I'm pottering and napping
with no space for snap chatting
I'm reading and snoozing
with no online browsing
I'm just taking downtime
some space for just me time
I'll see you tomorrow
when I emerge from my burrow

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.

The next time I killed her
it felt forced
too practiced, rehearsed.
And whilst the movement
and the blood
still flowed
I wasn't able to feel
the same spurt
of the joy of completion
and whilst the execution,
was in essence still 'killing',
it was kinda dull, like a boring drilling.

I'll have to try again.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I lent into it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and whilst the transition
was in essence still 'dying'
it was kinda arousing, exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.

I'll have to wait
and see.

'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.

Layer by layer
the wailing wall
still weeps
leaks life
still happy
to receive
prayers to gods
who no longer reside
no longer invest
in their attempt
to subdue
a fierce people.
                  And the river offers up her long laughter below.

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.

Sometimes it gets fierce
like it's looking to escape.
But I tell it not yet.
I get it to calm.
Tell it I need it in place

But no matter how much
I speak peace it still gets fierce.
So much so I have to wonder
when its time will come
and mine will go.

But not yet. Not now.
Now I'm fierce enough.
Enough to speak peace
in words learnt over long years.
Long enough to keep pace,
keep to my off-beat rhythm
that’s beaten it down
into a life-long submission

While knowing that life-long
isn't long enough
and the beat won't go on
ad nauseam.

But yes, I get fierce enough,
enough to keep the beast in its place.
- My time hasn't expired yet.

I know my time will get old.
But not yet.

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.

When does a gift given become a gift received?
If a gift is not accepted, is it a gift indeed?
If a gift is left unopened is the gifting actually achieved?

(Is a gift not a gift if it is rejected?
Does it lose its giftedness when refused or neglected?)

Does the gift itself retain some kinetic gifted energy?
Or does it need the active catalyst of reception
to truly be the gift that its giver intends it to be?

This Christmas be sure to accept your full responsibility
to receive with a fully open heart as well as open hands
this gift I give to you from me.

(I've left the receipt in the bag.)

'I hear the Father say,

"Your patience indeed is shallow
- but my restive child, rest and pray,
find in me your refuge,
I am all you need today."

The Lord is harbour. He is anchor.
And once this season passes,
once the channels open
He will be our compass

and we will sail.'

Goodwill to all
Men
Women
Children
Family
Neighbours
Those kids on the corner
Fellow commuters
That bloke
who takes my parking space
Workmates
My boss
Competing shoppers
Nodding acquaintances
The woman down the road
with the 6 dogs
Complete strangers I see each day
The family who just moved in
over the way
Refugees
wherever they are
whoever they are
whatever their origin
- to all human kind
Heaven-sent goodwill
and God's grace
to you all
by my hand
and by my voice
Raised in greeting
Raised in support
Raised in defence
All year round
and never tiring
- Merry Christmas.

A change in complexion
A different choice of race
A cross of border union
A wider palate of taste

A shake-up down in Sussex
A paler skin exception
A dilution of the line
A pallid revolution

And this is my final Word on the matter.
You seem to have either
forgotton
or misunderstood
or ignored
my earlier communication.
So this time I will make it uneqivocal.
This time I will bring it down
to your level.
This time I'll say it in person.
Stop talking.
Pay attention:
This is my Son.
Listen to Him.

The inside me often disagrees
(sometimes violently)
with the outside me

See, they have very different perspectives
different standards
different - … ,  
well they're just different.

They've both had it difficult,
but in different, very distinct ways.

And that leads to differences in opinion and to opposition.
Opposing views, opposed decisions
that in the end they need to resolve
(however reluctantly),
to agree where they disagree.

Agree a way forward.

If you think the outside me would prevail,
you have been deceived and failed to conceive
just how much the inner man can conserve
energy until its needed to win the day

And so the outer me concedes,
(not defeat, but a passing loss),
because in the end they're in this together.
Inner or Outer.

A toss of the same coin.
One of us winning whichever side comes up,
whichever, whoever ends up on top.

Like I say, don't be fooled by the outward façade.
Take the longer view.
Look at the heart.

Have I been too revealing
Employing too much wailing?
Were the drums a bit too much
With epic trumpets playing?

Have I been too obtuse
Or did I veer into rambling?
Could I have better laid it out
Without elaborating?

Have I done justice to the discourse?
Did I mis-count the charging horses?
Did I include sufficient angels?
Was I true to my sources?

I trust that I did hold true
To heavenly inspiration
That the words will stand the test of time
And bring true revelation

But if I did stray from the truth
If it all seemed way too bleak
Please respond with due good grace
It's only my first week.

