Father is a verb
It's not a noun to be worn like some crown
It's not an honorific
It's a doing word beyond what you do with your ****
It's not some name that you automatically deserve
Believe me, fathering is a lifetime of a verb

Look lady, do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.  
I alreddy told ya, I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.

Now, fair enough, it might look bog standard,
but you must remember, it was already cack-‘anded,
so I'd thank you for shutting your gob
with all your talk of you bein' robbed.  

Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.  

You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.

- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.

You know what I mean?

Unplug yourself and in that stark still shade linger eyes-wide under His gentle gaze and let Him examine and explore your innermost longings and there you can share in the glory of each of His imaginings.  And as you linger, stay still longer, allow Him to thread through the laughter of the warm flickering shadows of hearth and home, let Him give voice and shape and colour to every faint ember and let your spirit soar with His through every new door that He has in store for you and yours.

Linger longer and then soar.

Have I loved enough,
Have I denied myself?
Have I ducked the responsibility
That comes with so much grace?
Is mine a cost worth counting?
Is mine a cross worth lifting?
Have I reduced my discipleship
To a too comfortable pace?

Lord, I'm tired of this highway
With its crowded lanes and tolls to pay.
Let me live your love without speed limits
Along your narrow way.

And when you lead,
start with the feet.

When you lead,
you need to get down low
with a towel and a water bowl

For when you lead,
you'll find your honour
not over, but under

not higher, but lower 

not first, but last.

So, when you lead,
don't wait your turn,

but push your way
right to the back

where you'll find
nothing to prove,
nothing to hide
and nothing to loose,
but your pride.

Yes, while many will disagree,
when you lead,
bleed his example:

Undo a sandal
and start with the feet.

The grieving wind led our solemn steps,
and screamed through the ranks of sodden planks,
each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
fervently recalling local lives lost.

We trudged over those memorial boards,
sponsored grief borne by each grain,
as again salt dripped into the Mouth of the Severn.

At the pier head our tears contested
the callous grey waves
and lost
again.

No shadow
before light's warmth.
No sadness
before joy's kiss.
That's the way it is.

I listened to the river’s babbling,
her competing voices,
none winning, none getting ahead,
ahead of the next bend, the next meander,
a departure from the mainstream,
taking the conversation in a whole new direction -
leaving the lies behind
and the truth high and dry,
to be banked, baked crisp and brittle, crunched
to dust under a heavy rockfall of doubt and disinterest.
But I listened still, for the following chorus,
the next controversy.

I didn't need to wait long - the new river babbled...

I’d make a lousy leaf.

I couldn’t happily leave my tree, my family, my home.
I expect I’d be one of the last, holding on, looking down
and nervously watching my siblings.

Seeing them heaped and occasionally lifted
to fly, to dance in a whirl of excitement
– free of past commitments.

Maybe then I’ll gather my brittle courage,
eyes clenched shut, ready at last to jump
and to let go, into the unknown.

Only to find myself kicked around by ignorant children
who have no appreciation of the journey I’ve been on to get here.

Oh well, this is a new season.
There’s no going back now.

(Hebrews 12.2 – expanded version)

"…looking to Jesus,
the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him...

For the JOY of following his father's will
For the JOY of offering us salvation

For the JOY of putting an end to death
For the JOY of his promised resurrection

For the JOY of ascending to his Father
For the JOY of sending the Spirit of truth

For the JOY of commissioning disciple makers
For the JOY of preparing many rooms

For the JOY of planning his wedding feast
For the JOY of coming for his bride

For the JOY of gifting the water of life
For the JOY of drinking kingdom wine

For all these JOYS set before him,

…Jesus endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God."

where nothing will rob him of these JOYS.

I envy the equine fly twitch,
the contraction of muscle, the shudder
triggered by the fly’s tickle -
the irritation dispelled in a moment.
I envy that gift to dismiss the torment,
as I sit through another pointless argument.

Line suspended.
Train decanted.
Commuters frustrated.
Work belated.
London isn't working.

