Help me remember the good things
Help me drink in the view
Help me find both my feet
Help me find my you

Herbie ain’t no herbivore
He’s more of a feasting guy
His taste buds are testy
His jaws are real itchy
For a succulent turkey thigh

No, Herbie is no herbivore
And when he’s in the kitchen
He’ll alway stay focused
Ready to show us
Food is much more than nutrition

Herbie is no herbivore
There’s more to life than greens
But it shouldn’t be said
That his mum and his dad
Haven’t taught him to love chilli beans

Herbie is no herbivore
This Christmas there'll be no doubt
He’ll feast like a prince
On pies filled with mince
And turkey and maybe a sprout

Too little of this is false
Too much of this is true
I'd love to dismiss all of this mess
as just some more fake news

I look into her face, curiously more familiar, more frequent now on her departure. And particularly more prominent in profile.  
I look into her face and see the easy smile that comes with age and with the assurance of knowing herself and her place in the bigger scheme of things, particularly in the scheme of relatively earthly royalty and the ultimately heavenly King.
I look into her face and recall it in prayer at her husband's funeral, and imagine it now at rest, in darkness and in joy, in a brighter light.
I look into her face, on my pound coin, in the corner of my letter, on the street bill board, on the front of the paper, on every channel, an image etched in my mind's eye, a loud echo of a lifetime of consistency and service.  
I look and then in a prayer thank her God and my God for gifting us this servant queen, who lived well and only fell once she had done enough to help ensure others' lives were better for her being there.
And I pray for our king, that his long apprentiship in her firm serves him well and serves us well as we walk on together, into the unknown, in thanks for the service of leaders.

Some of my heroes wear
a cowl or a cape,
they might wield a shield,
swing from a web
or swing a big hammer.

Some of my heroes wear
a smile in the face
of foaming anger
and throw a mean hug
that will make you stagger.

I know who I'd rather
be my first responder.

She smiles at speed and leaves my fingers sparkling
with flashes of leather and steel.
She catches my eye in the mirror then falls away
while emerging afresh from around the next bend.  
And somehow she lingers long enough to inject my lap and push me
back deep into each crack in the road, caught in filtered sun
through the crash of leaves, drawing out fear with a surge of adrenaline
pooling in the pit of my stomach and sinking into my sack of stones
that ache and hunger for the straight and the late brake
over the reek of grease, oil and fully leaded fuel,
dyeing my skin a slippery shade of tarmac, diluted by blood
and black rain blinding me with a flimsy sheen shimmering
between me and a dark montage of cries and stillness,
til I pass a pyre that devours young ambition for long life
and casts shadows of a long breath held at the finish,
its threat caught in her smile,
until the next time.

He steps in and our expectations ascend above the deep frustration, the anticipation felt by all creation as we bound into our liberation.

He steps in and we step out of age old bonds into endowed freedom, responding to the answer to our tears and groans and tears with redemption born of our adoption as children into a family kingdom.

He steps in and our patient hope is emboldened by Spirit-inspired words beyond words reaching deepest down, heart from heart to the throne of thrones.

He steps in and so we stand with purpose in the divine presence, secure beside divine  representation.

He steps in and choses us for gracious generosity with ultimate justification against all criticism, against all condemnation.

We step up in his image, secured in love beyond separation.

We step up, more than conquerors.

Hiding prolongs the pain
Running extends the fear
But when you kneel and pray
He who loves comes near

I'll be completely honest but not completely true 
I'll be true to my heart but not always true to you

some of my words will reflect much of what I feel
while you'll find that other lines are more contrived to conceal

you see a poet can use their words to bear their deepest feeling
but look again and you may see something deeper redder bleeding

read again between the lines of the fresher tender cuts
and you'll brush a slower finger over old wounds long untouched 

you may disturb my untold stories seeping through the pages
and find a heart much like yours where an older passion rages

His name is Magic -
not because of the wand,
the battered pointed hat,
or his habit of not letting dragons pass,
but because, time and time again,
he was there when needed
and did what was required
to make life go a little smoother.
- Magic.

