Is truth now a muddy thing?
Is that how we prefer it to be?
Is truth a muddy clay
ready to be shaped ‘til it pleases me?

Is truth now a muddy thing
thick and deep, hiding what's beneath?
Designed to hide my face
as I seek a private relief?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
wet, heavy, gritty and cold?
Can I scrap it off my boot,
leave it outside my safe threshold?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
slowing me wading ashore?
Immune to curses and stumbles,
dragging me to the floor?

If truth is now a muddy thing
can I filter it and sieve?
Is there pure clear truth that's not been eroded?
Will I still find true truth within?

The man of God slid through my door and up the stairs,
sliding out of his shoes to settle on the sofa,
eager to sup and to share a little cheer, a little truth,
laced with honesty and vulnerability.

He reminded me of the season and the reason we gather,
with song, with prayer, and why we rise refreshed,
ready for the Advent, for the King’s coming kingdom.

The man of God left something of Christmas in his wake
and I rose to lift seasoned cheer from my cupboard,
better ready to greet this Advent
with a strengthened smile.

And when you BLESS
Be prayerful,
careful to be mindful
that God's presence is vital
if actions are to be blessful.

And when you bless
Listen,
just stopping and sitting
signals that you're willing
to be hearing
while your tongue stays stilling.

And when you bless
Eat,
yes feast over several courses,
invest is slower morsels,
be someone who pauses
to hear other people's stories.

And when you bless
Serve,
and not just in church,
but with imaginative verve
serve all of your neighbours
even those who are homeless.

And when you bless
Share,
yes dare to bare
a little of your story,
more of the messy history
that brought you here.

And, less you think
that you might have impressed,
be mindful that
we all put on our pants
one leg at a time
when we're each getting dressed, yes
we all equally need
God's ever forgiving kiss
so with no eye on who's looking
- just BLESS.

And when you fast
Sate your hunger
With more of the Father

And when you fast
Weld it as a weapon
And prepare for battle
For his coming kingdom

And when you fast
Fast with intent
Ignore your stomachs dissent
And listen to reflect
And listen to expect
More than you had dreamt

And when you fast
Take your fill
Of all that he has in store
For yours and you

And whenever you fast
However you fast
Don't be downcast
Fast with a laugh

And when you give
Give like the widow

And when you give
Give til you giggle

And when you give
Give til you've pasted a smile
On every angel within a mile

And when you give
Keep the others guessing
Keep it between you and heaven
Cos you know that's better than
A here and now blessing

When you give
Give like the widow
Keep it on the down-low
However you live
Just give

And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.

And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.

And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans

And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.

Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.

And when you lead,
start with the feet.

When you lead,
you need to get down low
with a towel and a water bowl

For when you lead,
you'll find your honour
not over, but under

not higher, but lower 

not first, but last.

So, when you lead,
don't wait your turn,

but push your way
right to the back

where you'll find
nothing to prove,
nothing to hide
and nothing to loose,
but your pride.

Yes, while many will disagree,
when you lead,
bleed his example:

Undo a sandal
and start with the feet.

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 you, His pioneers.
And then -
Knock.

And when you read
Don't rush -
Theres no need to read
with undue speed.

And when you read
Start with a suckle -
Work up to a nibble -
Until you can gnaw without a dribble.
I encourage you
Get down to the marrow
Like there's no tomorrow.
Savour each word
As food for your soul
And live as a model
As to how to live whole.

And when you read
Apply your mind daily,
Apply each word liberally
(especially to those out of the way
hard to reach places).

And when you read
- Study
Sometimes with a buddy
But - study.
This is no hobby,
You can't afford to get sloppy.
It's as crucial for the soul
As five a day for the body
- So study.

And when you read
Treat each word
Like a tutor;
It can teach you
How to live shrewder.

And when you read
Sustain it like a seed,
Ensure you pay heed
Cos it will never mislead.

And when you read
Do it to a plan,
Always with intent
And be sure
To finish as you began.

And when you read
Commit to it daily,
Commit it to memory
To avoid thinking lazily.

