After Do Not Be Ashamed by Wendell Berry

Unashamed

You can mute yourself at will
Or find you've hit mute in error.

On ocassion you might find
someone has muted you.

You can go off camera.
Observe and listen.
Unseen, unheard.
Ocassionally waving in the hope
that you will be called upon
to contribute
to comment
on the wisdom of others.

And after a while, on realising that
you've gone unnoticed, unneeded,
you give yourself permission
to walk away,
to simply listen in
while making a cup of tea.

And after a while, you walk out,
to test your necessity
and you won't be surprised
to find it wanting.

But then
as you return.
as you choose candour,
bear your inward clarity
raise your yellow hand,
as you select unmute, unashamed
click camera, unashamed
and find room, find voice -
then a sure screen will rise
from the margins and their eyes
will seek you out
and the mic is yours.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

my mother has beautiful thick hair

she has dry still lips
and her chin is raised as if reaching
for that last drop of life
from an unseen glass

she has beautiful rich hair

her colours swiftly drain to grey
and to a colder pigment
but this does nothing
to dim her motherhood

my mother has beautiful thick hair
- that hasn't changed

Each day I pray for an ear that will hear
above all the noise clearly His voice.
For while sometimes it's best to be serving with zest,
sometimes it's better to sit for a breather
and wait in his presence and enjoy this true essence
of sitting and being before going and doing.
So while sometimes I'll Martha I know that I'd rather
spend time being Mary, in less of a hurry,
for there at his feet I'll be more complete
and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

A crack of hope through the gap
Telling me to hold on,
Nudging me to knock on the door
And so to be let in
To his arms-open-wide
"Welcome-home!" embrace.
Putting darkness behind
And reaching just a little more
To ensure I cross the threshold
And get to be held longer in his arms
So that I might laugh and sing
At last bringing peace and rest
To this troubled mess of a heart and soul.
 --- I'm home.

Grateful, without a fight,
just a gentle sigh
and an answered prayer,
she stepped forward
and took the hand offered.

Go gentle, dear mother.
After your rage, after your fierce tears,
- go gentle, into that greater light.

She chose me from among the younger boys to cross the long floor
and on the far side, in the half-curtained sunlight
she took hold of me and my innocent limbs

- she helped me reach up her long back, guiding my trembling hands -
and then she enveloped me, joining her body to mine.

I could feel the damp of her warmth,
our bodies rolling together while her music set the pace
which I struggled to maintain, but somehow I kept in step
with her rise and fall, with her supple flow,
navigating this complex dance,
deep in this safe space
in the circle of her practiced arms.

The pre-pubescent boys looked on
and the teacher's graceful Foxtrot took me
across the full length of the room
from boyhood to something new.

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition
I'm even sometimes partial to
a suggestion by omission

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes
and silly with alliteration
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhythmic lunacy

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it

So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this

I've noticed just how much of our talking waits
until bedtime - as if until then
we have lacked permission to pause
until we've undressed and bundled ourselves
into our duvet time-capsules.

Alas, it’s then
when the competing urgency of sleep rises
and meets our log-jammed thoughts

it’s then when our fight fades,
when our wide meander sprawls,
exhausted of its pungency

And its then
when our ability to cement thoughts
cracks in the face of creeping sleep
rerunning its classic dreams
and rebuilding forgotten worlds
that we’re fated to later abandon in the shudder of dawn,
and the demands of a new day.

And so, we delay any conscious introspection
and leave our contemplations to our advancing Sandman
as we slumber and sleepwalk in his wake.

Not slow -
But patient,
Like love is patient.
Patient like watching the ark being built
And staying His torrential hand.
Patient like letting His friend Lazurus die
Knowing greater glory was planned.
Patient like explaining for the umpteenth time
How He must suffer at the hands of men.
Patient like watching Judas scheme
Waiting for His preordained end.

Not impatient to come again
Yet not slow to keep His promise,
Simply yearning that all might be saved
That salvation might be accomplished.

With a smidgen of talent comes great responsibility.

With great grace comes greater responsibility.

Upon the third resurrection the lower of three buds bloomed,
I say three buds, but there was also an attempt at a fourth,
but nothing that could be called an actual bud – more of a high blemish.

