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

The lies sleep in shadows.
The lies sleep in those out the way places.
The lies sleep fitfully, studiously forgotten.
The lies sleep
lightly.

And once they stir,
twice they rise,
they yawn from beneath the bedding
and in one swift movement
they swing both feet out
onto the cold wood floor.

They refuse the hurried attempt
to bundle them back under the covers,
and they emerge from the 15.0 togged duvet
limb by long limb.
They stand, uncovered and,
keen to catch the morning light,
they pick up their waiting palette.

Undaunted by the challenge before them,
they face the twelve by twelve canvas
and with confident, sweeping arcs
create a vivid pain-scape,

their striking detail draws attention
to each scar,
to each blemish
which for so long hid, masked
by a thin white wash.

And as the lies paint their picture,
they sing.
They sing a ballad filled with beauty,
with sadness
and hope.
And, once heard, every word
becomes absorbed into each brush stroke,
bringing new depth to the colours.

As the lies paint and sing
they appear to radiate a warmth,
inexcusibly bringing new light to bear
on our carefully composed story,
a story once tailored to cover our shame,
but ill-fitting now.

As the lies paint and sing,
with an unexpected grace
their naked truth stands,
brush and palette in hand
ready for a fresh canvas.

And overwhelmed
their father walks away
looking for a fresh shadow.

She called me her curved love handle
Always there to hold
A perfect fit for her loving hands
As we lovingly enfold

She called me her gentle spoon rest
A constant solid comfort
Shaped to scoop her perfectly
As we both dozed and slumbered

She called me her hot water bottle
Filled to the brim with warmth
Easily raising heat by degrees
Against advancing cold fronts

She called me to say her goodbyes
She said it wasn't working
She'd found a man less domesticated
And one far less demanding

We’re all called to be sheep
watching the staff
held by the shepherd
led by his laughs.

We’re all called to be sheep
some lambs, some rams
the flock flows together
bearing God’s brand.

We’re all called to be sheep
some to be shepherds
I’m a little of both
both serving and served.

She played music -
music you’d leave your windows open for.
She rolled into rooms you’d forgotten
and soaked into your cellar until your childhood
floated right up to today and stayed for your tomorrows.

She was like that – building new foundations,
or maybe bridges
between now and then,
leaving pathways your feet could find even
once the last note has finished for the day.

She made music that stayed and stained,
leaving her trace, so you could find her again,
like when you returned from years away.
She had an authentic taste, softly unique
and hard to forget.

I remember one song that ran high,
almost out of reach,
then reaching down into my outstretched eyes,
filling them to overflowing and blurring
the pain for a while.

She played music -
music you’d leave both eyes open for.

It was a busy night with room only for small talk around the dark stained table.  She sat in half shadow, as still as bambi after the gunshot and just as alone. And they talked.

At her finger tips her glass brooded, part full of a rich emptiness and part of potential, the combination reeking of a love unexplored with a whiff of harboured regret.  They talked knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, all smiles and pork scratchings.

She sat and left her past week buried like old sorrow, glad to listen to those with less to say while despair trickled down her left cheek, unnoticed.   They talked, voices lost in the clamour of glasses and the void of wet laughter.

"You're quiet tonight, Silvi. Your Tom not around this week?"
"No, not this week."

She sat and they talked, knee to knee and miles apart.

She took the crisp offered
- not for the flavour, but for the high offer
of a connection across the tallest table,
balanced on tall stools, with tall tales
that fired unfettered, unfiltered
from her so much taller son,
each word spittled with snorted laughter
as they floated in their isolation,
cushioned by a child's unhesitate honesty,
silky and cloud-light and nothing like her fears
which had continued to hover and to threaten
to sink her float and fade her laughter
and to let the dank win.
Instead she stayed afloat,
tethered only to her son's fingers
as they drew her further into his world,
pushing away her lost years,
floating her free to explore this genesis
of something like a second chance.

[Proverbs 4:6
Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you.
Proverbs 7:4
Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,” and to insight, “You are my relative.”]

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

I prefer to listen,
I'm learning to wait
and hear from she who is wiser.
I've made some mistakes,
but I'm learning from those
who trust the Word as adviser.

As I sit and I read,
as I ponder and pray
my sisters begin to make sense.
My sister is Wisdom, my sister is Insight,
my first and next line of defense.