And when you read
Do it while a commuter
Do it on a computer
Do it with a kindle
Do it with audio
Do it with a paperback
Do it with a hard back
Do it from front to back.
However you develop the knack
Don't let yourself slack;
This Word is no throw back,
It will keep you on track.
So just read.

And when you read,
don't rush.
Theres no need to read
with undue speed.

And when you read
start with a suckle -
work up to a nibble -
until you can gnaw without a dribble.
I encourage you:
get down to the marrow
like there's no tomorrow.
Savour each word
as food for your soul
and live as a model
as to how to live whole.

And when you read
apply your mind daily,
apply each word liberally
(especially to those out of the way
hard to reach places).

And when you read
- study
Sometimes with a buddy,
but - study.
This is no hobby,
you can't afford to get sloppy.
It's as crucial for the soul
as five a day for the body.
- So study.

And when you read
treat each word
like a tutor;
it can teach you
how to live shrewder.

And when you read
sustain it like a seed,
ensure you pay heed
cos it will never mislead.

And when you read
do it to a plan,
always with intent
and be sure
to finish as you began.

And when you read
commit to it daily,
commit it to memory
to avoid thinking lazily.

And when you read:
Do it while a commuter
Do it on a computer
Do it with a kindle
Do it with audio
Do it with a paperback
Do it from front to back.
However you develop the knack
don't let yourself slack;
this Word is no throwback,
it will keep your feet on track.
- so just read.

And when you serve,
Start with the feet

And when you serve,
Get down low
With a towel and a water bowl

And when you serve,
Find your honour not over
But under
Not higher
But lower
Not first
But last.

So when you serve,
Don't wait your turn
But push your way
Right to the back.
Where you'll find
Nothing to prove
Nothing to hide
And nothing to loose
But your pride.

Yes, you heard,
When you serve
Observe His example:
Undo a sandal
And start - with - the - feet.

And when you serve,
Start with the feet

And when you serve,
Get down low
With a towel and water bowl

And when you serve,
Find your honour not over
But under
Not higher
But lower
Not first
But last.

So when you serve,
Don't wait your turn
But push your way
To the back.
Where you'll find
Nothing to prove
Nothing to hide
And nothing to loose
But your pride.

Yes, you heard,
When you serve
Observe his example:
Undo a sandal
And start with the feet.

And when you stand
Ready to raise your hands
In prayer to heaven
Consider your heart and ask -
Do you have any hardfeelings
Anyone who you need to be forgiving
Any ill feeling that needs divine healing?
Cos if there is
Then you know that needs dealing
Before you can get to your kneeling
And your Father can truely hear your appealing.
And don't think it's worth trying concealing
No, simply deal with it by giving some forgiving
And then you can engage with some true conversing
With your loving Father listening in heaven.

When you walk
Walk through the green
On deep paths
Walk purposefully
In the footsteps
Of pilgrims past

When you walk
Walk each new step
Thoughtfully
Placing your footsteps
Joyfully
With eyes on the holy

And there you'll find
Not only the pleasure
Not just the delight
Not solely the feast
But you will find yourself
Released
Your soul
Your spirit
Sustained
Strengthened
Singing
There you'll discover
Your true guide for your path
Your great high priest.

Busy with colour, the fast night shouted her down and refused to listen to her protests. Still she screamed across the square, but each syllable of her pain was immediately swept away and all that the tourists noticed was a mute nightingale cruelly pigeonholed by a half forgotton song.
And still she screamed.

Not how I planned it
Not as I'd hoped
But better

Not the path we'd plotted
Not the course we charted
But higher

Not the story I'd written
Not the song I'd practiced
But oh,
it's been well told and well sung
and I've spent time with my Messiah.

He's given me another path.
A different gift.

Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

This is my lament for London and its young lives lost:


Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

Quote from Paddington in Paddington the Movie

“Mrs. Brown say in London everyone is different, but that means anyone can fit in.  I think she must be right because, although I don’t look like anyone else, I really do feel at home.  I will never be like other people, but that’s alright, because I’m a bear.  A bear called Paddington.”