Not horrible, but incredible, not nasty, but dynastic - some fantastic stories (I'm talking histories) - that pre-existed our weary scurries across this all-the-worlds-a-stage, so pay attention to this sometimes sage narrator and you'll be glad you did later on when you find that the story's on repeat and despite calls to the contrary lessons are rarely learnt and once burnt doesn't lead to twice shying away from the danger of descending down frequently encountered pitfalls, so pay attention and you may hear a history that lends itself to self discovery and avoidance of common snares and having to ask - "haven't we passed this way before?"

Like layering Hi Viz
over my Camo Print
I embrace my tendency
to self contradict -
Deal with it.

Like the comfort of forged steel in your hand or between your teeth
Like the push of a brother's shoulder against yours
Like the grip of deep tread on your boots
Like the weight of a canteen on your belt
Like the pull of a loyal hound on your hand
Like the thunder of your horse beneath you
Like the loyal rays of morning cutting through the cold
Like the rumble of reinforcements across the Vale
Like the tight knot of a bandage on your deep wound
Was the reassurance of our Captain's voice ["Hold!"] in the absence of all else.

Each line,
each sound enters a secret combination and swings wide a door of opportunity to me who follows
And as it appoaches it's close, the line turns and holds open that door, just for a few moments, before moving on,
and if you're quick enough, if you time it right, you who follow can take the weight without the skill needed to open it, and so you say your thanks
and then you too can pause as you look back and pass the weight , the opportunity onto a someone who follows on.

And so we follow, on to the turn of the next words of revelation,
timing and attention crucial to maintaining the flow of opportunity
until every now and then a mis-step necessitates a stretch, a reach and catch of the door, giving effort to reverse the swing and maintaining the offering of access
and in return we might receive a thank you from they who follow us.
And smiling, we follow on.

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.

Holly and Ivy
Walked in the woods
Discussing who was the best
Holly was hoping her rosey complexion
Would maybe outshine all the rest.

But Ivy thought Holly was surely forgetting
The shock of her prickly demeanour
She was convinced for sure
The king would adore
All that was so special about her.

Now Ivy was bit of a hugger
You might say a lot of a clinger
But she was convinced
Her warming embrace
Would win over the king no matter.

And when the time came
For the winter queen crowning
The king of the woods was clear
He chose as his queen the lady he fell for
And it's Holly who now wears his ring.

No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,

not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,

a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.

Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.

The most Holy Spirit.

What now?
Where do I go?

Home.

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.

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.

Step over the threshold
And explore the front hall
Full of possibilities and shoes.
Let me lead you into a kitchen where
You can meet the family
and greet the mutt too.

It's warm and smells
Of cookies and coffee mugs
Of late chats and early plans
and sneak-behind hugs.

Let the pool of love
That regularly floods here
Soak into your bones
And so wash out your fear.

Our home is your home,
Come pull up a chair.

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.

Her's is a heart beat of hope
Hesitant but defiant
Faint but climbing
Gaining a higher hold
Gasping for deeper breath
Crawling into life
Into new born surprise
Shocked lungs shooting cries
Generating joy-deep sighs
From two families
For life

Try for courage
And hope for honour

Build for friendship
And hope for love

Climb for height
And hope for safety

Stand for justice
And hope for truth

Shared slow
Shared spheres
Shared strolls
Shared souls

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we disguise Him,
camouflage and mask Him -
how do you sneak Him in?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
give Him some acceptable spin?

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we conceal Him,
hide and obscure Him -
how do you slip Him past?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
keep Him from being unmasked?

How do you smuggle Jesus?
How can we impart Him,
stealthily bestow Him -
on those still on their search?

How do you smuggle Jesus,
and release Him back into His church?

How many anarchists does it take to change a light bulb?
You don't change it! You smash it!

How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?
Only one, but it must want to change.

How many poets does it take to change a light bulb?
Two.
One to hold the ladder.
And one to tearfully consider the transitive nature of existence compounded by the tragedy of the assumption of replacement without true celebration of the individuality found at the heart of the mass produced and the beauty that can be found in a frail light fighting against the darkness inherent in an unfair world.

How many poets
Does it take to change a light bulb?

Two.
One to hold the ladder.
And one to tearfully consider the transitive nature of existence compounded by the tragedy of the assumption of replacement without true celebration of the individuality found at the heart of the mass produced and the beauty that can be found in a frail light fighting against the darkness inherent in an unfair world.

How many poets
Does it take to change a light bulb?