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 a helping of cream,
That thin paper hats are a waste by design.

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

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

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

Queuing -
When I was growing
it was second nature.
Then we got out the habit -
and started congregating and lingering,
vaguely hovering til the bus arrives
and then converging
with no reference to order
or deference to aging.
Or begrudgingly taking a number
and waiting our turn
til called forward, bringing us
out of our revelry.

It's different now.
Now we get there early,
expecting a wait, a line,
spaced out like it's leprosy
that we're suffering -
Like we're resisting
being associated with the others
who are queuing.

Shuffling.

Waiting.

And once arriving,
being begrudgingly admitted
by the high-viz guy who's masking,
and he's insisting
that our partner
has to wait outside
where it's freezing.

Now queuing
is our new necessity -
our communal normality.

Maybe it'll stick
and we'll be sticklers
for a queue that's orderly.

And maybe - just maybe
we'll find that the queues move
a little
more
quickly.

To make a long story short
Is to make a poem

The shorter the time
The more personal the view
Between the heads of those in front of you

The shorter the time
The stronger the lingering taste
The more intense the take away experience

The shorter the time
The easier to scoot and duck under
The inconveniently well placed barrier

The shorter the time
The more focused the afternoon stretch
On the sofa of your oh so limited rest

The shorter the time
The quicker, the swifter, the tighter
You'll find the undaunted feature writer

The shorter the time
To that unreasonable deadline imposition
The sweeter the release of the completed submission

The shorter the time
The better

When the tidal wave came
I was looking the other way.

I knew the gentle Shuttle
had its shallow banks
concreted, walled, ready
for the diverted torrent,
but for some reason I was looking
North, thinking that way lay
the Thames and its barrier,
not knowing the wave
would follow the Shuttle’s
more meandering route

and I got it in the back of the neck.

I don’t do sides
–--- I’ve chosen my side
at least not yours
–--- and it’s not yours
They’re too far apart
–--- I choose peace
and no thread will mend
---- it’s not yours to decide
the chasm you defend
---- this choice is mine

"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she 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 arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water". 
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine". 
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.

And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this, 
and she whispered to Jesus: 
'This just the start you know.' 
And he did, - and it was. 

There was a mother's faith 
and gallons of glorious wine. 
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom 
with this original third day miracle. 
A sign of things to come.

And there was a party and singing 
and much laughter, 
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.

Silence
like morning fog
over a late sunrise.
Like a discarded novel
beside half finished tea
and cold buttered toast.
Like a last breath,
a released hand,
and my unfinished prayer
beside dad's bed.

We each sit in silence,
punctuated by the scrape of canvas,
and while it takes a while for me to hear you,
to taste the essence of you,
- slowly your aroma filters through
your curves,
your creases
and I cease to see your flesh and instead
I see the palette of you,
embedded in the greying of you,
waiting for this, this view,
this interpretation of you,
while you sit in your steady state
of quiet undress

I've been singing high up in my head
not aware I have a choice
not knowing in my heart of hearts
I've got a bigger voice -
that breath by breath, beat by beat
I'm able to release
in time with my heart's moving
the next movement of my suite

That as I breath in deeper still
using my whole body
my body becomes one instrument
growing in capacity
to compose something of my own
beyond my quiet moans
the music of my origin
and of scores I don't yet know

Come walk with me in the daylight.
See through my triple glazed eyes
and into my insulated soul.
Gaze gently on my fragile human heart
and sing softly.

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

****** Vesta perched on the hearth
Warming her strong slender hands.
30 years is a very long wait
To have them warmed by a man.
However she knew she could rely
On the constant warm love of her sisters.
The men could wait while she matured
In sisters' softer caresses.

Sitting in the space made by her leaving, I'm far from comfy, but no-where-near lonely.

Cooking for one is far from easy and it's easier to succumb to the micro-wavable and the processed in a process that suggests sadness, but in essence is a life past survival and a start of a moving on.

Leaning on past memories for a more reliable sense of self, I walk back beyond the years of this boken partnership.

These years from the off were tainted with discomfort while threaded with laughter and it's the laughter I now follow to earlier layers that might form the start of a fresher, better fitting wardrobe and a comfort that is more than this - sitting in this space of her leaving.

More than this, I'm sure.

