I've been ceaselessly sweating since June
And without fail every day around noon
My arm pits are sopping
My ****** are sodden
I feel about ready to swoon

It’s been glorious weather since June
I’m not sure if you’d think it too soon
But top up the icebox
For Pimm’s on the rocks
And celebrate all afternoon

I met a tortured poet
In sequins and despair
Her torture was unusual
She's now a billionaire.

A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.

Think twice before you take
Take only what you need
Use everything you take
Take full charge of your greed

The next time I killed her
it felt forced
too practiced, rehearsed.
And whilst the movement
and the blood
still flowed
I wasn't able to feel
the same spurt
of the joy of completion
and whilst the execution,
was in essence still 'killing',
it was kinda dull, like a boring drilling.

I'll have to try again.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I lent into it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and whilst the transition
was in essence still 'dying'
it was kinda arousing, exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.

I'll have to wait
and see.

There's nothing magical
About intentional
It's the beneficial
Not the permissible
Don't be mindful
Of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency
Of every mouthful
The size you choose
For your morning bowl full
What you put
On a wholemeal bagel
And then you'll find you'll
Be more healthful.

(And I can see you
Get all emotional
And inspirational
About the preferable
honey-based
BBQ
Sauce.)

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

How do you like your tea?

I smiled.

Assam strong.
A dash of skinny milk.
And a view across the Thames.

They need a firm love
Not a weak love
Not a shy love
Not 'sorry, love'
But a firm, dependable,
over and above, sacrificial love
That'll never deprive them of
what they need the most of
- a untiring labour of love
from someone who gets up
and turns up to daily put up
with an occasional child-like
shove.

Not a brave fight,
But a certain defeat.
Not heroic acts,
But daily surrender.
Not a close race,
But the frustration of consecutive false starts
And inevitable disqualification
And slow expulsion from this life
With no fanfare, but with a sob and a sigh
That sank like a stone
And pulled her family down
Around her
Each soaked in stunned silence
Engulfed by their memories
Of lost opportunities
Looking for resolve to do better
Somehow.
And only, eventually, finding hope
In each other
In the shared endeavour
To love one another, together
As she once did a forever ago.
Our mother could fill
A cup of tea with love
Like no other.

Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares

Your tears will speak for you
while your loss dries up all words.

The spreading tearstains
on my shoulder
are eloquent enough.

The slow tea flowed with a knowing tease, letting the flavour seep bone deep as I watched with a growing marrow-level ease, feeling the aroma sink gently down lower than ever before, leaving a lasting trace of exotic leaf, as her voice broke through the spell with her ancient enquiry: "milk and two sugars was it, dear?"

Lately
he will simply sit enclosed
focused on another world
somewhere he feels more at home
with a script he and his can own

Later
he will emerge,
shifting focus,
slowly taking notice
adjusting to a slower gravity
reverting to a lesser fluency
but no less forthright
not giving his words away
without a fight
and so we fight.

Have you ever tried to tell the time?

I mean really tell it?
Tell it what you think of it –
where you wish it would stick
its incremental ticking,
its incessant tocking
its perpetual passing?

Have you ever told it to just STOP!

To get out of your face
To give you some space
or at least to try and relax and shorten its pace?

Well, I DID.

I told it to pick a side!
I told it to stand aside,
or we’d have to take this outside.

It didn’t make a nano of a difference.

I still have to sit and watch my own personal doomsday clock
I still can’t get my body clock to slow or stop.
I still have to go to my blasted birthday party
to celebrate a tick closer
to that last
tock.

(sigh)
Many Happy no-returns.

Tell me,
how did you keep your heart?
how did you guard it under such relentless assault?
how did you keep it whole?
how did you keep it open?

'I had you.'

When we offer
a sacrifice of praise,
our lives as living psalters,
are our hearts altered?

I'm thankful for family
For sisters who love me
I'm thankful for parents
Who took their role seriously

I'm thankful for a home
That was open to friends
I'm thankful for cousins
And family that extends

To uncles and aunts
To grannies and nans
To granddads and grandpas
And in-laws and clans

I know we're not perfect
We've had ups and some downs
But together we flourish
We won't be kept down

She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

She opened her eyes
smiling at the memory of what was
laughing at what had been
looking back with thanks.
And thankful, she sang
And thankful, she shouted
with echoes of healing,
of growing,
of climbing -
to the Here,
to the Now,
ready for the Next,
anticipating the Not Yet
and prepared for all that is promised.

But for now
she looked back
with thanks
and she - just - sang!

Arthur met a confounding god today.
A maze of a god,
with Arthur in the middle.

A god not hemmed in by history,
not bound within Arthur's worn, white bible;
beyond understanding, as promised.

Arthur met a god outside
his tarnished creed,
a god too slippery for certainty.
An untidy, script-ripping god.
A god who hovered beyond
the borders.

Not a guiding light, but a blinding night.
And blind, Arthur recognised little through his tears,
as his father slipped away,
as promised.

Will the hurdles be high?
Are the footpaths steep?
Will the days be long?
and cause me to weep?