For so many years I felt the pull of the fires in my head
until the years drew them down to my chest
and then to my gut where they pushed me out to new fields
where blood fed the corn and we stood our ground
for the sake of family and for the joy of brotherhood's embrace.

In more recent times the fires have bled down,
fed into my hips and my knees, causing me to slow,
to sit and spend time passing on my story
to younger hearts who may dodge the spills and stumbles
and steer themselves to whiter fields and perhaps sow happier times.

Perhaps they will,
but I'll tell them -
the fires remain.

Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.

I aspire for the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring.
Ambition to realise her passion:
providing
serving
loving
learning
teaching
and persisting all hours
with no reflection on reward
but for the pleasure of the pursuit
of her God-given trust
- and so to serve royals
and her King
with contentment.
Then uniting with Him after a life well lived,
with lives better lived for knowing her.

You have greater worth than you suppose.
So, please listen to what I propose.

Don't default to self-less,
but be more deliberate in your selflessness

leaving space for a little selfish too.
Dont settle for less. Don't just make do.

Learn what makes you happy and then embrace it.
Recognise what makes you angry
and carefully express it

without being cranky
confront frankly and talk.
Don't just shut down and walk.

And accept the help your friends offer.
They wouldn't have offered if they couldn't be bothered.

Your friends have an investment in your friendship,
so don't let those friendships slip. They too benefit.

When you make contact, know you do not impose.
Because, it's true, you are of far greater worth
than you have presupposed.

The bigger my heart,
the greater my capacity for hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I need to think.

Live out
Live loud
Live strong
And those like you
Will laugh in relief
That they are not alone
That they like you
Can be who they were born to be
And can do what they came in this world to do

He may have been your father,
But he sure wasn't your daddy.
He may have once donated seed
But he didn't see it through.

He wasn't there long enough
To be worthy of your affection.
He didn't teach you anything
Cept how to be untrue.

Whatever you feel t'ward him
Don't let it redefine you.

The lovely man I see here now
Isn't credit to just one *****.

You wear the mask
that gets you through the day.
You close the door and tear
and tear the mask away.

You wear the mask
that gets you through the war.
You close the door and swear
there is no better way.

It won’t be a surprise, you know what I'm saying?
I - just - love –Ealing, whether working or playing.
I've been on my travels, I've been here, I've been there
I've followed my Jesus, ‘til He led me here.

And now I can't help it, I love every street
and as I turn 50, people ask, 'Pete,
why are you stirred to serve this old city
with Isaac and Josh, with Lois and Nicky?'

'Oh, golly', I say, 'Isn't it clear?
It's the call of Jesus each day that I hear.'
But, hand - on - my – heart, it's a challenge - isn't it?
How do I serve, when I'm five foot six?

Now I love a good quote. I know you don’t judge,
but some people say I love them too much.
I love a great movie, but sit at the rear
so people around me won't notice my tears.
[I'm just being honest with you.]

I love a good read, I've got books wall to wall
and I love the Arsenal when they're on the ball.
I was in the Olympics, did I tell you that?
If you look real closely you might see my cap.

I love Redeemer, the believers who gather,
how they will turn up to worship no matter.
I love just how creative some of them are,
the wannabe poets, the guys on guitar.

Now I mustn't embarrass anyone here,
but I love my dear wife, just so that's clear.
I love my three kids in no special order;
as they keep on growing I’ll cheer ever louder.

And each day I go walking, I might even run,
cos by living with passion I might serve the Son.
I - just - love – Ealing.  Do I hear an Amen?
Let's stride out together!  Redeemer-London!

After the rain, just as the sun came,
after light years of planning and 9 months of travelling
- after the rain,
Herbie came

and landed fully formed, fully loved,
full of laughter, a master of light
a gifter of aromatic delight
- after that long night,
Herbie came.

He’d waited, biding his time,
timing his arrival beautifully
bang in the middle of the lunacy,
the happy family being built at Conolly,
(number six)
fitting right in, applying his tight grip
on the mum and dad who just don’t know when to quit.
Yes, Herbie befits this Butcher-family-mix.

After the rain
this Ray of grace,
this pilgrim,
this loving warrior from heaven
this beam of radiance came
and entered a place Herbie-shaped
in the heart of the Rob & Rachel space
with a seasoned, full of flavour Herbie taste
that will forever linger
here in the embrace of family Butcher.

Yes, after the rain, just as June flamed,
Herbie came.

[Proverbs 4:6
Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you.
Proverbs 7:4
Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,” and to insight, “You are my relative.”]

