Where are you now?
-
Well I'm here. Here at the -
-
I can't see you.
-
No.
-
Well I'm looking at it n- Yes.
-
What do you see?
-
Okay. Okay.
Yes.
-
No, I'll come to you now. Yes. You stay there.
- -
What a *****!  This is going to be a long day.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

"We can't help you with that,
but we can offer you
an open gate,
an honest smile,
a living room carpeted
with warmth
and trimmed
with good conversation.

"What we do have
we can offer you,
rest for your bones
and truth at our hearth.

"You are most welcome."

He walked on into his shadow
ploughing into the dust
bearing the full weight of the sun
climbing deeper, further
from the warmth, closer
to the damp where light
is a mere rumour,
a seed's blind hope.

I hear talk of Space Jesus:
A prince escaping a slaughter,
Surviving a journey through the desert,
Joining with the people
he came to save

- and then he rides giant worms....

I prefer the historical version,
the Christ Jesus.

Curating multiple identities
Creating original content
Time on social media
is ( * ) time well spent

* never / rarely / always / dinner

There's power in skinny
In lithe
In nimble
There's beauty in less
In straight
In narrow
There's strength in slight
In gangly
In graceful
There more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

There's beauty in buxom
In curves
In convex
There's comfort in contours
In creases
In waves
There's strength in stout
In plump
In physical
There much more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

I sit thinking a little faster than the speed of penning, thereby having to repeatedly press pause on my thoughts to let the ball of blue catch up with the image / the sound of the phrase in my mind / on my quiet tongue that flows fast down my right arm into my slow fingers and out into the ball point that hits the page with part-satisfied impatience

And in that pause, resisting the urge to edit / to revise / to reform the original thought that is crying out to become embedded in the page / begging to be seen / to be loved and so to sit and to stare back at its origin, safe in the curated space to stay / to settle and perhaps to become part of something bigger / longer / older, something of possibly permanent beauty.

And having gotten over that feint-ruled line, my first thoughts face the risk of being transposed / transformed by typing thumbs before becoming something that will last on a plain white screen and later be posted at the speed of competing broad bands into a world wide cloud of words.

Later, having hovered / waited, my wet words just might find a place to soak / to stain / to marinate and later be memorised perchance recitied at a more appropriate speed within a crowd of like-minded minds and perhaps for a phrase to lodge / to be recalled / to form part of something that fate redirects through a ball of blue, back out into the flow.

With a smidgen of talent comes great responsibility.

With great grace comes greater responsibility.

Spider-Poet, Spider-Poet,
Writes free verse haiku and sonnet
Spins a verse, any size,
Catches rhymes just like flies
Look Out!
Here comes the Spider-Poet.

Sharing cracked living
and hard fried eggs
Re heated
Re purposed
Re deemed

But we were early to heaven
Higher in the rafters
And closer to our dead

Go empty handed and be fruitful
Lay on hands and be liberal
When you pour your oil
Spit in the soil if you have to
Whatever it takes to
Bring healing and restoration
To those who have a notion
To listen to you who I have chosen
To bring good news to the nations.
And to each family which shows willing
Give greetings
With a voice ringing
True and bringing
Peace and blessings
To all who reside in their dwelling
For you are a herald of the most high King
Sent to ensure His shalom and kingdom
Hits home before you move on.
Go empty handed and be fruitful
Lay on hands and be liberal
When you pour your oil
Spit in the soil if you have to
Whatever it takes....

God has no chromosomes
so don't get caught up with gender
He Genesised you down to your genes
and delights in your full splendour

This is spoken word
(that’s words aloud)
freed from the screen
sent out proud

words finding voice
sounds in word form
finding new ears
words outperformed

When words stay inside
they fester and blister
they poison and kick
sour and bitter

it’s only out loud
that’s words pass the test
it’s when they’re outspoken
they get off my chest

This is spoken word
loud words out-loud
ready to be heard
above the crowd

Spring is a doing word
- quietly, softly, resolutely
repeatedly springing up
through the heavy clay
springing forward
past these ground hog days
offering an initiation rite
of colour, warmth and new light.

Spring is a doing word
- so do it right.

Spring is a doing word
- quietly, softly, resolutely springing up
through the heavy clay, springing forward
past these ground hog days,
offering an initiation rite
of colour, warmth and new light.
Spring is a doing word – so let’s do it right.