Upon the third resurrection, the bloom had kept its family colour,
a repeat of a pink shade of purple with a white heart, flaring wide
toward the light, shouting the promise
of further offspring -

the future promise of beauty visited to the third
and perhaps to the fourth generation.

I'm trying to focus
On subtle ****** propriety,
While having to resist
Challenges to paternity,
Questioning my certainty,
Seeding suggestions of ****** flaccidity.
And all I want
   is to *** with credibility.
-
Five 7s are 35
Six 7s are 42
Seven 7s are 49
Eight 7s are.....
(Contented sigh)

It's seems way too early
for blossom
and for blossom to fall.
But who am I to judge?
I've never borne such beauty.

I noticed the sudden silence
balanced on the off beat
of a carol left incomplete,
but after a while I found
- despite my long belief -
I was enjoying
the competing peace
a little more than the jingle,
the insistent hush
more than the chimes
the spreading rest
more than the dance.

And I put it down
to the close knit company.

don’t look at me like I don’t belong,
like me and my kind ain’t full welcome

We're all immigrants, no-one's born in this kingdom,
We’ve got the same grace-rights, as full-fledged citizens

We've each got eternal leave to remain
and have done since the day we came

We have full access, we're all V-I-Ps,
us and the King, we’re real family

me and mine are all around His manor,
if you don’t like it, take it to Father.

No.
Not ornamental,
more fundamental.
Not sentimental,
but rudimental.
And when I wear it
it's very much an intentional
statement of who I am,
how I live
and who I worship.
So, no,
not simply pretty,
but pretty much essential.

there's said to be some merit in me
and there's something to be said about mine
but please never let it be taught
and please never have it headlined
that I've ever done any of this
but with measured and deliberate thought
or time consuming and considered design
none of this comes easy
little of this goes smooth
we all think ourselves imposters
but some of us have pushed through
so whatever doubts you're having
however steep the climb
take the chances that you're offered
and give yourself some time.

Thank you for preachers
and Sunday school teachers
for childhood friends
and for youth leaders

for Christian Endeavour
and Boys Brigade
for holiday club
and weekends away

for memory verses,
for hymns and for choruses
Thank you for songs
that set out your stories

Thank you for pastors
showing compassion
Thanks for memories
that still give direction

Thank you for roots
secured in your Word
I rely on them still
to provide daily food.

Thank you Lord Jesus
for building in me
a strong foundation
that helps me stay free.

Not sinking
But making waves

Not the end
But a brand new start

Not a dead sacrament
But a living parable
Of the grace of God
Of the love of Christ
Of the empowering of the Holy Spirit

Not a "I'll try"
But a "I do"

In the name of the Father
The Son
And the Holy Spirit

AMEN.

full of silence
emptied of song
terrible in beauty
and glorious

in her step, traversing
every rainbowed bridge
and leaping, leaping,
glorious in her dance

The Son of Man came to serve
to seek and to save the lost
to touch and to heal the hurt
regardless of the personal cost

The Son of Man came to embrace
the full breath of the human condition
He sat down in utter poverty
with those too used to exclusion

He walked in step with the weak
putting up with ignorant derision,
He shared His gentle wisdom
in the face of studied indifference

The Son of Man came willingly
to trek in worn, scuffed sandles
to suffer with blood blisters,
sprained ankles and tough calluses

The Son of Man suffered much
though He lived without any fault,
He was a man all too acquainted
with aches and tears and snot

He accepted all of their beatings,
the abuse, the cuts and the bruises
But at the last He was willing to gasp:
'Father, forgive my accusers.'

I sit with you, mutually leaning comfortably as we tremble on the sofa with Adam ******* filling our evening with laughter and I breath in your aroma - that bouquet of shampoo that you prefer to all the other scents offered in the ad breaks.

I'm no good at remembering brands or labels and your bottle of choice doesn't appear on the screen anymore in any case, but I know the smell of you fresh from the shower,

and you fill my head with happiness.

