned us,
we laughed
and I found my lung capacity for faith grew
and my sense of direction only strengthened.

And as I climbed heavier, taking pleasure in the view,
taking breaths and trying to hold in
her high perfume,
I never once wondered where her flight might take me
knowing only that my choice took me
with her.

I entered love willingly
and not once did I fall.

It was the ghosts that told me.
Not so much with what they said
(this was as vague and off key as usual),
but with their strange mood,
their furtive glances at the sky
and their insistence that autumn was close,
though it was still July.

It was the ghosts, their eyes, and their insistence
that led me upstream, closer to the mills
where industry began and poverty took a turn for the worse.
And that was where I made song,
because song can mend plenty of ills and causes
the root of all kinds of evil to fade and give way
to community and summer.

And you know community is never wasted
and summer is always welcome.

And I found that the next time we supped together,
sitting by the stones, just beyond the spring,
in the cool of the first August evening,
the ghosts were looking more rested, less furtive
and more inclined to sing.

And so we sang.  So loud the foxes and fairies complained.  
(But with a smile and a dance, so you know they were just playing.)

The mangy lab
and the golden retriever
sat waiting
as if asking – which would I choose?
Which was no choice at all.

Both belong to me
and both would follow me
at heel.
One to dog my steps
and one to push his head
under my empty hand
to let me know I have a friend.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
A slow examination
of a proposed change in direction

An opening
An invitation
A deliberate fresh hearing
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A spacing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected
even deeper
God-given
Peace

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice -
a voice wrapped in grace
or punctuated with tearful praise.
User manual and admonishment
Hope and encouragement
Stories of enemies and friends
where battles end
in the end

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice -
a voice soft like a lover
spoken comfort like an open-armed Father
Substituting justice for forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my community of choice

This is where I hear God's stanza'd voice -

Tonight,
God
is a poet.

I recognise her hurled hurt
- pain
- frustration
- weariness
- can't wait to get out of this
in each unspoken sigh
each practiced cry
each queued curt response
that lay swallowed
and composed in the pit
of a fully evacuated stomach

Try for courage
And hope for honour

Build for friendship
And hope for love

Climb for height
And hope for safety

Stand for justice
And hope for truth

Wind your neck in
but with care,
so not to break the line
lest you drop your catch.

Wind your neck in
until I can take the weight
rest your game on the bank
fish out the hook

consider if to let it away
content with the win
not **** to fill to quench your lust

content with ambition and
laughter met

wind your neck in

One click of a radio button and I’m back

in the back of dad’s Hillman Minx estate,
to journeys once forgotten
DB5 in my right hand, Lady Penelope’s Rolls in the left
- both harbouring hidden missiles and secret missions,
racing to grandma’s baked cherry biscuits
deep in darkest green Tonbridge.

Now give me the right Junior Choice tune and I’m back,
staring at the back of my dad’s Brylcreemed hair,
breathing in his rationed St. Bruno flakes,
while keeping a careful eye on Jenny’s
wicked swinging skin-breaker buckles.

I’m nose deep in my latest I Spy, ticking off far more
than I see, in a race to complete the list
before we leave the A23,
while nodding to the rhythm of mum’s
monochrome, high speed knitting.

2 minutes 20 later the song closes
and I’m back from my 60’s jaunt, back in my 50’s,
with part of me still back there,
one back seat song away from long family car trips,
back where a large part of me still belongs.

Though a man of competence
might master a non-stick pan
with only casual reading
of its manual, he WILL need
to read the instructions for
a chain saw. The aftermath
of careless use does differ.

God came in three –
they set aside time and space
for collaborative creativity

God came in three -
and in that 'us', 'our' and 'we'
they metaphor’d mutuality

God came in three -
advocated once and for all
a celebration of plurality

God came in three -
illustrated that all families
are a godly thingamy

God came in three -
they invited us, you and me
to join them for eternity

I'm younger than I feel
But older than I look
What You See Is What You Get
But net of the toll life took

Isn't it unfair? I mean,
why does your heart grow back bigger?
I mean, it grows - why? Experience?
Is it a version of 'what doesn't **** you,' etc.
Is it cos it gets stretched to breaking point?
Or maybe it's more like how water
expands when frozen
(that makes no sense, ignore that last bit.)
But your heart does seem to grow
back after a while, and it feels bigger.
Or maybe it just feels emptier
because it got used to being so full.
Anyhow, I'm left with this bloated heart.
So, I'll keep writing,
hoping to keep the excess in check.  
Or at least it'll give it a workout.
Till it has something better to do.

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog last night

What goes around
will come around.
Usually,
to bite you.
Invariably
in the ****
and always
overdue.

Turn the page clockwise,
a full one-eighty degrees. 
 
Any further and you’ll lose perspective.  
Any less and you’ll slip back.  