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

I prefer to listen,
I'm learning to wait
and hear from she who is wiser.
I've made some mistakes,
but I'm learning from those
who trust the Word as adviser.

As I sit and I read,
as I ponder and pray
my sisters begin to make sense.
My sister is Wisdom, my sister is Insight,
my first and next line of defense.

My By Day - or my By Night -
which secret me - do you like?
Whichever you dream of,
- it's fine by me,
- my By My Self is where I'll be.

I read my favourite graphic novel and I see
I need more breath between the panels
The images come too quickly
They combine with the dialogue to overwhelm me
and my ability to process, to ingest
the action and our conversation

Can you afford me more breathing space,
more margin in my morning kitchen shuffle,
can you allow me the time,
maybe as much as the day after the night before
to properly process without the stress
of having to readily express a miserable conjecture
of what I’m feeling, what I'm missing

Then I can signpost where I'm heading
I can pause and recap, provide an opening to map
where my story is going
and then perhaps I can take us with me.

I recall the succulent
All Day Breakfast Sandwich
With its delicious twin slices
Of pure white bread,
Infused with Heize baked bean juice,
Cushioning the crisp smoked
Sweet cured bacon,
Nestled against the bite
Of pork chipolatas
And the soft free range
Hard boiled eggs,
All seasoned with sea salt
Black pepper
Tomato sauce
Dijon mustard and
Mayonnaise.
And now sustaining me
All Day.

Sometimes when I look into the storms, I see Jesus.
But sometimes I just see my fears
competing for the pleasure of being the first to swallow me.
It's typical of me to see more of the slap of the waves
hear more of the thunder clap
and miss his soft song.
It's typical of me
to stare too long into the jaws of the gale
and to miss the arms that bring calm
- to listen too intently at the fury
and miss the whisper of his promised peace
- to sail deep into the shadows of the storms,
catching the detail
and not share in the warmth of the rising sun.

Sometimes when I face the storms, I see Jesus.
Sometimes.

I do not mind carrying you,
you carry the conversation while I breathe
and your breath warms my ear

I do not mind the angle at which I hold you
as I bathe you and listen to you sing
and your arms soap my cheeks

I do not mind the slow fall onto the bed
your light keeps us aware of the night
and your dreams bruise until you forget

I do not mind,
but I wait for a dawn alone.

“Here is the man!” said Pilate. And then,
“Here is your king!” said Pilate again,
thinking that keeping open all options
usually paid ample dividends.

But not this time, learnt Pilate:
when politics fail, mob rule succeeds
he thought ‘I need to nail my colours
and someone other than me

has to die for the lie
that I’m the innocent one.
That’s when I missed my one chance.
to hail God’s one Son.

I had my one chance
to accept the true Truth,
but opted instead
to make an excuse.

Don’t do as I did.
Don’t pass up the offer
to worship this Jesus,
true Son of the Father.

I got just one thing right:
He’s the King of the Jews
But don’t kid yourself,
cos He’s your King too.

He had His detractors - did Jesus
some aggressive,
while others were more subtle.
And these had more success:
with cute bunnies,
concealed eggs
and confectionary.
But, despite their best attempts,
the Story remains unfinished.

They were a common or garden,
run-of-the-mill variety
of right weird bleeders.
Individually, nothing I'd not seen before.
But oh boy, together -
it was like the circus had passed through and their apprentice scheme had got left behind.
Mind you,
you could see what they were attempting,
and give them a few years
I'm sure they would figure out a style
and colour scheme
that worked.
For now,
well like I say
- right weird bleeders.

My kids, they prophecy daily,
young men recount their visions,
pensioners dream their dreams,
fired up for holy mission.

I wonder about those like me
caught in our middle ages.
What did Joel have in mind
for men in mid-life crises?

God tells me I'm still chosen,
I still do qualify
to bear ripe fruit, to share good gifts,
to live without compromise.

So as the last days come much nearer,
as our mission nears completion,
you'll find I pray more readily
to herald his coming kingdom.

In London
there’s a game of chess
with all the pieces white.
The board’s perfectly circular
and tilted to the right.

The grandmasters use strategies
that no-one’s ever tried.
They change their mind constantly,
but never break their stride.

Now, it's not the place for a pawn
to question that last move,
but I cannot help but think
I’m going to get *******.

Feet flat, knees level, he takes the position:
wrists and forearms relaxed
and shoulders loose.
He begins with a quick combination,
flying like darts from his fingers,
while looking for advantage.
More alert now, he ignores obvious feints
and scrolls swiftly down,
shifting his stance to maintain balance.
He considers his strategy - and then,
sweeping away block-proof pretenders,
focused on his target,
he exhales and executes a precise killer 'CLICK'.
Smiling, he takes a well-earned bow
to sup his scalding coffee.
He's a Google-jitsu,
early-morning Master;
know him and fear him.