Sometimes
just the nod is enough
to acknowledge
the common struggle
and to impart
a spur -
a spur to go on

Camels and kings
shepherds and sheep
come round the crib
to get a clear peep

each would recall
the smells and the sight
of God made a child
and donkey *****.

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies beyond
- all this my God beholds

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies ahead
- all this my God unfolds

Standing smoking under the front light looking out into the night on the step of another flat share which for a while I can dare to call home wondering when I will own a place of my own where I can kick up a stink or pile up the sink, where I can strike a light, where I can curse as loud as I like, where I don't have to take myself outside and stand staring at nothing with nothing but my key and the glow of my roll-your-own for company.

April Fool Phil's in love
And doesn't care what the date is
What matters is the ring on his finger
That matches his Mrs.
Standing before their families
Gathered from across the miles
Beaming smiles toward this happy couple
Praying for years of joy
And precious few troubles.

It was the same old song
Their mates were wondering
When they'd get a move on
Now their mothers are thinking
Of the fruit of the union (Don't deny it)
Meanwhile Phil is planning
Space for a drum kit
(I wrote that before I saw he'd already unpacked it)
And Anna is dreaming
Of a G&T; and just how Phil is so fit

So you'll both be forgiven
For failing to notice the party in heaven:
Thousands of angels cheering
With little discretion.
They just love it you see
When plans come to fruition
When birds of a feather
Find such pleasure together.

And they know for sure
The Lord shares their smiles
Cos two of his children
Can't help but shine
With the happiness that comes
From deep down knowing
That their love is ordained
By their Father in heaven. 

So Phil, so Anna
We stand with the angels
And shout our congratulations
We applaud your vows
With more volume
Than decorum allows,
-
May the Lord bless you
And keep you
May his face shine on you
And give you peace
That will never cease
To give you pause to thank Him
For his Grace.

And all the assembled people said
AMEN.

Step up to the mic and strike first with a smile of one liners, with observations or tales that beguile them.
For a smile will disable them while your lines slide in behind them, almost whispering, selecting the sharp-soft phrases that will best penetrate those guarded places. Looking with innocence into their faces, turning minds stage by stages, persuading with insights, with stories of real life, with familiar tales of familiar strife. Then when you follow through and strike with the punch line they have no defence and have no time to decline the good sense found in this food for thought, laughing to a sudden realised stop, looking again at their lives, with a furtive smile of dawning delight at the shed light on shared lives found in your soft amplified lines.
- Do it right when you step up to the mic and you just might change lives.

Give her more time, she said.
So I gave her as much as time allowed,
including much I couldn't spare,
but still she hungered,
eating up my remaining time
and in no time at all
I was left
starved.

I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.

I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.

Ed the saint lost his head
and opened his house to the arts
artists and poets
came and amazed us
and touched our heads and our hearts

The stone shimmers,
Giving pause to my blisters,
Until momentum decides
And sole is met by wet promise
Half submerged by passing doubts
And so hope clasps joy with a cold gasp,
Gifting courage
For the next leg.

Don't be quick
to stop and search.
Do slow and speak.
Do stop at the curb.
Do sit.
Do commit to shape
a future city nation
where more space is given
to a wider conversation
with a newer translation
that's truer in comparison
than any black and blue
blunt force confrontation.
Stop.

Recycled conversations
won't ever save the world.
We need to stop recycling
and use more one-use words.

Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.

Sometimes when I look into the storms, I see Jesus.
But sometimes I just see my fears
competing for the pleasure of being the first to swallow me.
It's typical of me to see more of the slap of the waves
hear more of the thunder clap
and miss his soft song.
It's typical of me
to stare too long into the jaws of the gale
and to miss the arms that bring calm
- to listen too intently at the fury
and miss the whisper of his promised peace
- to sail deep into the shadows of the storms,
catching the detail
and not share in the warmth of the rising sun.

Sometimes when I face the storms, I see Jesus.
Sometimes.

Sometimes reality is just too much and I pop out for a while.
I step into a story.
I make it my own.
A space shaped just for me.

Then I expand my space to accommodate my latest imaginings.
I push, stretch, build and take new ground with every new thought, with every fresh fruit of each branch of each path.
And once I've created sufficient space, I invite my friends, my close friends, my network family to join me and to join my story and so to enjoy the strange fruit of my imaginings.

I sit face to face, the stage set
For stories to fill the space
Free to meander through my head
The voice on the page
Leaves nothing unsaid
Revealing the reflection of a me
That I so dearly want to be
Seeing what was once misread
Refusing to be so badly misled
Sighted on the possibility
Of life in step with a golden thread
The voice on the page
Lifts free and I find myself
In every word he said
Ready for a fresh first person
In my very own new narrative.