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
The creator of the ends of the earth.
Do you not know?
While what you see around you is temporary,
while those around you may not be as dependable as they might at first seem
there is someone who is never flaky,
someone who does not disappear at the first sign of trouble
(or for that matter at any signs of trouble).
Someone who remains when the going gets tough,
someone who stands with you whatever,
someone who goes before you wherever,
someone who is never fazed by what lies around the corner
because He's been there.
Even if you go to the ends of the earth
He will never grow weary,
His understanding will never be exhausted
for He created every beginning and every end
He lasts -
He lasts lifelong.

His stillent, smally whispers ooze into my mindconscious like a dusk-sweet hotchoc,
like a mocha sunrise welcoming wide with embracements louder than fearage, not instructioning, but come in mending,
pushing enlightenmentations, praisements and incouragabilities that I inseep onto my naked black and bruises. 
I tremble-wrap his echo within my born-worn soul but he stainleaks through my weak cardio when I bumpbrush against heartbeatings as fraggi-brittle as mine also.
His hushed shade cools and breaths an enveloping:
"I understand."
And so I restilax in his softly stronging arms.

"Didn't He tell you
Wasn't it clear
Did you not realise
Did you not hear?

He is now risen
He is not here
He's gone on ahead
Please hold back your tears.

We won't need your spices
Don't look so amazed
Go tell everybody
His body's been raised."

So shocked and bewildered
They left the cold tomb
And ran to the others
Who hid in a room,

"Jesus has risen
He's body's not there
Let's go now and meet him
In Galilee where

He'll explain it all to us
Make clear what He said
Please don't look so worried
No need to be scared.

Jesus has risen
I tell you it's true
Let's go now and meet Him
Let's start life renewed."

Not how I planned it
Not as I'd hoped
But better

Not the path we'd plotted
Not the course we charted
But higher

Not the story I'd written
Not the song I'd practiced
But oh,
it's been well told and well sung
and I've spent time with my Messiah.

He's given me another path.
A different gift.

It only takes a small cut
  It only takes a soft word
in the right spot
  in the right ear
to sink deep
  to sink in
and scar for good.
  and bring healing.

No need to thank me.
I mean, what are bullies for?

If not to force you
to face the unpalatable.
To confront you
with the cruelest kindness.

To unrelent with unfair truth
leaving you no choice,
but to fight for your life
and strengthen your defence.

What are best bullies for?
But to boost the beast
for when he's needed.

No need to thank me.
You'd do the same for me.

Only 24 easy payments.
Well, actually
- 1 easy.
23 increasingly ****** difficult.

Did I hurt you?
Did I help you?
Did I push too hard?
Did I ask too much
of you?
Or was it just
what you needed?
Was it defeat?

Movies are
at their best
tightly scripted
bravely casted
boldly acted
richly promoted
highly rated
Poetry

The weak sun and clouds
A blanket from the back seat
It's your warmth I miss

Seagulls are massive
Intrepid and audacious
I carry the scars

Wrinkled and 60
From another century
Nothing has changed

One expensive stamp
Short missives over Assam
Wishing you were here

Today is a first draft day
With no re-write on its way
I’m at the messy stage
the unstructured phase
with a faint promise of better
or maybe just more neatly arranged.

I’m a first draft
and on days like today
I feel it.

Two words that are joy and salve to my soul
That have my full attention at their mere mention
Two words that together complete one another:
Deadline
Extension.

We're the New Levites:

We're the early risers and cable layers,
sound checkers and coffee makers.

We're the greeters, the good to see-yers,
the washer-uppers, the kids' teachers.

We qualify by turning up,
with willing hands and open hearts.

We're the New Levites and refuse no-one
so step up today, the rota's open.

Solomon smiled,
chanced a stretch and blew
the obligatory bubble
to the captive audience.

Solomon smiled
and formed his first proverb
of the day
concerning the foolishness
of worrying about anything.

Solomon smiled,
and after some deep,
wet-fingered thoughts
concluded that both love
and money
are best held on an open hand.

Solomon smiled,
and nodded along to songs
that he'd someday pen,
content for now to test his grip
on an offered finger.

Solomon smiled,
and settled into the joy of a hug,
in the warmth of a cuddle
and promised to anyone listening
that he'd live in the moment,
so long as it was a moment
such as this.