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of options
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation for interruption
A deliberate contemplation
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A hearing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And unexpected peace

In London
there’s a game of chess
with all the pieces white.
The board’s perfectly circular
and tilted to the right.

The grandmasters use strategies
that no-one’s ever tried.
They change their mind constantly,
but never break their stride.

Now, it's not the place for a pawn
to question that last move,
but I cannot help but think
I’m going to get *******.

A poem is a flawed thing
made by damaged hands,
thoughts yet complete,
words unsound,
but close, like a whisper away,
as close as a line-break,
to the heart of something

The authorities in Jerusalem are appealing for the public's help in locating a missing boy from Nazareth (Galilee).

Jesus bar Joseph, 12, was last seen near the Susa Gate 5 days ago. We are concerned for his welfare.
Jesus who is described as a serious boy and mature for his age, is olive skinned, 4' 8" tall, of slim to medium build with shoulder length black hair.

He is understood to be wearing a brown and tan tunic and black saddles, carrying a small satchel.
Jesus is familiar with the area around the temple mount and with the mount of olives.

His mother, Mary, says, "Jesus, if you read this, please contact us. We are not angry with you, just very anxious."

Jesus also uses the name 'Son of Man'.

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Whether you know it or not
There're those who look to you
Give them something worth seeing
Something honest and true

All of us carry our scars
Some costly, all hard earned
Don't waste the sweat and tears
Share the lessons you've learned.

We've all got younger brothers
We've all got younger sisters
Take some time to walk with them
Shake off the doubt that hinders

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

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Do Not Remind Me Again

I’d make a lousy leaf.

I couldn’t happily leave my tree, my family, my home.
I expect I’d be one of the last, holding on, looking down
and nervously watching my siblings.

Seeing them heaped and occasionally lifted
to fly, to dance in a whirl of excitement
– free of past commitments.

Maybe then I’ll gather my brittle courage,
eyes clenched shut, ready at last to jump
and to let go, into the unknown.

Only to find myself kicked around by ignorant children
who have no appreciation of the journey I’ve been on to get here.

Oh well, this is a new season.
There’s no going back now.

I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.

I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.

I'm waiting still.

I met a bold painter
With no brush to his name
He held up his stylus
And happily explained
It's all about screen time
It's what you install
It's the choice of the subject
And this one is bald.

The ground work
The art work
The craft work
The hard work
The life work
of a working poet
works on long after
the pen rests
and the mind drifts
to pouring wine
and making dinner
at the close of the journal
at the close of another
working day

The words dance on
The mind works on -
fermenting
gestating
wordplaying -
while the pen
and the journal
lie in waiting
ready for the release
of fresh ink
at the start
of another working day

She chose me from among the younger boys to cross the long floor
and on the far side, in the half-curtained sunlight
she took hold of me and my innocent limbs

- she helped me reach up her long back, guiding my trembling hands -
and then she enveloped me, joining her body to mine.

I could feel the damp of her warmth,
our bodies rolling together while her music set the pace
which I struggled to maintain, but somehow I kept in step
with her rise and fall, with her supple flow,
navigating this complex dance,
deep in this safe space
in the circle of her practiced arms.

The pre-pubescent boys looked on
and the teacher's graceful Foxtrot took me
across the full length of the room
from boyhood to something new.

We watched and we listened
as He prayed.
And we wondered
what might it be like ?

to speak with Jehovah
- as He did.
-
-
So one night we gathered up our courage
and we asked,
'can WE do that?'

And then,
smiling,
He taught us.
He gave us
OUR prayer.

And, as if
for the first time,
it felt real.
It felt like we had PERMISSION,

We had an INVITATION
to call Jehovah
'our Father'

just as He did.
-
-
I couldn't help but smile
when I thought what the priests would make of all this:

What would they say?

Praying child to Father.
Having direct access. Forgiveness
Without a priest.

And oh the simplicity
of asking,
of feasting
on the generous Spirit
of OUR God

just as He did.