Will you be there too?
Will you have time for me?
Will you let me down
and return by degrees?

Will I fill my shoes?
Can I act my age?
Will I brave the crowds?
Can I seize the day?

The answer is Yes
it has always been so
so get off your ****
it's now time to go.

The island's abandoned beauty
stayed on first name terms
with the coming storm,
oblivious
of its violent betrayal,
unmindful
of the berserker landscaping
that tore a new path towards it.
(Where are all the birds today?)

He tilted his head “Okey doke, it’s almost time to go
– I’ve got a yoga teacher next, down in the Grove.
For you, it’s time to write the silence for a while,
to write the unsaid, to shelve meek and mild.

“Write the inner anger, the notes of distress.
Write what it was that you wished you had said.
Write all the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Write all the feelings you’d wished you’d conveyed.

“Write what it was you had meant to do,
what you intended that so frightened you.
What was it that you’ve let fall in between
your long dead silence and your unsaid scream?

“See if your volume will go above minimum
without it scaring you and leaving you frozen.
Go shape the words and say them out loud
find what it’s like to make fiercer sounds.

“Cos I’ve been so bored, sitting here listening
to nothing but you sat saying your nothing.
Go write your silence and come back around.
And let’s see if you’ve something worth writing about.”

life's not a race, it's more of a dance
and some choose to dance in formation,
others pair up, even more dance alone
while some spin a DJ vocation

The day's been seized
with no ransom demand
It's in a windowless basement
and will never see daylight again

The day's been seized
taken from those it loves
with no hope of reunion

The day's been seized
but so far unharmed

The days been seized
and reduced to tears

tears

The dead are still wriggling.

I thought I'd stamped hard enough
Twisted my heel long enough
Been vicious enough
To render their meddling
Null in their void
Enough to create them sterile
In their bequest
To bestow a double portion
Of pain.

I thought they were dead
And gone.
I was wrong.

10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And should have been grateful
For the outstretched hand that took the brunt
Of the sharp corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back

Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners
That formed the bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on without a care
Unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,

And applied to the navy for a crazy venture round the world
Or he would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
And said he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes, raising familiar giggles

and the redraft:

10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And might have been grateful for the outstretched hand
That softened the corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners,
The bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for worldwide venture
Or would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
Cos he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes,
Raising familiar giggles

I miss his deep bellow
 from the front hall as he went out the door.
It wasn't loneliness.  It was a familiar emptiness
and he always came back.

I miss the dark grease
 on his clothes in the wash. 
It wasn't an imposition.  It was part of the routine
and it usually came out. 

I miss the dank stench
 he brought with him at the end of shift.
It wasn't much different to dad's.  It felt  right
and it didn't fill the house for long.

I miss the certainty
 that he brought with him.
But it's hardly sad. 
It's simply the end of something.
He's gone.

The radio reports no congestion
and the goings good with few delays.
Sat Nav tells me it will take no time
with light traffic the whole way.

It's apparently never crowded here
on this less travelled extra mile
I'm a first time pilgrim and I've not passed others
for a good lonely long while.

Vulnerable ain't weak
Hurting ain't broken
Pausing isn't giving up
Tired isn’t beaten

For so many years I felt the pull of the fires in my head
until the years drew them down to my chest
and then to my gut where they pushed me out to new fields
where blood fed the corn and we stood our ground
for the sake of family and for the joy of brotherhood's embrace.

In more recent times the fires have bled down,
fed into my hips and my knees, causing me to slow,
to sit and spend time passing on my story
to younger hearts who may dodge the spills and stumbles
and steer themselves to whiter fields and perhaps sow happier times.

Perhaps they will,
but I'll tell them -
the fires remain.

We are each floating, and so it is right and kind to notice and greet those floating along side us - we are each driven by the same flow to the same sea but within our own stream (some main, some minor), but all heading down and meandering, slowly slowing, unless we find resistance and find cause for rejuvenation - and of course, we do.  We all do.

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its dependable
and Lord I don’t feel I qualify
Faithful sound daily, faithful sounds every
day rising with no need to apologise

Faithful isn’t faithful unless its consistent
and Lord, my consistency’s low
faithful sounds predictable, someone reliable
and Lord, you know that’s touch and go

Lord, grant me a spirit of someone who’s faithful
someone who’ll last til the end
Someone like you, who when the going gets tough
gets going and dies for his friends

Lord, grant me your Spirit, full to the brim
reliably and consistently there
so I may be faithful to you and to those
you have placed here in my care

I learned gentleness from a giant of a man
whose reach
reached full round the world and deep into my wounds,
offering a strength and a healing
that was light as a whisper
and heavy as a salve
that gave off an aroma which took me back
to my mother’s arms,
her safe smell and the music of her song,
rocking me gently and teaching me more about strength
than any wannabe giant of any size.

He gave me a giant’s confidence to hold tight to Him
while holding all else in an open hand
– not grabbing,
nor forcing,
but holding out for Him
and His gentleness
that I find invites more
than it commands.

