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.

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.

If I May, if I might
Make this wish I wish tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Win this clear and outright.
And if I wake to find I didn’t
May I be bold and take the hint.

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

Who do you wish to be?
Who do you wish to die as?
How will we remember you?
As joyous or as pious?

Am I still me?
Am I still m
Am I still
Am I stil
Am I sti
Am I st
Am I s
Am I
Am
A
Am
Am I
Am I s
Am I st
Am I sti
Am I stil
Am I still
Am I still r
Am I still re
Am I still rem
Am I still reme
Am I still remem
Am I still rememb
Am I still remembe
Am I still remember
Am I still remembere
Am I still remembered?

My memory – a thing of yesterday
My memory – repeat if necessary
My memory – not always trustworthy
My memory – I miss your company

Place the pen on the page before inspiration hits – that’s important.  You write – that’s what you do.  
And as the pen moves, a combination of memory and new ideas combine, they interact with the catalyst called inspiration and you’ll find that the further the process is allowed to progress, the more the New takes hold and memory drops to a whisper and before your mind can comprehend the words, you find an unexpected theme.  This time it’s about the evil of memory and how it needs to be subdued / reduced, put in its rightful place so that the New can breathe / can grow / create a new memory that will one day abdicate space to the next generation of New.  
One day we might find there’s no heir, no one who cares enough to continue the line, but until that day we’ll have generation after generation of New - each slowly growing old, gradually fading thin and becoming a memory that knows its space and gives way.
I pause.
That’s always a mistake.  
To Pause.  
That’s when memory sneaks back in, raising itself above its whisper, giving pause to the New and raising an appetite for a brew which lifts the pen…
Is blueberry jam on madeira cake wrong?

Yes, I embrace my personal spectrum of strange, maintaining my own range of a sense of self, my own present tense, a unique list of contents that expresses my deep down, my compound, my proper noun made up of all that I am and all that resounds and all that pounds within this fragile, fragmented, profound self that will rebound no matter how hard I hit the ground.
Yes, I am down,
but I am relentless regardless.

I stand in this messy state of grace,
granted forgiveness,
cleansed from my soiled trace,
and dressed in gifted innocence -

yet
I still stand peering through my dark glass,
seeking my father's encountenance,
seeking to keep pace
with a Saviour who appears
to respect breathing space.
Although He is as quick with an embrace
as He is to displace my misplaced fearfulness,
in His presence I'm all too conscious
of lingering idols which were once in place,
now giving rightful pride of place
to this harbinger of grace.

Yet
I still stand peering,
longing for a fanfare,
hearing a distinct whisper,
feeling a familiar nudge,
and so I turn to His touch
in nervous obedience,
with a fragile confidence
growing only as I take a breath,
only as I take
this faithful, fateful step,
stating my allegiance
with every tread
through a messy state of grace,
ready for whatever I may face,
so Saviour, set the pace and lead on!

Forgotton memories stomped in like strangers at a funeral, uninvited and unwanted, smiling like they belonged, but no one recognised their songs. As they talked, as they drank and sang, as they told their stories they became more strangely familiar. We found their smiles infectious despite our resistance and started to recognise some of their tunes at their insistence. Faint but familiar laughter echoed from fathoms below and slowly our mourning began to losen its wet hold. Our sadness became tinged with a happiness long forgotton and scenes from years long gone rose from the bottom of our dark well of emotion, lifting our faces to the surface, giving us a glimpse of a greater hope and clearer purpose, to tell our stories, with laughs and tears finding an uncomfortable coexistence as we danced and shared this messy remembrance.

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?)

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.

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.

Michael said to Gabriel
"You know the Old Man's tetchy,
have you got your **** together?
Have you got your choir ready?"

Gabriel said, "Just **** out,
have you got that star in place?
I don't see it in the sky yet, 
have you booked the allotted space?

"By the time the magi notice 
and start their journey west
the party will be over,
so I think it would be best
if you tell Him they'll come later,
that the vibe will work far better
if we go ahead with the shepherds 
and then have the kings come later."

Mickey was a little miffed,
but he knew that Gabe was right.
He'd been distracted with the detail
to ensure the star was bright.

So Mickey went and told the Boss,
"It really makes more sense,
cos once Jesus is a toddler
he'll enjoy the frankincense."

My life, at this stage,
had worn paper thin
- clipped to a board, hung
at my feet, open to review
with scant reference
to the source material.

My body had been fragmented,
parts selected and cut -
the changes tracked
for future reference.

And there were end notes
(if you were interested).

I was saved for later.