The long steps down
to the green sea
sweeping black-green seaweed
high on the sand seen
from the empty band stand
on the cliff top gardens
chased by screaming
ice-cream hunters
are each
rife
with salty memory
and I drink it in

How do you like your tea?

I smiled.

Assam strong.
A dash of skinny milk.
And a view across the Thames.

Lord, depose our Apollo,
Be our true Lord of Poetry
And so give us poetic licence
To fulfil,
To craft,
To create
With a God given palette
In your own imagery.

Blaze a trail from your heart
To the spirits of men,
Taking captives and setting them free
To feast on your words of life,
To move to your music of love,
To emerse into an eternity of dance,
To celebrate and so to reflect
Your devine Artisan Soul.

Yeah, but I'm cute in the face.
Or not. No matter.
I'm chosen and loved.
That's the crux of the matter.

Yeah, but I'm still young yet.
Or not.  No worries.
I'm chosen and loved.
Not living past glories.

Yeah, but I've still got time.
Or not. No difference.
I'm chosen and loved.
I got my deliverance.

This I know.
I'm chosen by God.
I'm loved by the Saviour.
He calls me his friend.
I rest in his favour.

Do you see a puzzle?
Or do you see a game?
Something to deduce?
Or something we can play?

No, not lost time -
just rearranged.

Not catching up -
just turning the page.

I was not expecting,
given its colour and its texture
and given my preference
for the familiar,
I was not expecting
my hand to take the spoon
to scoop, to lift
the lemon to my mouth
and I was surely not expecting
the ice to wrap my head
in silk
enveloping my shoulders
my arms
and fall into my chest,
forcing my mouth back open
to take in the warmth of the smiles
and expel my laughter
as I reached for more.

Yet my life is not as expected
and not aligned to my preferred,

but oh for more silk and laughter -

There's moments
when you're at your most vulnerable,
when you're lost
in a moment of release.

Like when you sneeze

- especially when you let go
three times in quick succession
in a fit of complete defenseless-ness.

If your friend is subject
to a sneeze attack
watch their back

(and that way
you're out of their line of fire).

An early walk with the black dog
Can tire the beast.
And for a while
He'll sleep at my feet
And leave me be for another day.

By evening he'll awake and place
His muddy paw on my knee,
Demanding my undivided attention.

Don't be a local.
Don't deny yourself the wonder.
Don't forego the sunlight,
the movement of the sky
the dance of the water

Don't be a local.
Don't focus on timetables.
Don't get lost in ferry dramas.
Lift your head into the wind
and take in the glacial.

There's no app
for job satisfaction.
No app for quicker
self-realisation.
No app for joy
and love of life.
No app to avoid
struggle or strife.
No app for meaningful
inter-relation,
for self-esteem
or bond formation

These each take time -
with patient dedication,
a repeated test
of your true determination.
These take quiet
contemplation
and louder considered
conversation.
A real-time flesh
interaction,
with authentic, humble
co-operation.
I'm meaning a dangerously
high contagion
with the risk of personal dissatisfaction.
These take sustained
concentration,
a firm hand on the neck
of your current situation.
These take more
than a one day binge;
you'll need to commit
to more than a fling.
More than a lazy
swipe to your right,
more than a stand
for just one night.
These take guts
and sweat and tears,
you might even find
that some take years.
But this is life
beyond the screen,
this is how
it's always been.
So lift your head
and take a breath,
we'll stand right here
and lend our strength.
All I can promise
are tears
and laughter
and friends who'll stand
closer thereafter.

A hug is a huge thing,
a something that can envelop,
can cause me to well up,
can burst through my well built up
defences and knock down fences
that have stood the tests
of time-honoured conventions,
that respected my distance
and even admired my stiff upper prevention
of anything like a display of affection.

A hug is a long held committing,
a massive undertaking
that leaves a long-lasting indentation
of serious loving.

A hug is a huge thing.
We need a hug.

He left me with a London Kiss
along the length of my body
deep enough to cost me
long enough to teach me to be careful
whenever I left myself exposed
and chose to be vulnerable
in this city of disputed space
and contested dreams.