Lord, make everyone 6 years old
and while I'm being unusually bold
fill them with 6 year old wonder
and a 6 year old's hunger,
with 6 year curiosity
and a 6 year old's honesty.
Give them 6 year tenacity
and a 6 year old's capacity
for a 6 year old's need
at live at half-speed,
content to let life
be their daily delight.
Oh Lord, I ask that each of us might
keep a 6 year old's insight
and live this life
6 year old childlike.

Kiss
Dry
Try
Miss

Kiss
Wet
Met
Lips

No, not lost time -
just rearranged.

Not catching up -
just turning the page.

He takes up his walking stick,
looks up as if surprised to see me there and smiles,
and together we take the baskets, and walk the stairs,
sharing a well-worn joke and a laugh
and we count, we stack, we tally
and we bag the coins, the notes,
all meticulously accounted for,
- another echo of Sundays past with taller stacks
and notes that knew how to behave better
and then after two signatures he takes his stick,
looking to wrestle Cath from her chat,
and go to get some dinner.

He takes up his drum sticks,
doing the count by instinct and,
with a coordination I can only dream of,
provides a dependable back beat, off beat or up beat,
all in a groove you just have to love,
from a throne that’s all his and his alone
behind his well-worn drums,
- all an echo of Saturdays past
with stage lights, later nights,
and delighted crowds,

leaving me to thank God
for servant hearts and patient servers,
for lives lived well and long,
and for John, whose beat goes on,
whether with two sticks and his kit in the sun,
skin deep and soul deep in the same beat,
or holding one stick, with a fresh joke to test run
(or perhaps on repeat), but always laughing
comfortably keeping time, 90 years young,
walking with his King.

To walk can be fine,
to run takes you further
I know that when I'm skipping
my heart will grow much stronger.

I have walked many paths.
I have made my amends.
I have run far enough.
Now I'm skipping with my friends.

Why shatter the window when my door is wide open?
Why shout with frustration when I'm standing right here?
Why plead so loudly when you have my attention?
Why slap me so hard when I'm wiping your tears?

I see you're so lost, I see you're so lonely
I feel your hot anger, I feel your deep fears
Whatever you do, even when you disown me
I'll sit here beside you, until the fog clears

I should have
sought your hand as we walked,
slowed and not swallowed
my next question

I should have
asked you for one slow dance,
danced instead of imagined
decades on

I should have, could have,
perhaps would have
had we slowed
and given ourselves time

When is a stray fleeting thought
a senseless young fool's distraction?
And when is my sudden idea
a true sage-like inspiration?

No weight of long experience
No number of tried and tested
No diet of **** it and sees
seem to provide me true wisdom.

But then I slow and I listen
I daily make time to wait
I consider what it is that God has to say
and Wisdom opens her gate.

What once felt an exciting,
adventurous experience
has become an annoyance
at the bruises and blood blisters
which come with each smack
of the lips.

Why must she kiss
as if it's her feast
and I'm the main course?
Especially as tomorrow
she'll be just as hungry

- something to which my lips
can give uneasy testimony.

I sit
beneath the sign that reads silence
conscious of my imminent sneeze
and the threat of its violence.

And when you pray
Ask from your heart
And when you pray
Seek from your soul
And when you pray
Sniff around without ceasing
Through your tears
To find the doors
That He has prepared
To brand new frontiers
For His pioneers.
And then -
Knock.

Lost and confused,
like the first snowflake:
uncertain, but unknowingly
the harbinger of a knee deep, silent night,
the herald of a new carpet, crisp and white,
not destined for alone-ness,
but, in concert, ready to reflect
a glorious night of moonlight.

Like the first snowflake
you're destined
for something
glorious.

Unplug yourself
And in that stark still shade
Enjoy the glory of your imaginings -
Often conceived, rarely nurtured,
Scarcely shared
Or allowed to thread through the laughter
Of the warm flickering shadows
Of hearth and home.
Give voice and shape and colour
To every faint ember
And you - will - soar.

Lord, keep us dreaming
Remembering your faithfulness
Believing, looking for more
Keep us singing
Ready to soar

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.