We're all writing stories -
some in ink, some in blood,
some are less well read,
some become well-thumbed.

We're all writing stories -
some for laughs, some in tears,
some soaring sagas,
some stuck in first gear.

We're all writing stories -
some in first person, some in third,
whatever your perspective
take care with each word.

As a kid I was an accomplished storyteller
an evader of consequence.
As an adult it was a little similar,

but lately, I’ve found more story with truth
intertwined with unexpected twists,
and immersive but unfinished narratives,

which gave space for imagination,
for permission for grace to flower
in familiar but unexpected colour.

And sweet fragrance.

I have always been a storyteller.
A teller of my stories.
And they’re unfinished,

with more fragrance to come.

Not pen to paper nor digit to key,
but eye to eye and hand to hand,
with a firm grip on our reality.

With half-empty mouths and full-empty ears,
we understand that its has to be us
voicing our two converging histories.

Exploring what it is to be you,
what it is to be me
and what we two can be together
in the next chapter of our come-together
unfiltered, unashamed and unheard stories.

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew.

Parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.

Winter parties, summer trips
a massive paddling pool,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.

Common homes and gardens,
a street in open-plan,
more than simply neighbours,
one big, street-long clan.

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew
- parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.
- winter parties, summer trips
and massive paddling pools,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.
- common homes and gardens,
a street that was open plan,
family in every neighbour,
one big,
street-long
clan.

Out of 100 people
Who were around that day
Who stopped
Who didnt instantly walk away
Who understood the options
Who expressed an opinion,
Out of those 100 people
When asked a binary question
All 100 said: yes,
They do answer questions
From strangers.

Some people prefer to walk,
some will always run.
But the perfect way
to spend the day
is to stroll
arm in arm
in the sun.

Can you lend me a pound of your strength
maybe give me a slice of your chi.
I could do with a dose of your vim
and a dab of your vibrant esprit.

So give me whatever you're having,
let me follow your daily routine.
So long as you allow strong coffee
within your wholesome regime.

we struggled
long into the night
it was a gruelling fight
with ***** tactics
on both sides
and even a bite or two

but you can't blame me
it was brutal
it was him or me
and I won
I fought my conscience
and I won

pass me another cake

Have I been too revealing
Employing too much wailing?
Were the drums a bit too much
With epic trumpets playing?

Have I been too obtuse
Or did I veer into rambling?
Could I have better laid it out
Without elaborating?

Have I done justice to the discourse?
Did I mis-count the charging horses?
Did I include sufficient angels?
Was I true to my sources?

I trust that I did hold true
To heavenly inspiration
That the words will stand the test of time
And bring true revelation

But if I did stray from the truth
If it all seemed way too bleak
Please respond with due good grace
It's only my first week.

Something is better
than nothing
Nothing is better
than stupid
Stupid is just
stupid

A teddy
is a substitute satisfaction.
Like chocolate.

And that's okay.
So long as you know

what you're missing.

I can only see half your story
in the part sunken stone
in the cracked and faded words
chosen by those you loved.

I can only see in part
what was no doubt a full life
with deep loves, long summers
and shared travels ending in West 7.

I can only imagine the rest
from my cracked path’s prospect
in the silence of ancient trees,
and the laughter of early birds.

The red folk and the purple people were distinctive in their hue.  In contrast, the Set Up bunch were chameleon, and to the casual observer they could pass for members of the congregation. That was by design, to be known only by their levite nature, their early arrival and late departure and (if you looked closely) by their hands.
The early bunch had remarkable hands. They were strikingly ready and willing, and could be turned to a wide variety of tasks.
They could never be described as specialist, and would never wish to be.  Their true specialty, if they have one, is only to be quick to serve and never draw attention to themselves.  
If they were ever persuaded to wear team tee shirts, they would have 'Ninja' brazoned across the back.  And that would be kinda cool.

I know Jesus can't turn in his grave
(because, well you know).
But if he could,
He'd be spinning most Sundays.

Extract maximum energy from every day
Turn you face towards the light
Turn away from the shadows
and at dusk
rest
ready for your dawning.

Every Jamaican is a superstar.
It's there in the carry
in the step
in the stand.
It's there in the belief
that anything
that anyone
that anywhere
can swagger
can strut
can take the room
and make the world stop
sit up
take note
and smile.