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 high 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 Son, our Saviour,
our once and for all time
holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power
of our faith
hangs on His cross.

Perch up here on this stool so we can judge you, analyse and season you and so help redefine you. Let us make-up for the blemished you, whatever the level of damaged you and so apply a brand new 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 our just-like-yous. We can make-up for the real you and ensure noone ever gets a clue as to the essence of the beauty of the original true you.

Just perch here and let us re-make you.

I am
shoved down, safe in the dark
waiting until I’m needed, wanted

I know
I’ll be looked after
- in a pocket
- in a wallet
- in a drawer

in a sock drawer, where it’s soft
and warm
and dark
until I’m needed, wanted

I know
I’m valued

The boys are all about the cheeses,
the platter, the crackers.
The girls are all about double cream.
The thicker the better.

The boys select the cheeses
that are bluer and smellier.
The girls stick with tiramisu
with a coffee chaser.

It makes no difference to the bill
which each year gets pricier.
They add a charge for the ambiance,
no matter what we order.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

Open both eyes
put on your slippers
and carry on

Take a bowl
lift down the cereal
and carry on

Angle the mirror
pull a face
and carry on

Choose a tie
polish your shoes
and carry on

Walk to the corner
buy a paper
and carry on

Return home
sit alone
and quietly, carry on

Busy with colour, the fast night shouted her down and refused to listen to her protests. Still she screamed across the square, but each syllable of her pain was immediately swept away and all that the tourists noticed was a mute nightingale cruelly pigeonholed by a half forgotton song.
And still she screamed.

Roses can be White
Yellow or shades of Pink
But the Red are more expensive
Or so florists like to think

The seeds look very similar
Whenever you plant your borders
But once they show their truer form
It's too late to change your order

Hope can hurt
all the more the longer
it stays misplaced

and as it stays,
it deteriorates,
degrades, decays,

it despairs into a fainter shade
of hopeless surrender

until, against all hope,
it leaves
hurt.

[Proverbs 18:13
To answer before listening—
that is folly and shame.]

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
or 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
and don't be so quick
to assert you're the more
20 20 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

The second best place, I find,
to cry openly undetected,
thereby avoiding unwanted
concerns, is a pier.

You won't stick out, as staring out
to sea isn't that uncommon
and tears are a typical reaction
to the sting of salt on the breeze.

Fellow pier folk will leave
you be, alone with the past
and the uncertain sea.

White's a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage,

(topped-up by a Y chromosome for some)

which can't be worn lightly.

Let’s not kid ourselves -
despite the painted ceilings
the flaky teachings
- God is not a white man
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender-bearing genitalia.

God designed all of that paraphernalia
for us to enjoy, out of a love of diversity
out of a mischievous plan for human sexuality
out of a need to be reflected in more than one gender
because one was not strong enough to fully bear
to accurately render God's image alone.

Be clear, being white is a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage
placed on our shoulders by successive generations
who denied,
pushed down,
held back
and placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate of humankind.

God is not a white man -
No, they agreed upon the olive skin
of a chosen, a select people
and wore that dark complexion with pride.

So put aside that ancient lie.
God is not some white guy.

God is translucent.

Let's raise our glass to the many and the few
and far between two stools waiting at the bar
with contaminated peanuts
for company and an empty
beer mat ready for the happy
hour rush. And only the lonely truly know
hurt only makes you stronger
and the truth of needing
a glass of something stronger still.

(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.

We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.

I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.

I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.

But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.

To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings,  8 thrupenny bits.

I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.

I sorted
and I sorted again.

I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.

I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.

I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.

Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.

4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.

It was the taboo of the touch and although it was her habit, it still held the power to thrill me to comfort my distance.

We chatted as she scanned each item , especially the contraband cake, and it was as if we were conspiring, masking our planned insurrection.

I obeyed the card-only directive and, as the till printed the receipt in a flurry, she reached over, stripped it away and pointedly
held both hands out toward mine.

And just there – as I reached around the screen, she cupped my hand in hers and she gifted me her “Look after yourself, luv.”
- while I choked on my goodbye.

Something is better
than nothing
Nothing is better
than stupid
Stupid is just
stupid

Have you ever had the feeling
while praying
that you've inadvertently
been talking
while God is speaking?