He left me
poorer, but wiser.

In the beginning, John revealed the light
and said, "Let men repent."
And John's Aunt Mary saw that was good.
-
And John declared to the crowds, "Behold
Sin is taken away by the Lamb of God."
And there was water
and over the water there was the Spirit
hovering;
heaven tore down, and Mary saw
that this was God.
And God was well pleased.
-
Then
Jesus called Andrew
Andrew called Simon
Jesus called Simon, Peter.
And there was evening and there was morning, a very full First Day.
-
Jesus called, "Follow me, Philip".
Philip saw the Law and the Prophets fulfilled.
Philip called Nathaniel
and after a bout of doubt
and a lesson routed in a fig tree
Nathaniel came to see
a teacher and his God and his King.
-
And there was faith
and the promise of a great adventure.
More than enough for the Second Day.
-
-
There was a wedding in Cana
and Mary nudged her son:
'The wine has finished
This - is - not - good.'
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'.
-
And Mary said
'Listen to your mother.'
-
And Jesus sighed.
-
And Mary told the servants,
"Do whatever he tells you."
-
Then Jesus saw that it was no use to argue.
And he said, "let there be water".
And they rolled across the stone jars in front of him.
-
And Jesus said, "let there be wine".
And it was so - very - good.
-
And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this,
and whispered to Jesus:
'This just the start you know.'
And he did,
and it was.
-
And there was a Mother's faith
and there were gallons of glorious wine.
And Mary kept on smiling, so proud of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom
with this original third day, rolled-stone, miracle.
-
And there was a party,
and singing
and there was much laughter,
and the Son danced
with his mother through the night.
-
There was evening and there was morning,
a Fine Third Day.

The full, ****** moon
didn't feel that super.
It's powers of persuasion,
the pull of its personality
had ebbed to an all time low.
Oh, how it ached to make
its return journey,
to head back to the light,
to resist the draw
of this lesser sphere
and to answer
the greater solar call.
Each crator craved
to add that greater gravity
to its own
and together give rise
to the highest tides,
to monster surfs
that would daunt
the most arrogant of Canutes.
No amount of talk of waning
would deny this moon
it's rightful place,
turning it's far, dark side
to face the warmth of the sun,
and orbiting on,
into a crescent
of nocturnal renewal.

April Fool Phil's in love
And doesn't care what the date is
What matters is the ring on his finger
That matches his Mrs.
Standing before their families
Gathered from across the miles
Beaming smiles toward this happy couple
Praying for years of joy
And precious few troubles.

It was the same old song
Their mates were wondering
When they'd get a move on
Now their mothers are thinking
Of the fruit of the union (Don't deny it)
Meanwhile Phil is planning
Space for a drum kit
(I wrote that before I saw he'd already unpacked it)
And Anna is dreaming
Of a G&T; and just how Phil is so fit

So you'll both be forgiven
For failing to notice the party in heaven:
Thousands of angels cheering
With little discretion.
They just love it you see
When plans come to fruition
When birds of a feather
Find such pleasure together.

And they know for sure
The Lord shares their smiles
Cos two of his children
Can't help but shine
With the happiness that comes
From deep down knowing
That their love is ordained
By their Father in heaven. 

So Phil, so Anna
We stand with the angels
And shout our congratulations
We applaud your vows
With more volume
Than decorum allows,
-
May the Lord bless you
And keep you
May his face shine on you
And give you peace
That will never cease
To give you pause to thank Him
For his Grace.

And all the assembled people said
AMEN.

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
and massive paddling pools,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.
- common homes and gardens,
a street that was open plan,
family in every neighbour,
one big,
street-long
clan.

When your back is backed up against the wall, that’s when
you know no one can sneak up behind you
you can focus on the frontal assault
you can defend yourself with undivided attention.

So, when you can’t back up any further
count yourself fortunate.
Brace your back heel against the foot of the wall,
raise both fists and smile.

[No, not ‘smile’.]

