The corner story-yeller
held her eye to eye
and told her with a cry
"If it's worth telling,
then it's worth yelling

and if it's worth yelling,
then it's worth having
a listen.
So listen, why don't yer!
This is the moral of life:

If yer don't look after yer feet
then yer feet won't look after yoo."

And with a throaty 'harumph'
the story-yeller limped away
dismissing her audience
with a spit and a sigh
ready to launch
at the next passerby.

Listen like you're deaf
Like your very breath is dependent on
turning up every sense to the maximum
become one with each and every sign
this aint a talkie so align your whole self
to complete concentration
embody the revelation
until you're full in the face of emotion.

Listen like you're deaf
and then you'll hear the whole person.

Speak like you're deaf
Like your very breath is dependent on
turning up every sense to the maximum
become one with each and every sign
this aint a talkie so align your whole self
to complete concentration
embody self revelation
until you've released full emotion.

Speak like you're deaf
and then you'll show the whole person.

I love portraits with their lives showing
with honest endings
with tears not yet dry
torn by well intended lies

getting what they think you deserve
settling for less than what's due
becoming the person you're pretending to be
rather than just being you.

making the same mistakes as me
not stopping to figure it out
not considering who you could truely be
living with much too much doubt

perhaps these words seem familiar
do you get most of my meaning?
maybe it's time to take a fresh look
and live the life you've been dreaming

Love is a loaner armchair
Low enough to relax me
Built to embrace me
With arms that support me
While I return to my book
And sup hot tea

London.
What do you need it to be?
The Capital?
A powerhouse?
An icon?
Your career boost?
A short city break ?

For me
it's home.

London 1

It’s a jigsaw
an impossible jigsaw of irregular shapes,
no corners and no box.
A spectrum of letters and codes,
numbers that don’t add up - in any direction,
no apparent design and no consistency,
a ring and a circle offering a little diversion
and a blue-brown vein from top left to far right
meandering unhelpfully.

It’s a jigsaw.
Ten million pieces
and every - fragment - fits.

London 2

I was born in South London.
No.  South-East London.
I have lived in North-West London,
in South-West London
and in West London.
East London is a place of work.

These are miles apart.

Codes and customs disconnected
by a river (which was here first)
and by motorways (that came much later).

and I remain.

I'm a Londoner
I embrace diversity
I relish cultural complexity
I feed on cross border connectivity
I laugh at the concept of heritage unity
I revel in the uncertainty of multi race identity.
I love my God, in His graceful domesticity
Here across this broad city.

Long ago before the world was round
before it grew blue and sprung green
there was no song
no music
and words were flat
with sharp edges and holes
with nothing to fill them.

That was until the hummingbird hummed
and the song-thrush found its voice
and the humans,
who prospered by copying the best ideas,
lied and mimicked and parroted
until something like song
smoothed the edges
and filled the holes
until the world was full
and it's edges round
and music began

These days we
last long enough to grow old
live long enough to reflect
but don't grow up enough
to bother.
Lord, save us from ourselves.

Now Joe's too big for his bed
But never let it be said
That this would prevent
Some time well mis-spent
Watching TV while outspread

Within the long Selah,
deep in the chasm of the pause,
His words sink,
seep,
down into the cracks,
into the gaps
and salves where bitter words
were once rooted
and grew to sprout a harvest
of self recriminations
to the third and fourth generation.

Within the long Selah,
in that cleft
his seed begins
a fresh sowing
and leaves new promise
of a fresh crop
of sweeter fruit.

you could call me Larry
you might call me Shaun
but I will look Eastward
and wait for the dawn

you may think me seasoned
you could call me spring
but I'm looking Eastward
while the morning birds sing

you could call me silly
you might think me dumb
but when I look Eastward
I greet the dawn sun

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.

'Move more, eat less,'
I heard the GP say.
You'll find the weight
will just fall off.
Just take it day by day

'Eat less, move more,
ignore the painful knees.
'Get off the train
one stop before
and lose weight by degrees.

'Move more, eat well,
resist that chocolate treat.
'You really can
offset a little of
the life-long balance sheet.

'Eat less, move more.'
I followed the sage advice
And now you'll see
I tend to take
a snack while on my bike.

The surrounding lights drown in silence
Sinking without a struggle
Absorbed into this sea of isolation
Saturating every action into submission
Leaving me shouting at my strayed shadow
With each note falling flat around me
My mind fog-bound and lost at sea.

The world no longer fits.
Friends like fleece
Family like well worn wool
Triple wrapped for winter
Tea that's brewed stronger
None can now heal her

A smile to light the day
A hug to last the night
A keeper of peace
And ender of fights.

The world ill fits her
Her anchor won't hold any longer
She's lost and bewildered
No longer graceful as she grows older
And there's only this frail shadow
Of the woman I still ache to know
Mum, I miss you
Where have you gone to?