That’s not irretrievable,
and you’ll probably
have an opportunity to re-cover.
You might re-live and re-peat,
but if you make it a habit,
you’ll get stuck in a loop
never breaking out of the prologue.

Stick to the clockwise-one-eighty approach
and you’ll myth like a Makar.
You’ll story, fable and yarn.
You’ll chronicle and tale.
You’ll saga.  

That is what we call a true page turner.

Just like that
they were taken.
No warning.
No explanation.
A quiet night raven.

And what happened next
was yet
was not yet
and yet it was
touched by old regrets
like that

I was told that there is a house with many rooms in our Father’s New Haven, and when I first heard this, my mind went to an all-inclusive five star hotel, an award winning complex, a beautifully designed block of compartments, one for each of us. A hotel big enough for all of us to have our own en-suite space, with an optional do not disturb on the door, so we could choose when to mingle in the hall ways and when to order 24 hour room service to avoid losing the peace of our own space, a place where you’d rave about the quality of the towels and the silent, unnoticed staff who offer a crisp laundry service and make our beds when our backs are turned, the very best in luxury soaps and shampoos, a walk-in steaming shower, a XXL hot bath, a private pool, perfectly adjusted air con followed by a top of the range kettle that works every time and perfectly complements the décor beside complimentary aromatic teas and potent coffees, with refrigerated fresh milk for those who take it, and the offer of an all-paid-for minibar complete with Toblerones and miniatures, a king sized bed and pillows to match, in front of an oversized all channel TV offering the back catalogue you’ve always dreamed of and to top it all, sound proofed windows and walls so you won’t notice the Pentecostals next door.

Then I looked again, and I saw I was wrong – that this is not an access by key-card hotel, it is our Father’s house. This is our inter-generational family home with many family rooms to explore, communal space where we can all feast and laugh – a piano in the corner, carafes of wine, baskets of warm bread and help-yourself fruit bowls in every direction, deep suites of sofas, full of the hum of long-separated family reunited. A home which offers a warm embrace to all; the fragrance of every-season gardens, the music of a gentle brook and bird song suggestive of dawn all day.

This is a massive mansion which we will never reach the end of, no matter how long our eternity. This is a place to call our forever family home.

The blue lion applied reasonable force down on the black zebra's neck, his lazy authority reinforced with each passing minute.
And the world looked on.

The black zebra signaled his compliance with a little blood and by changing colour to a curious shade of purple.
And the world looked on.

His black herd cried, but kept their distance lest the blue pride took an unhealthy interest in them too.
And the world looked on.

The para lion checked for signs of death, unhurried under the just restraint of the blue law.
And the world looked on.

Eventually the carcass was rolled aside, deflated, unfortunately losing some of its colour.
And the world looked on.

Then later the black herd stampeded, making a wider spectrum of noise that couldn't be ignored.
And the world looked up, asking for the blue lions to do their job, and corrale the black zebras lest they frighten the white cubs.

And the world looked away.

Like a Pool Frog
at a dry river bed.
Like the flow
of a water garden
in the dry season.
I am stilled.
I am struck dumb.
I am Walpoled.

I sympathise
I suffer

I empathise
I feel

I identify
I reflect

frayed but full to four edges
marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid
over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence:

nothing is ever finished only paused pending further
inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond
the perimeters of an ensnared inner page of rage

We thought we had tamed the ancient dragons.
But they were simply sleeping and waiting,
Watching as we, with untested method,
Created a fierce climate most suited
To their needs: heated, hostile, disordered.
We built world-wide high monuments
To hubris, our folly of invention.

And for all this, out of the acrid mist,
Rising through the heat of long decay and
Glowing furnace, we morning to bird song,
To breeze on dewed leaf and green filtered light -
Still with God's warmth - that we may join the song
And lift our face to the creator's sun.

When I think of my dad
I think of a smile
and full-body-laughter.

I think of piles of library books
and reliable pedal bikes,
cigars and pipe smoke,
holidays in tents
and long family treks.

I recall his choice of grey,
brown
and karki
and his superstition of green.

I think of stubble,
big crossed arms
and early morning mugs
of strong tea.

I think of an only son
not matching expectations.
Quick tempers.
Rationed phone calls.
Enforced lights out.

I think of that time
he forced the door -

and of mum's white
'best not tell your dad' lies,
and the lesson taken into my own marriage,
for better, for worse,
that the truth was worse.

When I think of my dad
I think of his smile
and his laughter.

Take your bible out.
Thaw at room temperature
with a bedside prayer.

By morning you'll find
every page will have seffused
ineffably.

The sacred have kept
their biblical pro-portions.
Savoir each mouthful.

All your 5 a day.

I am a poet
Anything that you tell me
May become Haiku

Not pen to paper nor digit to key,
but eye to eye and hand to hand,
with a firm grip on our reality.