Two.
One to hold the ladder.
And one to tearfully consider the transitive nature of existence compounded by the tragedy of the assumption of replacement without true celebration of the individuality found at the heart of the mass produced and the beauty that can be found in a frail light fighting against the darkness inherent in an unfair world.

When you hold your grudge
handle it with care.

A grudge is volatile
and can become unstable without warning.
Close contact with your grudge for prolonged periods
will leave a stubborn stain.

Please wear the insulated gloves provided,
stay distant from others
and leave your grudge at home at all times.

Its weight will quickly increase with age,
put it down as soon as possible.

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.

A kiss takes a moment while hugs keep giving wraparound comfort and room to weep in your sleep when spooning as a means to keep skin to skin tenderness in the state of undress exposing vunerableness sighing long and deep and long and deep with contented peace whispering sweet somethings and never having to release
and to kiss
goodbye.

This is me.
Fully, and only, human -
a human conditional
on compromise,
a very human contradiction
with a human capacity
for good
or ill,
but only as far
as it is humanly
impossible for me.
And then to turn
to my maker
and leave room for Him
to make all things possible
after all.

my finger traced the cracks and brokenness,
found the gaps and incompleteness,
while you carefully took each jagged piece
and added a golden vein of grace
to mark the restoration,
creating a celebration
within a divine appreciation
of this, a broken reflection
of my origin,
starting and ending with you

Hush.
Quiet your hands.
Lay still for a moment.
Right now, just the scent of you,
Just your touch
Is overwhelming.

Infinity isn't a number
And nor am I.

I am more than
the traces I rub against,
the dust I've gathered,
the crumbs in my pockets,
the mud on my shoes,
the dirt under my nails,
the gritty sleep in my eyes,
the deep wax in my ears,
the grease in my hair,
the bruises I carry,
the scars I bear.

I am almost the songs I sing.

Blessed are you who know hungry.
Blessed are you who know thirsty.
Blessed are you who know both
hollow and empty.

I'm not talking to you peckish.
I'm talking to you who are conscious
of just how long it's been
since your last real meal.

Blessed are you when you pass up
on the offer of a fast food snack.
Blessed are you when you don't make do
with leftover scraps.

Jesus says:
Blessed are you who know your true need,
you who know where to fully feed.
Blessed are you who look to me,

- for I am the true life-giving manna,
sent down by your faithful Father-Provider.
I am the fresh-bread of eternal life.
Whoever comes to me -
be ready with a butter knife.
For you will never
go hungry.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his clear voice, one I knew I knew,
seeking me out, drawing me in
from the dark.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his broad shoulders as he lifts me,
carrying me back to good pasture,
back home.

I place my faith in the battered shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders forgiving enough to haul a cross,
strong enough to bear my full weight
whatever the cost.

Yes, I believe in the shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders broad enough for every black sheep,
strong enough when we are lost
and when we are weak.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus –
throwing his arms welcome wide
and lifting me into this embrace,
safe from all wolves and the thickest of thickets.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus
betraying His Father’s family trait
of rescue and acceptance.

I believe in the good shoulders of Jesus.
That’s where I place my faith.

I believe baubles have way too much glitter,
That another new year won't make it all better.

I believe turkey tastes bland without stuffing,
That my secret santa was better than nothing.

That rich Christmas pud needs plenty of cream,
That thin paper hats are as cheap as they seem.

I believe parties can get out of hand,
That still silent nights need to be planned.

I believe Christmas can bring people down,
That relentless fake smiles hide many a frown.

That without the real Jesus it's a real waste of time,
That if He was here He'd call it a crime:

The way we ignore those under our feet,
The times we brush past the poor on the street.

Jesus just cries to see our behaviour,
So far from the path He set as our Saviour.

So this Christmas ask Jesus to soften your heart
He'll give you forgiveness and bring a fresh start.

You can live with new hope and sing with new meaning,
Dont waste any more time with any more dreaming.

Happy Christmas to all and to all my best wishes,
May your Christmas be more than merry wet kisses.

May the Christ of this Christmas visit this year
And give you good reason to be of good cheer.

I come from stand-up strong tea, delivered before 7 with a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you got down quick, before Dad shook the milk.