Set your mouth in a maniacal grin and giggle
deliriously and in that next half second
while your assailant pauses to shake their confusion
in that half second you have your chance –

Punch them in the gut!
Follow up with an upper cut
and kick
their
****.

I grin my stupid grin, noting the green flecks and the hard to get at strands of meat, relishing the deep booth, the just loud enough too loud music, the familiar smile dishing out the platters, the laughter of being the first to the shake and squeeze of the red not quite ketchup between my hands, the almost fit of the dripping burger in my mouth, leaving a lick of a stain on my lower lip and a longer lasting comfort blanket layered in my stomach from that meal and a half, once in a while treat of my family, sandwiched together and perfectly reflected in the wall mirror.

God has no chromosomes
so don't get caught up with gender
He Genesised you down to your genes
and delights in your full splendour

The *** sat enthroned,
serene while concealing
the heated turmoil within.
Matching cups laid in wait,
straining against imposed patience,
anticipating the flow of flavour,
the afternoon pleasure
enveloped around the familiar ritual
of shared sweet-musk darjeeling,
while lemon slices rested, reclining,
indifferent but ready if needed.
-
I sat transfixed in Sunday best;
awaiting my slice of black forrest,
impervious to this most grown up delight.

Tough as a girl
Loud as a boy
Big on dreams
and bigger on joy

Quick with laughter
Slower with spite
Happy to hug
and happy to fight

Short on patience
Longer on play
First up in line
and last to give way

Shorter than me
but not by much
Likely to smile
and not hold a grudge

Sisters as siblings
are harder to bear
Sisters as friends
tend to be rare

When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.

I heard music in the night, and voices
- singing choral voices -
and a light rising, proclaiming
a kingdom, a peace, a kept promise

Like a new shoot from an axed stump
Like new fruit on a dead branch
Like laughter in the silence
Like a new star, with a most singular spark

and then I saw a child rise up
from the long dark
clutching a fresh old hope
and he led us
home.

This is more than a friendly fraternity
This is our Father’s fearless family

We are Holy Spirit descended
We are chosen, adopted kindred

This is our tribe of His gracious choice
crying ‘Abba Father’ in infant chorus

Hand in hand we stand as His clan
fruit of the original Abraham plan

By his blood we are kin
not distant cousins, but eternal siblings

We are adopted by His choice
fellow heirs with Jesus Christ

We cry out loud and then sing louder
We sing together: ‘Abba, Father’

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 ***.

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

Blessed are you frustrated

Blessed are you frustrated
For you know this life is defective.
Blessed are you who resist
For you know that you await a liberator.
Blessed are you impatient
For you have your sights on freedom.
Blessed are you who live in hope
For you will not be thwarted.
Blessed are you dissatisfied
For you know this is but a pale reflection.
And blessed are you who
Despite the fight on your hands,
Despite the yearning on your lips,
Despite the ache in your hearts,
You reach out in love,
You speak in peace,
You bring hope to others;
For with such as you God's Spirit rests.

--------------------------

1 Corinthians 13:12
12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

See Romans 8:19-23
19 For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.
20 For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope
21 that the creation itself will be liberated from its ******* to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.
22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.
23 Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies.

It’s early – the dominant sun rises, giving
a growing warmth as the urgent seeds dive deep
and the faithful sower dips his head,
dips his hand on repeat and sweeps his graceful arm
away from his small stomach, from his shrinking satchel,
trusting the seed to the sun
and working his way back to the feast.

I will take joy in my sadness
I will make praise in my complaint
I will walk tall as I stumble
And stand firm even as I faint

I see death rise around me
sickness renews its attack
But while you remain my saviour
There’s nothing that I lack

You're the light in my cold darkness
You're the song in my despair
You're the peace in this chaos
You're the answer to my prayer

So I’ll confess my allegiance
I will shout your name with pride
I will take joy in my salvation
and climb with you, my guide

... that is not important.

You’ve spent your time
– so much of our time -
on something that is not important.
And what’s more, you already knew that.
And still you went on
in the hope that it might redeem itself.