He saw me grin and He laughed with us.
-
-
And later,
when the others were sleeping
I walked and practised this new boldness
and shouted through my smile:
-
"Our Father
in heaven,
most holy be your Name.
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done
here on earth
just as in heaven.

Give us this day
our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins

just as we forgive those
who sin against us.

And lead us
not into temptation,
instead, deliver us from the evil one.

For Yours is the kingdom,
Yours is the power
and Yours is the glory
for-ever,
Amen."

I kept my childlike smile.
And when I slept
I slept as He did.

Closer to grace.

Ask now about the former days,
ask before praying
before this pause
passes

Listen now about the former days,
listen before rising
before this story
ends

Speak now about the former days,
speak before forgetting
before this memory
fades

A stew of slow cookers
sit simmering
slowly brewing a communal stock,
seaping steam and aromas
which speak a seductive welcome
from doorstep to table
and whisper a warm, rich reassurance
that this is home

Seconds before our first kiss
my clumsy words tore us asunder

and so I turned the rudder
from the sunset
into the full force of rejection.

We said nothing more,
and you did not notice my tears.

At least Jesus knew what was coming:
the betrayal, the pain, the abandonment,
the journey down, the climb back, the reunion
with abandoned friendships,
the chance to walk and sit  
with the taste of simple meals,
but no wine yet,
before his departure.

At least we know what’s coming -
the long journey, the ups and downs,
the sound of the latch on that narrow gate,
the weight of our cross,
the chance to walk our paths with him.

The break of bread, the shared wine,
pointing to a ‘dine with me’ where we’ll feast royally,
when we’ll see him take that long awaited sip
or perhaps simply dip his bread,
nod his head and smile,
knowing there's an eternity of this to come.

At least we all know what’s coming.

I concentrate on being me,
observing attention deficit,
wanting someone else to see
the view from where I always sit.

I turn and then begin to chat
to the person that I'm facing,
surprised that from where I'm sat
I find them almost fascinating.

Very soon I realise
that the person sitting there
is seeing me with two fresh eyes,
blinking through each tear.

Startled at the turn of twelve
Not any other time
Her cultured tones sound so amazed
Before the expected chime

What is it that's shocked her so
Whatever could be the matter
Is it the echo of some past time
Or some rival chronometer

At the third stroke she'll be oh so precise
And disclose the appointed hour
She'll watch each minute slowly disappear
My most reliable of voyeurs.

The storm was predictable,
but not as heavy as its counterparts,
and it was swiftly pushed aside
by the August sun and gusty winds.

The storm was predictable
as most are - eager,
but half-hearted
and susceptible to whim
and winds alike.

The storm was predictable,
but not as dependable as His words,
which quiet any storm,
calm any fears
and deliver us to the far shore,
ready for our next adventure,
whatever the weather.

A quote from a lovely movie, Lean on Pete:
"The nightmares are going to get better. They might not go away completely, but they're going to get better the more good times you have. And we're going to have good times, Charlie.  I promise."

Interrupted and focused
on rare lessons of life,
punctuated by the full stops,
of death and of the loss
of childhood and childish dreams.

An education in sheltering,
dodging shrapnelled questions,
in bursts of splintered lessons
in how to button down
triggered emotions.

A wartime education
with faint hope of graduation.

A woman walks into a bar,
alone on a Friday night,
daring assumptions,
orders a pint
and gets out her book.
That's it.  There's nothing else to write.
What?  Not clichéd enough for you?

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes, my indecisions, just as I bear the bruises of long gone twists and turns.

The present continues to whistle by, blinkering me from any hope of reflection, of consideration before I'm blindsided by flashes of my maybe futures.

I try not to stumble, to stay in the present and steady myself, ready for the next silent bend, trusting intuition and an all-seeing grace as life roars past me.

The past meanders before me, each bend bearing my scrapes.....

An outstanding old fool,
bulletproof from experience
and too old to die,
qualifies for life-time achievement
by virtue of his still beating heart
and stubborn, winning smile.