Octothorp had never thought
her day would finally come,
but she gradually found
she was drawn centre stage
and the source of laughter and fun.
But even as she was prefixed
to all kinds of wit and quick banter,
her name was dumbed down,
she soon lost her crown
to 'hash-tag' the younger pretender.

https://en.m.wiktionary.org/wiki/octothorpe

The sun is down
It's been down for a while
and while she hasn't said outright,
we think it might
be a power play
for a perceived lack of praise

The sun is down
We have been discussing
ways to raise her spirits
without out and out worship
(which would set
an unhelpful precedent)
And so we start with a song
A homage, thanking her
A call, asking her to rise and smile
And it only takes a child sacrifice
once, twice and thrice
to coax her back - a small price,
and before long she's her old delight
and we tell ourselves it's not worship
it's just the just payment due
based on the new tarrifs
for light and heat
and the cost of living
in this solar energy
over dependancy
greener economy

Take an isolation of loneliness,
add one park bench,
sprinkle liberally with sunshine,
blend with mixed bird song
(and an optional warm breeze).
Leave to ferment for at least one hour.
Resist the temptation to disturb,
and you will have yourself
a healthy dose of solitude.
Take one as part of your five-a-day.

I passed a small boy named Solomon Woods
deep in thought with a book
He licked a finger, turned a page
too engrossed to give me a look

I met a young lad named Solomon Woods
humming a gentle tune
He smiled and waved, shook my hand
and wished me a good afternoon

I danced with a friend named Solomon Woods
while he sang me one of his songs
What he lacked in skill he offset with zeal
and insisted I sang along

I sat with a man named Solomon Woods
glad of his still, gentle manner
His reliable smile and kind wise words
drowned out the usual clamour

I walked with a gent named Solomon Woods
glad of his confident stride
I knew for sure he faced the world
trusting God as his strength and guide

If you meet a man named Solomon Woods
he'll certainly stop for a while
If you have the time, he'll sing you a song
and leave you with a smile

I love solos.  
The courage to stand out front, in front of those consigned to the choir, acknowledging the support they provide with a gracious wave, but not afraid to take the acclaim justly due, front stage.

I love solos.
They celebrate breakthrough, on cue drawing attention away from the typical duets, the quartets, the ensembles, tempering a tendency to celebrate humble, to focus on a singular achievement and an agreement that this is a voice worth listening to.

I love solos.
So step out, take a bow
and make it loud.

Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed

Some boys know what it's like,

to have straight teeth
to have an infectious laugh
to see the girls smile
to look forward to PE
to have a blazer that fits
to feel his hair fall back into place
to raise his hand in class
to find the right words
to hand homework in on time
to be hugged by his dad at the school gate

and some boys don't.

A sense of something underlying,
giving time to speak,
taking time to listen,
digging through the outer crust
to find the softer beneath.

A sense that people are aching,
about to press stop,
to spend time to sit
and invest time in slower thinking
before they're ready to drop.

A sense that some folk would rather
take the slower path
and bearing a little late-ness
with a little more space
and making more time to laugh.

The years stung with field gun smoke,
as the stench of accusations hung
among the aging towers of power.
Stark whistles pierced the mourning air
bringing tears to eyes spared any true battle.
And after a respectful silence, sodden with sacrifice,
the drizzled grandchildren turned away
for a Starbucked start of a brand new day.

Like a bond song, rising from the depths
catching the theme, casting its charm,
holding the frame, teasing us
giving us just enough of what we’re waiting for
and keeping us all in the moment,
gun shot by shot, brass blast by blast,
until the action breaks across the screen,
drawing every gasp, taking every heart,
holding every gaze, clutching every throat,
- until the strings break in
and bring release and joy and disbelief
as the hero survives yet again
to bring the world its peace

The Son of Man came to serve
to seek and to save the lost
to touch and to heal the hurt
regardless of the personal cost

The Son of Man came to embrace
the full breath of the human condition
He sat down in utter poverty
with those too used to exclusion

He walked in step with the weak
putting up with ignorant derision,
He shared His gentle wisdom
in the face of studied indifference

The Son of Man came willingly
to trek in worn, scuffed sandles
to suffer with blood blisters,
sprained ankles and tough calluses

The Son of Man suffered much
though He lived without any fault,
He was a man all too acquainted
with aches and tears and snot

He accepted all of their beatings,
the abuse, the cuts and the bruises
But at the last He was willing to gasp:
'Father, forgive my accusers.'

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 -

Walk with your head held high
Watch your feet
And you'll be fine