Walking in time
picking up pace
lifting it high
taking up space

Stretching the truth
when bending the rules
chancing your arm
digging your holes

Losing the plot
burning too slowly
seeing it through
the gaps in the story

Taking great stock
but failing to pay
attention that's due
at the end of the day

It's so loud - like a thunder
like the storm of the girl she was
quick as lightning and gone

It's so loud
louder than ever
I don't remember her heart
being so loud
so proud of my little girl

I didn't find enough time
to listen to her
to listen to her heart
to listen to her heart beats

I didn't find moments to hold her
I could have told her
- look after your heart
it's so easily snatched away

I didn't hold her
---- hear her
--------- dance with her
nearly enough to know her heart
I wasn't nearly father enough

Listen
listen to her heart
with so much more life to give
with more life to live

Listen to me

Love me a wisper louder,
hold me a squeeze tighter,
and kiss me with care.
Tread tenderly and
listen liberally
for tonight I need you to lavish
wrap-around comfort
and to let me fall apart a little more
in your tear stained arms

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’.

Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
Nice is 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 it
lest it attract your notice
lest it 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 defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
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
Love is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble, End-Game-level
monumental

So, don’t be nice
and I’ll say it twice
nice is a vice that will never suffice
And let me end by being more precise
follow Christ’s advice:
love one another
every day and every night
with all of your might
and do it in a way
that pushes
way
past
‘nice’.

Love is patient.
Love is .... slow.

Love doesn't hurry.
Love doesn't celebrate brevity,
it doesn't interupt,
it doesn't rush.
Love refrains from finishing
your sentence,
and never jumps
to the punchline.
And love loves
a long shared lunchtime.

Love is happy to hesitate.
Love slows the pace
for the slowest of us.
Love - always - waits,
always protects,
always - makes - space.

The greatest love is slow
patience.

My two ears are red
my ten toes are blue
at this time of year
warm days are few

Whoever you're with
this valentine's day
keep your heart warm
and keep flu at bay

I will love you
until the moment I die away
until my last words pass
until my last chord fades

I will be true to you
until the next track plays
until the playlist moves on
and we become forgone
unless you choose 'repeat' to replay

Her string of choice words rose and fell
Wrapping themselves around my eager ears,
Like the rise and fall of her pearls
Drawing my young eyes,
Like the swarm of her subtle scents
Filling my brimming heart,
Like nothing I had ever heard or seen or felt.
I was captive, she was captor
And oblivious to the spell that held me to her
As she handed my father our room key
And breathed her welcome to Leigh-on-sea.

This is a love word
that might someday make its way
into a song or perhaps a letter

This is a love word
that’s short of a sonnet
but is written with honest tears
and the signature tightness in my chest
that I’ve grown to trust
as coming straight from the heart

This is a love word,
son.

Love you, mate.
Love your contagious tears
as they breach your ducts
and gloss your cheeks,
running free and reaching down
past the lump in your throat
to your vulnerable heart.

Love you, mate.
Love your resistance to temptation
to back hand compassion,
emoting with no hesitation,
never embarrassed
to tell the world
that no-one's too big to weep.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and where the memories begin but I know they both begin to make sense after the first dozen times and then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and begin to bore me and so I focus on waking up to both and setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and the puke has already dripped through the cracks left by the dance and have left a dry yellow stain just so I know for sure I'm home and not still in the in between domain. And I try to recall the detail but fail again, so I start a new story where I'm the hero and not a victim this time and where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in a cooperative mood which makes me mad - what's the point of a hero when there's no heroism called for - which makes me wonder who called me here at this time of the night when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and me of course, so what's that make me, some cross between a black arts symbol and a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and anger I feel about the world - blast and ******, I need a *** and I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and let nature do it's worse. The warmth sooths me for a while, but soon enough the chill takes hold and I wonder when mum will come and tell me it's time for school.
The answer is exactly 30 seconds later - and as usual she notices nothing, so imagination it is then - not such a blessing despite what the poet said.

The lump in her throat
Grew
Beyond a chew in disguise
Became a tickle too much
A frog that fought back
Packed a punch with every hack
With each and every cough attack
Her breath caught at the back.

Til it was excised
Leaving her speechless -
But not lost for words.
If you listened she still screamed
Beneath the neat white dressing
Still eloquent to those who paid attention.

As I close down, switch off and give you time,

- I hear you.

As I reflect without assumptions, close my lips and focus on your voice,

- I hear your still, quiet authority over my life.

As I close my eyes to the tears,

- I see with greater clarity who you are and I call you:
Most High;
Sovereign Lord;
Eternal God.

As I acknowledge you and accept your provision, your protection, your prompting,

- I become less and you take your place at the top of my start up menu.

Dear Father - I am ready to meet with you.