Father God smiled,
endorsed every thought,
every word
and promised Solomon
more of the same.

My enhancers
Are chosen carefully
And balanced with my dominant hue
To ensure
They first see just who
I am
And not see me through
my base blue

A kiss takes a moment
While hugs keep giving
Wraparound comfort
And room to weep
Cheek to cheek
As a means to keep
Skin to skin tenderness
Even in distress
Exposing vunerableness
As we caress
Sighing long and deep
And long and deep
With contented peace
Whispering sweet somethings
And never having to release
and to kiss
goodbye.

Some will sing of Scotland,
its heather and its hills
Some will sing of sunrise,
the coming of new dawns
Some will speak of hidden gems
some of treasured pearls
But I will sing of Alba Flower
when kneeling in my prayers.

I will thank my Father God
that she came before the dawn
that in the deepest night
Alba's bright new light was born
I will thank him for the joy
of finding this precious pearl
and thank him for entrusting us
with this wee bonnie girl.

When the tidal wave came
I was looking the other way.

I knew the gentle Shuttle
had its shallow banks
concreted, walled, ready
for the diverted torrent,
but for some reason I was looking
North, thinking that way lay
the Thames and its barrier,
not knowing the wave
would follow the Shuttle’s
more meandering route

and I got it in the back of the neck.

Quote from Paddington in Paddington the Movie

“Mrs. Brown say in London everyone is different, but that means anyone can fit in.  I think she must be right because, although I don’t look like anyone else, I really do feel at home.  I will never be like other people, but that’s alright, because I’m a bear.  A bear called Paddington.”

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew.

Parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.

Winter parties, summer trips
a massive paddling pool,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.

Common homes and gardens,
a street in open-plan,
more than simply neighbours,
one big, street-long clan.

Like a bond song, rising from the depths
catching the theme, casting its charm,
holding the frame, teasing us
giving us just enough of what we’re waiting for
and keeping us all in the moment,
gun shot by shot, brass blast by blast,
until the action breaks across the screen,
drawing every gasp, taking every heart,
holding every gaze, clutching every throat,
- until the strings break in
and bring release and joy and disbelief
as the hero survives yet again
to bring the world its peace

At least Jesus knew what was coming:
the betrayal, the pain, the abandonment,
the journey down, the climb back, the reunion
with abandoned friendships,
the chance to walk and sit  
with the taste of simple meals,
but no wine yet,
before his departure.

At least we know what’s coming -
the long journey, the ups and downs,
the sound of the latch on that narrow gate,
the weight of our cross,
the chance to walk our paths with him.

The break of bread, the shared wine,
pointing to a ‘dine with me’ where we’ll feast royally,
when we’ll see him take that long awaited sip
or perhaps simply dip his bread,
nod his head and smile,
knowing there's an eternity of this to come.

At least we all know what’s coming.

Striving in fear
or living in favour
Feeling the dread
or hearing the angel

I don't care what you think.
It works – just - fine.
Probably too well, all considered.
But that's a heart for you.
It breaks.
That's the way you know
it's fine.

Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.

Awake in the night listening to rain
Well placed ice packs when feeling the strain
Spacing those tents to ensure a safe distance
Getting it right aides coexistence.

Welcoming all with smiles and sweets
Giving assurance with replies on repeat
Directing the lost with maps and good grace
Shifting the freezers to maximise space

Finding the child who wandered from mum
Keeping kids safe while ensuring their fun
Spraying the sinks and mopping with vigour
Trying and failing to pull down that zipper

Queuing for showers at early 5.30
Teens these days don't tolerate *****.
Whenever you need them they'll sort out the flushes
And when the loo blocks they'll get out the brushes.

These are the heroes of New Day each year
Whenever you see them give them a cheer
Enjoy your time with us, have a real blast
We're all here for Jesus - the first and the last.

Deep purple rainbows ground
Through my isolation
Their road-show resonating
And shaking my status quo haven
Singing rivals' swan song
Building a Rushmore-strong
More resilient rock song
Taking me on to the next page
As I was swept along
And came of age
Relishing my discovery
Of a wider stage
With so much more
Than three-cord monotony.