Shared slow
Shared spheres
Shared strolls
Shared souls

The testimony of grey hair
supported by statements
from notable strands
on both earlobes
and more hair on my face
than on my head
are proof enough
that with great age
comes great capillaries

Rough Diamonds
Night Clubs
Broken Hearts
In Spades

These days we
last long enough to grow old
live long enough to reflect
but don't grow up enough
to bother.
Lord, save us from ourselves.

Imagine no shadows, no night.
All light
everywhere.
No need for shade.
For we are all basking
in one all enveloping
Light.

And we shall see his face.

No, you could never call him
a babysitter, not as such.
He's more like an undercurrent -
Never obvious
But definitely dangerous
In a reassuring way.

He's good for the children.

My two ears are red
my ten toes are blue
at this time of year
warm days are few

Whoever you're with
this valentine's day
keep your heart warm
and keep flu at bay

We watched and we listened
as He prayed.
And we wondered
what might it be like ?

to speak with Jehovah
- as He did.
-
-
So one night we gathered up our courage
and we asked,
'can WE do that?'

And then,
smiling,
He taught us.
He gave us
OUR prayer.

And, as if
for the first time,
it felt real.
It felt like we had PERMISSION,

We had an INVITATION
to call Jehovah
'our Father'

just as He did.
-
-
I couldn't help but smile
when I thought what the priests would make of all this:

What would they say?

Praying child to Father.
Having direct access. Forgiveness
Without a priest.

And oh the simplicity
of asking,
of feasting
on the generous Spirit
of OUR God

just as He did.

He saw me grin and He laughed with us.
-
-
And later,
when the others were sleeping
I walked and practised this new boldness
and shouted through my smile:
-
"Our Father
in heaven,
most holy be your Name.
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done
here on earth
just as in heaven.

Give us this day
our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins

just as we forgive those
who sin against us.

And lead us
not into temptation,
instead, deliver us from the evil one.

For Yours is the kingdom,
Yours is the power
and Yours is the glory
for-ever,
Amen."

I kept my childlike smile.
And when I slept
I slept as He did.

Closer to grace.

I'm now made up of what remains
now that you're gone.

And now I'm alone I see,
I know that it's enough.

You were not all that I am after all.

Just cos you’re smarter don’t mean you’re better
Just cos you’re slimmer don’t mean you’re fitter
Just cos you’re taller don’t mean you’re stronger
And just cos you’re whiter don’t mean you’re right-er

God made us different to make a clear point
just take a look and a moment to think
It takes this diversity to reflect a great God
He glories in difference and angels applaud

when we reach across cracks made by our fear
when we stand against hatred and act when we hear
any suggestion of bias, a smidgen of bigotry
any ill-conceived comment that denies someone’s dignity

God made us each different, cos different ain’t boring
gender or pigment, brainy or brawny
God’s image is found in all colours and sizes
so please do your part to bridge what divides us

My last word must go to the average white male:
acknowledge the privilege our lives entail
no need to apologise, no need to feel shame
just walk with humility and please -
up your game

The coy moon left us fumbling
wandering in the sleepless warmth
transformed by night sweats
and wet despair
into fractious infants crying
for relief from the night fires.

Douse me now!

"If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write...." ( and pin it up where it can be read)
Martin Luther.

You will come to [hope] in time
You will come to [trust] in time

You will come to [fall] in time
You will come to [jump] in time

You will come to [dance] in time
You will come to [march] in time

You will come to [believe] in time
You will come to [doubt] in time

You will come to [forgive] in time
You will come to [forget] in time

You will come to [keep] in time
You will come to [stay] in time

You will come to me

Foller Gill’s story treads
seemingly softly, rhythmically,
leaves their fresh green mark
beyond the grey, beaten paths.

Foller Gill takes
the much lesser-trod course,
searches deeper, further, takes
secrets to their mainstream beck.

Euden Beck strides
hungry, curiously thirsty,
pushes past the slow, shaded fields,
scorns their hemmed-in universe.

Bedburn Beck ambles,
tramples down all resistance,
insistent in their pursuit
of an ancient destiny.

The Wear wanders,
snakes towards their final estuary,
savors the holy promise,
the gift of the free, North Sea.

Foller Gill bathes
unbound in their ocean.
And their legend continues.