Later his tired talent lingers
in the executive departure lounge,
and watches fading reflections of past retrospectives.
leaving him to flee solo on a gulf-stream
over old territory littered with mottled headstones
of honours and moments past;
like rivals once luvved and soon forgotten
through fame and affluence.

There's only one kinda respect
that matters
That's self-respect,
respect from you.
It don't matter how it looks
to others -
what matters is how it looks
to you.

So take a moment,
make your choice
and no matter what they say
make sure your choice
is true to self
and that you don't betray
your inner self, that heart of self
that's waiting in the basement
the self you hid, but can't deny
that it's up for reappraisement.

Your basement self is restless
it's hungry for the fight
so feed your self
some self respect
and step into the light.

I don't think she'll hear you.
- I'll give it a try.
I don't think she's listening.
- I'll try it again.

Son,
I don't think she's worried
about the high tide
and I don't think she cares
about the late time.
She'll return when she's ready,
let her drift while she can.
Just give mum this moment
of peace on the Seine.

I recommend a light oil and a short comb, keeping sissors to hand to cultivate that King George V shape or, if you are feeling brave, go for the majesty of a full Henry VIII.

I've noticed just how much of our talking waits
until bedtime - as if until then
we have lacked permission to pause
until we've undressed and bundled ourselves
into our duvet time-capsules.

Alas, it’s then
when the competing urgency of sleep rises
and meets our log-jammed thoughts

it’s then when our fight fades,
when our wide meander sprawls,
exhausted of its pungency

And its then
when our ability to cement thoughts
cracks in the face of creeping sleep
rerunning its classic dreams
and rebuilding forgotten worlds
that we’re fated to later abandon in the shudder of dawn,
and the demands of a new day.

And so, we delay any conscious introspection
and leave our contemplations to our advancing Sandman
as we slumber and sleepwalk in his wake.

Being white is a responsibility,
a privilege,
an advantage,
topped up by a y chromosome
for some,
and this can not be worn lightly.

Don't kid yourselves:
despite the painted ceilings
God is not white.
Yet being white
is a still responsibility.

And guys
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender defining genitalia.
God designed all that
for us to enjoy
out of His love of diversity
out of His mischievous plan
for procreational play,
out of His need to be reflected in the image of 2 genders
because one was not diverse enough
and Adam could not bear God's full image alone.

As I was saying,
being white is a responsibility -
placed on our shoulders
by each generation that
denied
pushed down
held back and
placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate
of humankind colour.

God is not white.
No, he chose the olive skin
of His chosen, His select people
and wore than dark complexion
with pride.

God is not white.
He is translucent.

Being white is a responsibility
of our own making -
so let us bear it responsibly.

Believe in more than
you can imagine
Believe in more than
you ask to happen
Believe in more than
what you have seen
Believe in more than
what you have been
Believe in more than
your faded label
Believe in more cos
your God is able.

Immeasurably more than
all we ask
Immeasurably more than
all we imagine
Immeasurably more than
what we deserve
Immeasurably more than
mere human passions

Immeasurably wider
Immeasurably longer
Immeasurably higher
Immeasurably deeper
Immeasurably more
full to the brim
Immeasurable love
to the fulness of Him

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then away and seems to circumvent the gateway to better, to truer and rather it dips and, for some unfathomable reason, detours through bone aching drivel which we sit through lest we cause offence and in defence we smile until someone offers a glass and we can distract the conversation to something real and relevant and alive – preferably with alcohol.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then it rainbows, so you’d think that there’d be no excuse but to look up and wonder at the way in which each colour blends, leaving no distinct edge, no start or finish, leaving you in no doubt why spectrum is an apt term to capture diversity with harmony, and leaving you staring curiously while the world walks on, heads down, focusing on the familiarity of their grey, woollen comfort zones.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
the other side, it crosses divides, where bridges were long fractured, and diversions had left the land desolate - and now we can repopulate, reconnect and proliferate something that binds a kindlier fraternity wedded to justice indiscriminately.

The arc is long,
bending, not broken.