We both know what’s important
and what’s not.
We know what is worth our time,
our attention, our tears,
our sleepless nights.
We know what is worth our pain
and what is not.

And yet,
you have near exhausted your time
and, by extension, our time
on something that will never reimburse us.
Something that has cheapened you – us -
and has reduced us to this.

I need to know -
will you fight for something that is important?
And are we important to you?

He tilted his head “Okey doke, it’s almost time to go
– I’ve got a yoga teacher next, down in the Grove.
For you, it’s time to write the silence for a while,
to write the unsaid, to shelve meek and mild.

“Write the inner anger, the notes of distress.
Write what it was that you wished you had said.
Write all the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Write all the feelings you’d wished you’d conveyed.

“Write what it was you had meant to do,
what you intended that so frightened you.
What was it that you’ve let fall in between
your long dead silence and your unsaid scream?

“See if your volume will go above minimum
without it scaring you and leaving you frozen.
Go shape the words and say them out loud
find what it’s like to make fiercer sounds.

“Cos I’ve been so bored, sitting here listening
to nothing but you sat saying your nothing.
Go write your silence and come back around.
And let’s see if you’ve something worth writing about.”

The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.

As we share our meal,
as we laugh without care,
I like to think that they are secretly -
against their better judgement perhaps,
and despite their best attempts
to resist their inner urges -
that they are secretly,
at an almost primeval level,
repulsed by me.

But they'd never admit it
as they smile across the table
and say yes to desert.

I need a freedom from cynicism
from male chauvinism
embracing a softer masculine
an absence of sexism
and an embrace of a different manly-ism
one seen through a more unmanly prism
a less than bearing the whole weight of the family
and more like living as a 'we' community
not necessarily a man that's handy
but one who is able to more gently
lead by an example that's differently
fully
compassionately,
unmanfully
me.

There’s something pure in the dawning light
A hint of a greater, holy light
That flames and warms,
Particularly when reflected in a daughter’s eyes
Shining with perfection, reflecting
The warmth and the beauty
Found only in God’s resplendence.

Poets love metaphor and simile.
We love the extra dimension they bring to a conversation.

Hard brexit or soft brexit.
War of words.
Snail's pace.
Quiet as a mouse.
Embracing change.

But be warned, next time you use a metaphor ask yourself: Is the tail waging the dog? (See what I did there?)

Metaphors are powerful. For example:

When you join an argument - do you join a side?
Do you build your argument to withstand the opposition's attacks?
Do you fight to win the arguement, to defeat the opponent's arguement?

Or do you establish common ground? Will you join a journey to reach an agreement together?

Will you end up enemies with a peace treaty that is dependent on peace keepers?
Or will you be fellow travellers, journey companions with a shared objective?
Will you ultimately come to a shared view at the summit that you have reached together?

Metaphors are powerful. For example:

Is your day made up of stolen time?
Do you lose time?
Do you race against time?
Do you try to gain time?
Is time something you seek to possess more of - a finite resource that's to be preserved, stretched and saved as much as possible?

Or is time a stream, a river traveled that brings us to new experience?
Is it a force of nature to be respected and enjoyed?
Are you comfortable simply going with the river's flow? Can you enjoy the ride?
Can you accept the limits of what you control (a small rudder) and what you don't (the long established river and it's ultimate destination)?

Chose your metaphor with care, it may come back to bite you. There, I did it again.

The shorts I wear to bed
have a back pocket.
When I chose to buy them
in a twin pack with a tee shirt,
the pocket was not
a deciding feature.
However, I acknowledged
that it was there by design.

For months I gave it no further thought.
For months it was as redundant
as a breast pocket in pyjamas.

Then one morning,
as I was juggling
with a cereal bowl
and clothes from the dryer,
I slipped my phone,
still playing a pod cast,
into my back pocket.

And for a moment,
as the conversation followed me upstairs
back to the bedroom,
I smiled at the foresight of M&S.
I should have realised:
they know their stuff.