Is the nose ring new I wondered
as we hugged and exchanged a kiss
Surely I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Has she had her hair re-tinted
Is that something I’d have missed
I’m sure I would have noticed
if she’d had a nostril pierced

I'm drinking in her smile and laughter
There’s little better than this
I know I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Could I check a recent photo
When she dips a salty chip
Ha! I knew I would have noticed
If she’s had a nostril pierced

“Love the new ring, darling.”

"It's been 14 years now, dad
Since I had my nose first pierced.
You really would have noticed
It's not something you could have missed."

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.

I would make the light.

I'd take it
from wherever I found it.

I'd bring it inside
and make it work for me
and so find the hidden
and show the truth

and so lift the shadows
to their rightful place.

Not sinking
But making waves

Not the end
But a brand new start

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

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

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

AMEN.

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.

We believe in one trans-national church.

We believe in an unbiased, inter-racial church of many nations.
We believe in one church of many traditions.
We believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

We believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
We believe in God-given racial differences.
We believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
We believe in a church that reflects her maker's love of difference.

We do not believe in uniformity.

We believe in the common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
We believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called to serve one God together, saved by one sacrifice once and for all time.

We believe in the promise of a resurrected church drawn from all nations and all generations to meet her bridegroom.
We believe in one eternal wedding feast which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.

We believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so that all his people can come and dwell together.

We believe
in God's Kingdom come.

Amen.

I believe in one church.
I believe in an inter-racial and unbiased church of many nations.
I believe in one church of many traditions.
I believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

I believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
I believe in God-given racial difference.
I believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
I believe in Christ’s one church that reflects our maker's love of difference.

I do not believe in uniformity.

I believe in the Christ’s common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
I believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called by Christ to serve one God together, saved by His one sacrifice once and for all time.
I believe in the promise of one resurrected church drawn from all nations, from every generation to meet her bridegroom, Jesus Christ.
I believe in one eternal wedding feast at a table prepared by God which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.
I believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so all his people can come and dwell together.

I believe in God's Kingdom come.

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

The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker.  And who better, but the maker of all.

God waited in my margins,
in my discomfort
of being close
to the edge of others,
and invited me to
intentionally trust
incidental strangers,
because there He resided,
in my threshold love,
in each adjoining reaction.
So I went to my margins,
to the verge of my comfort,
reached out
and got closer
to my marginal,
cross-border God
and there I found
the small moments,
the quiet places
of gentle surprise
and true challenge
that heralded adventures
beyond my ken,
outside my norm,
but within His plan
for this day.

Consider what to cease
With a view to increase
That margin needed to keep
Your essential level of peace

Maintain a healthy fringe
Rather than pack each inch
With no room to breathe
When circumstances pinch
 
Protect rest on your pillow
And the rest will follow
Make enough space
For more of your mellow

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

The cycle breaks us
unless we break the cycle.
After each turn,
each tumble
we'll see the markers
for an exit.
It'll be our choice
whether to take it.
It'll be our choice
whether to chance
another circuit.
But never doubt
it's our turn to pick.

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

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

Today - where can I mary and where can I martha?
There is time for both,
but I know which is better.

O Lord, my Saviour, my spirit rejoices in you, for you....
-
Oh, Jesus. This isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
Oh, my son, my child, my beloved child
- now my Saviour.
My whole being worships you, and yet
in my heart I still treasure those times when it was just you
and me.
Holding you close,
hearing your first words,
shepherding you
as you took your first steps,
watching over you,
binding your first scrapes - you were sooo adventurous;
it was always a challenge keeping you out of your father's workshop.
-
And now you watch over me.
-
-
Jesus, my heart still aches
when I recall your body arched
in pain, bleeding.
Your cries still haunt me.
It's hard to shake the image
of your lifeless body
wrapped in cloth and lying
- in a tomb.
-
Forgive me, dear son;
I almost lost my mind with grief.
I was blinded with my tears,
and in my fear
I didn't understand.
All I could feel
was the sword
piecing my very soul,
just as old Simeon promised.
-
And then,
when I saw you again,
whole, restored....
Oh how I loved to see that smile again, to feel
your arms around me once more, to hear
your laughter, to draw in
your warmth as we shared a meal,
just like we used to.
-
But you were taken again so soon.
-
I know you had to go, but
oh, how I missed you.
-
(Deep breath)
-
But I'll tell your story
- so many want to hear my story.
The boys promise to write it down,
but I'll still tell. It thrills me every time I tell it,
for how can written words capture you, your love, your presence.
-
-
You spoke of a gift.
Well, as you probably know, it arrived
right on time.
You said that if we waited here in Jerusalem,
we would be bathed in YOUR Holy Spirit.
And now I see.
I almost weep with joy when I hear
young John and the rest of your friends
speaking in your name.
-
I recognise your voice, you see,
I recognise your heart,
in their words.
It's -
it's just like you're still here.
Thank you for not leaving your old mum alone.
I'll see you soon,
my Jesus.