Don't worry -
He wrote it down for you.

Out of 100 people
Who were around that day
Who stopped
Who didnt instantly walk away
Who understood the options
Who expressed an opinion,
Out of those 100 people
When asked a binary question
All 100 said: yes,
They do answer questions
From strangers.

Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success

No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces

Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide

I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed

Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking

Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring

But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers

You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless

You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile

You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance

Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing

Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace

Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term

I love the weight of your hands,
they leak your love
generously

I love the depth of your eyes,
they betray your heart
brilliantly

I love the strength you hide,
you lend it out
liberally

I love your slow presence,
always within reach
intimately

I love your joy and laughter,
both swamp the room
and me.

Inking an octopus
takes time and space
and detail-dexterity
with a sense of 4D
you see, their arms
flow
and your eye can't track
their deeply chronic current-cy.

Heart
Diamond
Clubbed
*****

Attributed to Sir Francis Drake.

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
with the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show Your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask you to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push back the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

This we ask in the name of our Captain,
Who is Jesus Christ.

I wasn't flirting,
I was simply being polite,
Is that so unusual?
Can't a guy hold a door,
Offer a seat,
Give a compliment,
Smile with warmth,
Give a hug,
Kiss a cheek,
Hold a hand,
Walk arm in arm,
Buy dinner,
Have a few drinks,
Go back to her place,
Massage her feet,
Fool around a little,
Stay the night,
Enjoy a lingering brunch,
- without it being made into such big deal?
Women! They blow things out of all proportion.

Step over the threshold
And through the front hall
Full of shoes and possibilities.
Come to a kitchen table
Able to shed the cold
And unroll your soul
Against it's worn and warm knots,
Flavoured with cookies and coffee mugs
And echoes of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.
Let the love that pools here soak
Into your marrow
Put aside tomorrow
And so launder your heart clean of fear.
Our home is your home,
Come pull up your chair.

I don't do seasons.

What's the point?
Mother Nature pays no attention
anymore - no adherence
to long established norms.
Unreliable, like the rest.
Incomprehensible at best.

So why bother?
Why consider
this season's wardrobe?
Why plan life around the calendar,
when you need any-weather clothes?

So I don't do seasons.
I don't do disappointment.
I don't do expectations.
I just plan for the unplanned
and weather the summer storms.

I'm a man for no seasons.

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 tonight

Vulnerable ain't weak
Hurting ain't broken
Pausing isn't giving up
Tired isn’t beaten

Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me

sacred to love
sacred to laugh
sacred to pray

sacred to dance
sacred to sing
sacred to pray

sacred to write
sacred to make
sacred to pray

sacred to play

I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.

I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.

I'm waiting still.

You're only as rich as you feel
You're only as well as you live
You're only as loved as you linger
You'll only have what you give

You're only as full as your plate
You're only as good as your last
You're only as fast as your finish
You'll only have what you have asked

How much do you value
weight loss on a scale
of 1 to 20?

22

Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed

The palms sit tall
stand long
speak softly
sing clearly
search deep and wide
sway in all winds
but never complain
never seek shelter.
They are there to be found
and to shade her
and all who gather to hear her wisdom
and to taste the colour of it.

They say that in London
you're never more than 10 foot
from a rat
and a stone's throw
from a poet.
The space in between is taken up
by stalking survey takers.

The crooked streets
that were once paved with gold
are now peppered
with monochrome gum,
half finished poems
and generous cigarette butts.

But out in the painted parks,
within the chorus of churches
or secured in our community halls -  
that's where you can still hear us sing.

Lord, save us from our pygmy dreams
That bear fruit long before
We leave safe harbour.
Send us out to only come back home
Once we have defeated land-locked fear,
Hurdled every heaving horizon
And found the stars.

We'll return to show you
Our deep wild bruises
And war torn scars.
We'll submit our worn down egos
And weathered souls.
And only then gladly enter
Eternal harbour.

No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.

I've missed the late train of thought to catch the long haul flight of fancy on the first leg of my voyage of discovery.

I'm running wild on a walkabout seeking adventures abroad without a reliable plot vehicle.

I've worn through my home truths and need to leave to be able to return my gaze with fresh lenses and a new perspective on my soles.

But right now you'll find me left on the platform of potential motion.