Feet flat, knees level,
I take the laptop position:
wrists and forearms relaxed,
shoulders loose.
I begin with a quick and precise combination
of key words flowing like darts from my fingers.
I ignore the too obvious feints and
scroll swiftly down,
keeping my laptop balanced
as I consider my options with care.
Sweeping away retail sites that got past my blocks
I focus on my target
and execute a killer click
and - bow
to sup my cooling tea.
I'm a Google master.

Still yourself, raise your eyes
and with all your waning strength
with all your weary mind
with every ounce
of your weighed down heart -
Lift up your soul. Lift up your song.

Place both feet on the Rock
in this most holy place,
where your God exults over you
with loud singing,
where burdens are lifted
by Christ's outstretched arms -
and LIFT your song.

And when your heart is heavy,
when your arms feel leaden -
take a breath, fix your eyes on him,
hear his song -
and LIFT with your legs.

Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.

Be glad and generous, smile and share.
Be glad and generous, devoted to prayer.  
Be glad and generous, breaks walls and bread.
Be glad and generous, and the Kingdom will spread.

Some songs have a girl's name.

And I wonder
what came first?
The song or the title?
The passion or the girl?

I expect it was the latter,
followed by the sorrow.

And I expect the words
were found much later.

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 stay present
but in reality, I am many
miles and many years
behind us. I am taller
and straighter, I have less pain
and fewer regrets.

I stay present
and take pleasure wherever
it is offered. I stand, and I pray.
I offer - no-that's-not-true -
I don't offer. I give freely
my praise. And it is given
with all honesty, truely.

I stay present
as He is present, but
just as He is timeless
so a part of me slips
into the past and leans
into the not-quite-yet.

I am present.
For now.

I wouldn’t call us friends
but we’re close, intimate even -
they’ve known me longer,
know me better than anyone.

They read me, clearly see
the full back-catalogue of me,
understand me, often better than me
and they know just how to wound me,
seam doubt in me, refusing a stitch of mercy.

Sometimes I think them merciless,
sometimes merely vindictively honest,
but I cannot deny their knowledge,
their perceptiveness.

Nevertheless, there are essentials
that their words do lack
- imagination
- hope
- kindness
and the one furthest from their grasp
- forgiveness.

And so, I pay greater heed
to the friend whose words brim with love,
whose knowledge of me is greater,
whose patience is longer, and who sees
who I am in Him
- forgiven.

When did we stop skipping?*
When did we stop thinking that skipping was a legit option and preferred to walking or running?

When did the bounce and joy of a skip stop being the mode of choice?

And why don't we follow Millie and Trish? They could run a workshop: after service we could meet at the far end of the corridor, hold hands, and try to match their joy. But no matter how many lessons we had, I think we'd struggle to keep pace with Trish. (Though Millie would give it a good try.)

I'm still not clear why we stopped, but I think it's something to do with innocence - the loss of it. That and a bucket load of indifference to others' judgement, which we grew out of.

I think I should start practising for the workshop; I don't want to make a fool of myself.

It was before dawn
and she was never seen again.

We had often wondered about her
and her wild impatience,
her passion for holding
life’s burdens and treasures equally lightly,
for dropping and gifting them
with devout fervor.

Nolle leapt out of a window
and left her bonds behind.
We woke to her whoop
and smiled at the echo of her song.

Nolle leapt out and we wondered -
what would it be like
to crave life that much?

Child’s play is a serious business.
You can tell by the furrow and
the earnest tongue -
how it protrudes for extra concentration.

And when it suddenly shifts
from one side to the other -
Brace yourselves,
you’re in for something very special;
possibly involving a necklace
of painted pasta shells.

My marriage was never a locked shackle,
nor a weight that dragged me down to the depths.
No, the shackle in want of unlocking

was the mis truth that it was all of me.
She did not inhibit nor distract me,
I did that enough by my own poor choice

to turn and reconsider my self worth
by a fresh measure, one that before long
proved short of the task.

That lesson became a truth and a key.

There’s a God who enflames.
He puts fire in the head
and though I have run, the wind
has never extinguished the flames,
though I have swum, the depths
have never doused them,
though I have sung long,
the music has never drowned them out.

So I have sat and I stilled
and as the flames settled
I found they were a gift, a friend,
and that this friendship warmed me.
And we ate and storied
our way through the nights.

And the flames took hold
as intended.