I focus on the apple, the glint
the fleck of gold on green
glazed and blurred with lashed tears
even as his gaze runs off to
the middle distance soon to
come round for its next lap
and our eyes will meet
for the first time
again.

You might be
blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Instagraming, Messaging
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
or good old fashioned
rambling Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again and again
the might of your words
over any old persitent swords.
Words of love over words of hate.
That's right - words that reconciliate.
Ignore the can'ts, hear the cans
Hash-tag: 'wordsaremightierthan'.
Facing those fears,
shouting through tears.
Redeeming the years
thought lost in arrears.
Letting them know
you're letting them go
and no longer able
to live with old labels.
Finding the roar
to voice who you are.
Finding the words
to blunt those old swords.
Thumbs at the ready,
hands nice and steady.
You're free men and women,
with a brand new beginning.

Blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Face-timing, Instagraming,
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
Messaging, Pinteresting
or good old fashioned
contemplative Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again
the might of the word
over the keenest, lunging sword.

The winter miracle of having enough settled with a smile next to the ample blessing of sufficiency and the happy gift of needs met. They chatted contentedly under their tailored shelter as they watched the prize of satisfaction coming up to meet them, bringing with her the familiar rumour of future plenty.
Oh, how they laughed.

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.

A slow English Sunday must include
a brewing *** of Darjeeling tea,
hot toast with Anchor butter
and plenty of smoked Danish bacon.
Oh, yes - and Heinz tomato ketchup.
It makes you proud of your heritage.

I miss my mother most
when I'm in her frenetic company.
Such an angry fragile woman
in the shadow of the mum
she used to be.
Lost and alone, wanting a way home,
one woman against the world
with no old friends
only fresh new foes.

She can identify every shifting lie
sitting scared with no escape
from a hundred shifty eyes.
Stalkers criticise every mistake
watching her practice looping moves
cornering her as if to prove
that we're all conspiring
each trying to rob her
when the screaming truth here
is that her fleeting thoughts
have already gone where
we can never walk
not even in our tears.

the colour of the place
is what I remember
the scent of the laughter
the echo of the sweet wine
on the green
on your breath
in that long moment in time
and whilst I expect I have that photo
somewhere
you rise like a mist
unbidden
unexpected
as vivid
as strong
as clear
as that summer

I see you there, keep looking at me
but I'm not sure what it is you see

I’ve no canvas, I’m left unframed
so let me help you with my name

I'm no-one's 'boy', I'm not 'hey you'
my name's Mister, it's 'Mister New'

I've got old scars, raw scars too
but I'm not sure, it's clear to you

wounds can only go so deep
there's only so long that they can bleed

you see me ‘wounded’, black and blue
but save your pity - that's all about you

I've grown taller through broken skin
my roots sink deeper than you've ever been

when you're up close you'll see it's true
my fresh healed skin's a real break through

I've got a name, so I'd thank you
when you address me, say 'Mister New'

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.

'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.

How much more
- passion
How much more
- protection
How much more
- affection
Full and overflowing
Unconditional
Demonstrable and
Lavished on each of you
Will your Father in heaven
Give to those who ask

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
Is Greek needed
to depict God’s vision?

Can repositioned prepositions
confuse the divine?

Will mislaid iotas
smear godly wisdom?

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
The Truth’s been guarded
regardless.

Repositioned prepositions,
jots and iotas
all serve to convey sacred wisdom.

The great tree stood waiting
until he got there -
as far as there
at the appointed time
long before the promised time
before the arrival of offspring.

And the trees still stand
in anticipation
of the greater remainder of the promise.

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

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

At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start

With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls

At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge

God given songs to angelic tunes
Holier anthems for reflective moods
Soul searching music with eternal themes
Songs from our hearts that harbour old dreams
Movements in light, emerging from dark
Sunrising symphonies, the thrush and the lark
I welcome the chorus here at my dawn
I rise and I stretch and then I press on

I'm never alone
Not with my thoughts
Not with my dreams
never an excuse to be idle
never alone
I'll always have you
to intrude,
to distract,
to enlighten
shining your light
alerting me
greeting me
never letting me be
a moment alone

We see the strong supportive woman you have always been,
- Now it's our turn.
The unselfish way you have liberally spread your time on us, right to the edges,
-Now it's our turn.
The generous helpings of patience that seemed to come so naturally, with seconds for those who want it,
-Now it's our turn.
You're guiding words seasoned with kindness, so full of flavour,
-Now it's our turn.
The unconditional love you have always poured out on us, full and overflowing,
-Now it's our turn...

Please can you write down the recipe?