When youth
When wit
When these weapons depart
May courage
May wisdom
May these tools prove enough

Even at my young age I was suspicious of the easter confectioners.

Even while feeling the excitement rise, breaking into the thin cardboard casing
and unwrapping the fragile patchwork of chocolate,
even as I found the seam and tried and failed to make a clean break
even at that first crack, in my child-like cynicism I felt the disappointment
of the hollowness of an easter egg.

The half shell cradled the fallen fragments,
allowing me to collect every flake with a wet finger,
but still I felt cheated, more so as my mother insisted
that we save the rest til later,
her words somehow conspiring
with the glass and a half chocolate makers,
seeking to dress up the thin, brittle shell
to appear more than its fragile inadequacy.

Then grandad came

with a two pound purple brick of a bar,
fresh from his fridge,
and he challenge us to a bizarre dressing up feast
where we'd attack the mountainous chocolate
armed with a knife and fork, hampered by hat, scarf and mittens,
gambling against the next throw of the dice, against racing siblings,
to hatchet chunks from the heavy tablet
and shovel as many broken shards into our mouths
before, at the roll of a six, the woollen regalia was wrenched from us,
leaving us with only the prospect
of our empty shell of Easter disappointment.

Happy Easter.

More than a pick-up
Deaf to a chat-up
Happy to pass-up
Chances to hook-up

Bruised from my ****-ups
Smart from my break-ups
Wise from my make-ups
Still time to grow-up

Ready to pipe-up
Bolder to speak-up
Willing to stand-up
At long last to man-up

I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day

I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more

I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece

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Do Not Remind Me Again

Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest

‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence

Love is not like that – 

Love pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption 

Love defies convention

Love carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Love perseveres all the love-long day

Love doesn’t delay

Love is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts

Love confronts

Courage is her currency, kindness her language
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms

Love transforms 

Love weakens all defences
and challenges all camouflaged pretences
Love pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms

Love perfumes

Love is not 'nice'  
Love isn’t in this for the likes
Love bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Love never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight

Love is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This love is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble, End-Game-level
monumental

So as the wise man known for his proverb-ials
might have said:

Rob and Polly

Don’t be nice
and I’ll say it twice
nice is a vice that will never suffice

So heed this scriptural advice
[Proverbs 3 - expanded version]

Let love and faithfulness never leave you
bind them both to you (whatever the price to you)

Sustain one another with mutual collaboration
and on a God-given foundation build up a reputation
for a love that,
okay, as the good book says
might be a poor reflection of perfection
but for now - what you two have become
is a fairly close representation
of Christ’s love for his bride, his church
and that should never be besmirched

so let God’s love rise to meet you
at each and every unwinding curve
because it is nothing less
than what both of you
undoubtably
deserve.

Let me end by being more precise
follow Christ’s advice:
love one another
every day and every night
forsaking all others
with all of your might
and do it in a way
that pushes
way
past
‘nice’.

What’s the rush, Joash?
Why’d you arrive so early?
Not that we’re complaining,
you know we love you dearly.

Why the rush, Joash?
Why’re you so eager
to join the clan Hamilton,
for us to get to see yer?

Why the rush Joash?
There’s truly plenty of time
for you and Reuben, Mum & Dad
to find your rhythm and rhyme.

Why the rush, Joash?
Just rest and feel the beat
of four lives loving in unison,
a quartet truly complete.

'Under God' is no longer comfortable.
How can it be, with the company?
Spiritual Laws cannot precis
morality with integrity.
Sunday Prayers can't contain
all the complexities
of humanity's
Spirituality.

The tolls imposed
on primary roads to righteousness
cause an exodus
to less exclusive paths
where a moral minority
seek a more patient deity.

Her scars lay obscured,
shrouded by years of survival,
protected by safe distance,
masked by cosmetic smiles -
until you met her eyes
and there you shared
a fragment of her pain.
Wounded,
but after all,
the same wonderful woman.

I sat, gripped
as my tears fought to tear free
from her vice-like stare
and her mother-strong hold,
each knuckle white with intent
and scabbed with rage.

I tried to prise her grip away
scared by the strength of her frail frame
but she bore down all the same
and her nails inscribed one indelible plea
for me
to stay.