I've been
right in the thick of it
wanting to stick with it
just for the hell of it
up front and close to it.

But now
I've had my fill of it
done my fair share of it
time to slow down a bit
and exit before Brexit.

"Listen!
I'm neither - not either!

"Not left, not right
Not black, not white

"Not red, not blue
Not the many, nor the few

"No, neither you
nor any other political tribe
will bribe my alliegence.
No one can expect
my adherence or compliant silence!

"I've no tribe but kin
and my kin can come in any skin
and will come and go again
this close to the rim.

"So, no -
I'll not promise to sing
from only one sheet of hymns.
I'll not sign up to this week's
with-the-tide swim.

"You can't assign me
based on a tick-box whim.
I'm no man's synonym.
I'm no easy pseudonym.

"My vote has never been
and never will be
ANYBODY'S easy win."

She stood at the door poised with her pen.
'Okaay... Is that an 'Undecided' then?'

How many times a day do you pray?

As many as needed.
Some days only once.
But it might take all day.

Stubborn love
faced down the years
of fearful hate
and stared intently as a child
from the stink of a manger
out into the poverty and
the oppression reflected
in captive eyes,
wide with hope
and wet with joy.

Generous love
cried out an almighty peace
into the dark stillness,
heralding a new start
with echoes of ancient promise.

Patient love
reached out with perfect timing
and embraced humanity.

Unfailing love.
Unfailing still.

I see your consternation,
But you can be sure
Addiction's cure
Is not legislation,
Nor condemnation.
It's not incarceration.

The cure is connection.

We addicts need Relationship,
Not a guilt trip.

The angel's nose is in the dirt.
His sacrifice apparently saving us to our grief.
He lies there broken for us, prayerfully still,
there for the sake of the children,
for the sake of decorum,
protecting us from the accidental,
from the potential risk of an angelic fall
crushing the griever as they stoop
to place their flowers.

My sister chose the flower arrangement
from the top table of her daughter's wedding
where the fallen should have been
and perhaps could have stood
giving a heart-felt and gently humorous speech,
offered a toast to beauty and happiness,
but instead lies emotionless

in the dirt.

Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.
But mum told Joan that she was wicked.

She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week,
a week she spent bemused and resentful
and she refused to poo for three days
until mum relented and gave her Barbie back
– but the rest would have to wait.

It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School
with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.

We’d sat on the adult chairs in a circle
Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters.
knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,
the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us
that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.

He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit
[Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma,
so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson]
and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him
(unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.

It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated
and the second time the bloke saw people again
but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.

So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden,
and pasted it onto Barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over
and on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar
which I thought looked cool, but was curious to see what happened.
She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.

She followed the prescribed method, slather, wash and then repeat
(which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest)
but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing,
perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked,
unlike Jesus of course.

I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid,
she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands
and to put her dress in the wash.
Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could.
That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls.

The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed.
He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages.
I thought we were for the high jump,
but afterwards mum looked like a school girl caught stepping out of line.

Mum was very quiet and at dinner dad said that she had something to say
- to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us
and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did.
It was what he would have wanted.

We were so ashamed for my mum
- neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.

He opened his eyes well after he woke,
not wanting his touch to be proved a lie.

So he lay still, hiding his fears behind
the pink morning glow though eye lids,
holding his excitement under her breath.

And then she moved her hand
from his arm to his cheek
and she whispered, ‘I’m still here,’

and his joy bubbled up into a grin
as his eyes gave proof to touch and sound.

Not waving, but drying.
Not surrender, but hope.
Not a reckless abandon
to the uncaring elements,
but a careful reading of the gusts,
of the distant clouds,
of any sign of coming gales.

Not waving, but drying
by a canny application
of my mother's oversized,
double applied,
long-legged, wooden pegs.

Not waving, but drying
by lunchtime.

The Speakers for the Dead raise their head
and speak softly and measuredly
So to be better heeded
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead dress modestly
Not drawing attention to themselves
So that the living listening can focus
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead inform themselves
Of all aspects of the life of the dead
So not to drift into speculation
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead aqaint themselves
With local language and idiom
So no misunderstanding should arise
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead
Ensure that we can be heard
By the living and the deaf
And so to ensure that the dead can be answered.

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies beyond
- all this my God beholds

A woman walks into a bar,
alone on a Friday night,
daring assumptions,
orders a pint
and gets out her book.
That's it.  There's nothing else to write.
What?  Not clichéd enough for you?