I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest having to get up cos we had no remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of the shouts of wrestling faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments to the family seating in unity before the fat, three-channel, monstrous TV.

I come from tempers and broken locks, with threats of knocking your block off. I come from being ******* at sports and regular feelings of coming up short. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the regular cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from family trips with back seats sun-baked, and travel sickness triggered by the waft of St Bruno Flake.

I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's three jobs when things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the stench of stewed cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, common homes and gardens, one long, good-or-ill clan.

And if I could, I’d plan a street-wide celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with Joe Loss All Time Party Hits and barely room to spare, with the kettle on and Tupperware full of broken biscuit bits.

And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve managed to find my own way. I’d assure them that blood is still thicker, but they really need to get over me moving north of the river.

I took a breath
and I dived
deeper.
I pushed down til I saw the dark.
I reached down
dusted off my sea bed
and took hold of my bedrock.

I embraced to my chest
what lie there,
and pushed up,
retrieving, reclaiming,
bringing it to the surface light,

and once scraped free of neglect
it was seen
and noone would again wonder
what lay beneath.

I dived deep.
What choice did I have?

Ignore the lyrics:
You can't pursue love.
You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or had;
it's a doing word that you both have to work at.
Love is a language expressed in deeds
and so clear expression of your love best succeeds when you both discover what the other most dearly needs.
So spend time planting daily deeds of love, every one a fragile seed.

Continue to listen day and night
and learn what each other prefers and what you both like.
And then, when you get it right
you'll be answered by a unmistakable light in their wide glistening eyes.
-
Do it on a date.
Do it with your mates.
Do it when you're tired and it's heavy eyed late.
Do it in the everyday mundane way
you pair your own socks
and clear away last night's takeaway.
-
Laugh often and have fun
especially when you feel life has you on the run
and be sure to surprise each other both regularly and often
Maybe even invest
in a pair of water guns.
-
Share the fragile thoughts
you find at the forefront of your mind.
Reveal your vulnerability, the hurt you feel when life's been unkind.
-
And in response to that revealed insecurity, ensure you tread carefully  until you see the healing that comes from interlacing lovingly.
-
Speak your love every day.
Articulate it come what may.
And that way you'll ensure that it stays
at the forefront of each of your todays,
on the tip of your tongues
so when you inevitably take a step wrong
you'll both recall why you're together
and why it's worth the endeavour that it takes to push through that unexpected foul weather.
Love one another through that gale
and sail on to meet the adventure
that's yours to discover:
Through the miles of your wherevers,
for the duration of your whenevers,
strong enough for your whatevers,
standing together,
forever relentlessly loving each other.
-
So may the Lord of your tomorrows bless you together.
May the Lord keep you smiling whatever.
May his face shine on you in all kinds of weather.
And may He give you peace
that will never cease to give you pause to thank Him for his grace
forever.
-
And all the assembled people said
AMEN.

I dwell in possibility.
- Emily Dickinson

I dwell in the possibilities birthed by the daily Immanuel
I dwell in the possibilities whispered by the wonderful Counsellor
I dwell in the possibilities wrought by the almightiest God
I dwell in the possibilities perpetuated by the everlasting Father
I dwell in the possibilities secured by the Prince of all peace makers
And I dwell with Him where all things have possibilities

It's so easy to drift into a slow 'if only' and wander again through a past possibility that didn't blossom into an anticipated actuality leading you away from activities that hold greater profitabilities while smothering you with unhelpful wistfullies and miseries that blind you from embracing future feasibilities and your Father's generosities that will exceed our feeble fantasies.

If she says it is
then it is
poetry
and don't try to tell her
any different
cos that would be your lie
against her truth
and we've all seen
where that boot leads
- art reduced down
to out of 5 stars reviews
and the boo's of the many
smothering the true of the few
and that dilutes truth
for us all, including you.
So, if she says it is
then it is
poetry
and true.

If this wall could talk
If those eyes could see
If those tears could fall
would they fall for me?

If this face could smile
If those lips could part
If those cheeks could blush
would they claim my heart?

If you must breathe
Do it deeply

If you must cry
Do it openly

If you must laugh
Do it heartily

If you must run
Run with me

If you must hide
Hide in me

If you must believe
Believe in me

If you must,
And you must,
Do so now.

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