Like a sprinkler system in the height of summer
Like a cold compress on a bruised, sore head
Like gentle air con on a humid night
Like a heated blanket over a cold child's bed

Like an unexpected place offered at the table
Like a smile from a old thought-lost friend
- may your goodness flow undiminished through me
to whoever comes round the next bend

May your sweet goodness be my signature tune
May it always be following me
May my friends taste and see that you are good
And know for themselves your good mercy

Joy has a name
Whispered in awe,
Shouted in triumph and
Partied abroad.

Joy out-runs
Mourning and tears,
Drowns out hatred and
Drives out fears.

Joy brings peace
And laughter soon after,
Joy gives release and
Heals much faster.

Joy has a name
Above all others
His name is Jesus
Joy of many colours.

Kindness is not nice.

Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.

Kindness isn't like that -

Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humanity its passport to lands yet explored, to vast pink territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.

Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

If you like your fruit soft
and sweet
You need simply segment it
with patience.
However
if you prefer
the earlier bite of hurry
the bitter crunch of
'time is money'
then pick it early
because you know
we don't all have all the time
in the world
but we do have better things to do
with our time,
which as you know
is of the essence.

But if you like your fruit
soft and sweet,
then sit in the shade of the tree.
Sit at his pieced feet
and listen to his patience.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
A slow examination
of a proposed change in direction

An opening
An invitation
A deliberate fresh hearing
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A spacing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And an unexpected
even deeper
God-given
Peace

Not by fashion or passing trend
Nor by my standing with foe or friend

Not by whim or sweet-toothed appetite
Nor by what others tell me is right

Not by what I think I would gain
Nor by how best to avoid risk of pain

I will not be controlled by any of these
But by my Spirit-filled self, when I’m on my knees.

And where do you keep the jazz?
Where do you store the melancholy,
the self-reflection
and the escape.
Direct me to the place you keep
for your inner, your deeper,
your best kept back
and let's sit and explore,
let's jazz and coalesce
into a more honest
and more innovative
improv.

Bare clean carpets
Make for a lonely house
But big boot prints
Means Santa Klaus

Somehow has delivered
To every household
His bones they creak
But don't feel the cold

He dresses in red
With a bottomless sack
He has quick feet
And a broad strong back

He works his magic
Year after year
Then races home
For a well earned beer

He guards our dreams
For a kinder world
Saint Nick he delivers
He never gets old 

So this Christmas
Open your mind
Stand with Santa
And break out the Kind.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace and the prince to get tricky.
One lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, one died not guilty.
One spoke the truth and one shouted lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears and one with no pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought that was the finish.
The King rose on Sunday, his rule undiminished.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace, the prince to get tricky,
one lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, the other stood guilty,
one spoke the truth, the other just lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears, one empty of pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought the war had been won.
The King rose on Sunday, his reign just begun.

Today we have the labeling of people groups.
Yesterday we had the suggestion of an inherent disposition to dishonesty and violence in some groups.
Tomorrow we will have the careful counting of individuals and the placing of individuals into each people group.
But today,
today we have the labeling of people groups.

For those of you who are new here, we recommend this period drama underlining racial differences with a subtle suggestion of inferior intellect in some groups indigenous to warmer climes.
And here we have a persuasive and tabloid friendly research paper that hints that children of mixed race tend to struggle in school. You'll be relieved to see that it hasn't any distracting data.
And on the shelf beneath you'll see there's a picture book version for younger children.

Over here is the arbitary divide between us and them, with a useful circle of arguments to differentiate ourselves from others.
Here we have colour coded lables to more easily distinguish between  people groups. Yes, that's correct, we have three labels: white, black and, a recent addition which is now available for added distinction, rainbow.
Oh yes, when engaging in any discussions, for your own safety please ensure you wear these ear defenders.
To ensure a free flow of visitors we have erected large signs in three languages marking where charity at home ends. Yes, after rigorous focus group testing we have selected the English language in three font sizes.

We are coming to the end of this orientation tour.  Please note the subtle but effective shedding of compassion for those who appear or sound different to us.  This underpins the necessary disregard for the rights of others that we assume for ourselves and for those like us. It is almost imperceptible I think you'll agree.

But the priority for today, as I say, is the labeling of people groups. 
No questions.
Shall we begin?

His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.

If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.

And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.

And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.

The last flag flying
over the last lady singing.
The last dance ending
after a last minute warning.
The last laugh fading
from the last man standing,
at long last seeing
that it's over bar the weeping.

The Last Priest smiled his blessing
indiscriminately, bridging, seeding,
building a new priesthood
beyond borders, across tribes,
ignoring gender, discounting class,
blind to race, snubbing rank,
denying privilege and preferring
a new holy nationality for refugees
for stateless souls like mine
- like ours

The Last Priest
smiled his blessings
indiscriminately
bridging
seeding
building
a new priesthood

beyond borders
across tribes
ignoring gender
discounting class
blind to race
snubbing rank
denying privilege

and preferring
a new holy nationality
for refugees
for stateless souls
like mine
- like ours