With half-empty mouths and full-empty ears,
we understand that its has to be us
voicing our two converging histories.

Exploring what it is to be you,
what it is to be me
and what we two can be together
in the next chapter of our come-together
unfiltered, unashamed and unheard stories.

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about each bump and scrape
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs and desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
or leastways thereabouts

Maker
Originator
Innovator
Landscaper
Sculptor
Painter
Writer
Director
(Mould breaker)
Care-Taker
Sustainer
Restorer
Reinventor
Renovator
Collaborator
Benefactor.

Maker of all.

‘Once upon a time’ -
that’s not the first line
not the start of this plot
it’s not where we start

no smart-talking mirror
no scheming stepmother
no frog in a pond
no magical wand

‘In the beginning’
and again
‘In the beginning’
That’s the story we’ve got -
us and our God

A teddy
is a substitute satisfaction.
Like chocolate.

And that's okay.
So long as you know

what you're missing.

Who is the man, this man of seasons?
Who is the man, this man of reason,
who thinks things through, considers all options,
who sees the clues and measures his actions?
Who is the man, whose passions run deep?
And of what does he dream, when silent in sleep?
Who is the man, this man of stature?
Ask his wife, who's lost in rapture.

"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"

So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection
If he was not tortured
If he did not hang,
If he did not die ****** and tearfully,
if he was not buried in darkness,
if he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels to angel-splain what they saw,
If he did not reveal himself
and walk and touch and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,

"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory.

Turn the mirror off
Turn the clock down
Turn the sun to night mode
Turn the world back to when I was young

I got places I need to go

I got people I need to see

I got plans to change the world

but first I need to ***

Truth twisted or truth told?
Collusion or collaboration?
Who can tell what lies beneath:
Politician or statesman?

It's a perfectly rational human response to feel anxious,
to weep, to stare into space and imagine the worse.

It's a perfect human response to take a breath,
to be kind to ourselves and be supportive of each other.

We're not perfect,
but with God's good grace we'll give it a go.

Sometimes I feel like a cactus.
A cactus in the desert
flowering, soaking up
every last drop of moisture
testifying to all who care to hear
that here there is life
there is hope
there is growth
here in the desert
here where I was planted
with purpose
with reason
with intent to thrive
here in this desert.

Sometimes I feel like a cactus 🌵
tenacious
tireless
persistent
just as my maker intended.

and God is just as God-like,
(what I mean is, just as heavenly-fatherly)
in a pandemic.
Though you do tend to hear Him through a different filter –
and not one of His making.

A filter of a thicker thread.

And, whilst you do need to listen more carefully
(and take more time I find),
He speaks and listens just as intently
and it is unmistakably His voice.

However, I find that I throw more at Him
at times such as this.

Reading as resistance
Not reading as distraction

A prologue of Reflection
An intro in Contemplation

Then commence with Participation
Continue in Expedition
Subdue with Rebellion
Prevail in Revolution

And savour the Liberation
Of a book well read.

Like a treed squirrel
with no fear of capture.
Like a failed terrier
with two feet on the ground,
giving no heed to heel.
I fall victim
I am subject
to my nature.

I am who I am
I'm not who I was
I'm not my regrets
I'm almost __ .

Take your place amongst the brave ones
The take-a-chance ones
The get-up-despite
and try-it-again ones.

Take your place amongst the daughters and sons
living post-lockdown
and let's run.

Make yourself a list.
A list that is useful to you
and meaningful to you.

It need not be useful to others.
It need not be meaningful to others.
But it should be for you.

It need not be listed
numerically, chronologically
or in order of priority.

Marks will be awarded for
originality, banality, legibility
and indecipherability.

Marks will be deducted for
profanities.

It should be on my desk
by the end of school
on Friday.

What once felt an exciting,
adventurous experience
has become an annoyance
at the bruises and blood blisters
which come with each smack
of the lips.

Why must she kiss
as if it's her feast
and I'm the main course?
Especially as tomorrow
she'll be just as hungry

- something to which my lips
can give uneasy testimony.

You won't find me
in those new-fangled machines.

You don't know when you'll end up.

I'll just wait here and see you later.

Like layering Hi Viz
over my Camo Print
I embrace my tendency
to self contradict -
Deal with it.

Know this - I am.
Know this - I can.
Know this - I will
and know this - I will, with you.
And yes, that's a promise,
Oh, I'm serious.
You can be sure of my presence,
confident of my grace.
Come and together
let's change this place
for the better.

I'm not as brave as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I'm not as sure as I used to be
but then I'm wiser

I ask more questions,
listen more intently
and I'm more reluctant to reach conclusions

I'm not as young as I used to be
I bear more scars
I move more slowly

but then I'm wiser.