Find what you love
Live it, hold it like a long note
Behold it like still-wet art
and it becomes beauty to you.
It becomes magical.
Like family.

The sensuous snow layered soft flakes over her long limbs as she reached and raised the deep red cloak from where it had slidden, chiding Nicholas for his haste, while inwardly relishing this moment of personal pleasure in the back of the now spacious sleigh.
"Happy Christmas, dear," she whispered.

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.

Give me a grain
of gravity, in a moment
of space time, tied to a thread
of string theory,  soaked
in one long figment
of my fantasy

and I will give you
a multi-verse.

On a late train
in the last carriage
within my hallowed silence,
I found a gentle rock of peace,
when a burst of blue laughter ricocheted
and pierced my hazy bubble,
killing any hope of snatched sleep.

Mum was never happier
Than when supping tea with friends
Sharing well worn wisdom
Seen through a mother's lens

I can't deny I was a teary child
And when mum heard me sobbing
She'd make dash, be there in a flash
And smother me with hugging

Mum'd appear when needed most
She had a mother's sonar
A way of sensing where and when
We would really need her

Mum had a knack of persuading dad
That it really would be best
To not shout, to let me be
And let me stay half dressed

Mum would know where to find me
When it was time for tea
And it was worth being found
Not staying an absentee

Fish fingers at least once a week
Followed by artic roll
Bangers and mash, bubble and sqweak
Don't expect a finger bowl

Mum made each birthday special
She knew how to stretch the budget
She'd sit each month with my dad
And work out how to fudge it

I wouldn't be this man today
If it wasn't for my mum
Her care and warmth, her smile and love
Gave me my foundation

So this mother's day let me say
If your mum is still around
Make sure she knows down to her toes
Just how much she's loved.

I carry my bags beneath
my no longer baby blues,
partly framed
and closer to grey

The bags darken with their weight
and they unwittingly pull
the eye down
from the splayed crows feet

I carry my bags

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing,
   Lord, rudder me through to calmer waters.
Your words secure my departing,
   Lord, restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me tales from our voyage together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.
   Lord, ready me to weather this course
To its end.

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

My dear Theophilus, I want to stress
that this gospel story is ever-present, continuous
and it’s by no means strenuous
to draw a straight true line
from the angelic choir’s ‘unto us’
through to the empty cross,

and yes, past the fall of Judas
to the day the lot fell to Matthias
and whilst Matt may have on occasion
felt a little out of place
and like us, have sometimes undergone
the syndrome that’s imposter-ous,
nevertheless, with the disciples he received Christ’s promise
of a collective Pentecostal renaissance

And so,
no, it’s not presumptuous for you, for us
to stand with Matthias and the rest
of the disciples of Christ Jesus,
to receive this same promise
and for Christ to continue
the same reconciling mission through us,
because my dear Theophilus,
we are, you are the one and present-continuous,
Spirit-filled church

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that there’s a path just beneath the current uncertainty.

My faith is a step, a one step at a time
not much of a leap, but me taking his hand with mine.
My faith is a day-by-day holding,
a minute-by-minute treading
of my boot in his footmarks left for me as a blessing.

My faith is choice that needs repeated repeating,
a daily seating at his feet,
it's not a fleeting feeling,
it’s a morning and evening both-knees kneeing.

My faith is a decision and decisions were made
to be made,
so pray,
take him at his word and take the next step,
but don’t be surprised if it involves you getting both feet wet.
Cos that is where you’ll find Jesus
at the point you find yourself out of your depth.

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that whatever my path,
my God has gone before me.

In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)

Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings

- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,

- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,

every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.

Not too big to weep: A poetry anthology https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1549894706/ref=cmswremapa_8MWfAb6PF8Z0F

Most of my closest friends
have a sort of ‘flesh’ colour to them,
- some pale, some brown, some a lot darker,
but that, I’ve come to shudder,
is a shallow, simply skin-deep measure.

When I look again
I see some carry a seven-sea travelled view
with a dark, deep-water hue.
Some have an earth-olive touch,
giving a life-tinted light to all they brush,
all they touch.

Some shimmer-touch, charged
with a hint of dawn-dew in their scars
giving fresh unasked repair.
Some show an indigo major
generating a bright electric flavour
empowering both friends and strangers alike.

When they arrive, they each add true colour
and I’ve found that their skin-depth is nothing
compared to the rainbow-canyon impression
that they’ve left on me,

my friends.

I don't care what you think.
It works – just - fine.
Probably too well, all considered.
But that's a heart for you.
It breaks.
That's the way you know
it's fine.