When I think of my dad
I think of a smile
and full-body-laughter.

I think of piles of library books
and reliable pedal bikes,
cigars and pipe smoke,
holidays in tents
and long family treks.

I recall his choice of grey,
brown
and karki
and his superstition of green.

I think of stubble,
big crossed arms
and early morning mugs
of strong tea.

I think of an only son
not matching expectations.
Quick tempers.
Rationed phone calls.
Enforced lights out.

I think of that time
he forced the door -

and of mum's white
'best not tell your dad' lies,
and the lesson taken into my own marriage,
for better, for worse,
that the truth was worse.

When I think of my dad
I think of his smile
and his laughter.

I know a young woman named Lauren
Who seems to be wearing a sporran
Oh no she's not
It's a bottle that's hot
Its offsetting the artic aircon

Stones and Seeds -
Whatever you hold,
lay them down
and unfold your empty hands

leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home

make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more

drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off your regret

this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
you're welcome to stay

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.

Speed is cold.
Speed is cruel.
Speed is merciless.

Speed is a smile, at speed.
Blink and it's gone.

Beginning with ash.
Leading to blood and tears.
Ending with love declared
out of the grave
into a new light's dawn.

Lent gives pause.
Jesus gifts life.

Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.

Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.

Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.

The first lesson is to be still
the next is to wait
while you look long
and listen deep
that you might love all the more.

Take your place amongst the brave ones
The take-a-chance ones
The get-up-despite
and try-it-again ones.

Take your place amongst the daughters and sons
living post-lockdown
and let's run.

Let there be colour
Let there be shape
Let the air be filled
with sound and scent

Let colours and shapes
Let sounds and scents
be blended together
with roaring intent

Go soak in the sights
and relish the shapes
go embrace the new
come and escape

Reading as resistance
Not reading as distraction

A prologue of Reflection
An intro in Contemplation

Then commence with Participation
Continue in Expedition
Subdue with Rebellion
Prevail in Revolution

And savour the Liberation
Of a book well read.

Life is a workshop
and you are the project.
Listen to the tutor,
collaborate,
expect messy
and have fun.

I wrote a story today
start, middle and end
a tale with a moral
brim full of suspense

I wrote a story today
with purpose and drive
nothing like real life
- the hero survives

Though a man of competence
might master a non-stick pan
with only casual reading
of its manual, he WILL need
to read the instructions for
a chain saw. The aftermath
of careless use does differ.

Each dent should lessen the value,
but curiously deepens character.

A life can be told from different angles
A different moral every time
A fresh perspective from greater distance
Puts the truth to familiar lies

Lift that chin, Rosa.
Lift those eyes up high.
Say to the sun, you're welcome.
Lift your face to the sky.

Lift that chin, Rosa.
Spread your arms out wide.
Tell the wind that you're ready.
And just see if you don't fly!

When you lift your soul,
sometimes you may need
to lift with your legs.

Place both feet
at the base of the cross,
and brace yourself -
engage your core
and with all your waning strength
with all of your weary mind,
with every ounce
of your weighed down heart -
grip with both hands,
raise your chin,
fix both eyes on him,
and LIFT with your legs.

Imagine no shadows, no night.
All light
everywhere.
No need for shade.
For we are all basking
in one all enveloping
Light.

And we shall see his face.

All heaven screams its electric hues
The sun explodes in chroma anger
The clouds reach wide to embrace the view
And the sea gives up reflected grandeur

My eyelids filter this grace of lights
My tears rejoice at sunlight's candour
My breath gives up its futile fight
And my face absorbs this heaven's splendour

When the sun shines through my hand,
red and pink through my fingers,
the inside out.

When the sun makes shadows of my hand,
shade to my fingers,
darkness across my page.

When the sun shines, I climb line after line
from one rhyme to the next
unchecked from the deep,
to new depths, from newer heights!
To greater red and dark lights!

Sometimes I feel like a cactus.
A cactus in the desert
flowering, soaking up
every last drop of moisture
testifying to all who care to hear
that here there is life
there is hope
there is growth
here in the desert
here where I was planted
with purpose
with reason
with intent to thrive
here in this desert.

Sometimes I feel like a cactus 🌵
tenacious
tireless
persistent
just as my maker intended.

He sits in your downstream
and, despite a list of jobs
sitting in his back pocket,
he sits and as you talk at him
in his second or maybe third language
he shouts back his still focus
on your dignity rather than your tears
while the weight of his hand on your shoulder
and the intensity of his eyes on your face
ensures he doesn't miss one sob.

Keep to your own lines,
the interwoven, layered,
stood-the-test-of-time,
true-to-the-character lines.

Friend. Father.
Englander. Londoner. 
Hero. Hugger.
Reliable understudier.

Place your toes on the bottom line,
and take a look and take in a breath,
take inspiration drawn in from the borrowed,
from the passing,
from the whatever-passes-for-solomon.
And redefine yourself, for yourself,
once again.

But don't stray over those well-rehearsed lines.
Don't ever improvise.

You're safe if you keep to your lines.

The blue lion applied reasonable force down on the black zebra's neck, his lazy authority reinforced with each passing minute.
And the world looked on.

The black zebra signaled his compliance with a little blood and by changing colour to a curious shade of purple.
And the world looked on.

His black herd cried, but kept their distance lest the blue pride took an unhealthy interest in them too.
And the world looked on.

The para lion checked for signs of death, unhurried under the just restraint of the blue law.
And the world looked on.

Eventually the carcass was rolled aside, deflated, unfortunately losing some of its colour.
And the world looked on.

Then later the black herd stampeded, making a wider spectrum of noise that couldn't be ignored.
And the world looked up, asking for the blue lions to do their job, and corrale the black zebras lest they frighten the white cubs.

And the world looked away.

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.

Little lies.
Purposeless perhaps.
Arguably with little effect,
but nevertheless, flowing
off the tongue and keypad
with little thought.
Born of habit.
Born of a child's need
to be on the front foot.

Little lies,
building up into a facade
behind which I hide
my ineptitude.

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.

When is a scooter
not a scooter?
When you don't scoot,
and I'm the scooter-
pusher.

"What have you got there?"

"A few particles of joy and this.  I found it hidden when I last looked in my quiet."

He opened his hand tentatively, not sure if it was safe to do so. He had unknowing saved a small remnant of his original soul.

We looked at the torn corner resting in his palm. It was more than anyone could have hoped for for someone who had remained in London.

"How have you kept hold of that?"

"I'm not sure. It might be from my old prayers. I thought it had been used up years ago. Is it worth anything?"

"It just might be worth everything."

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