The lie is that
where I lie
no one else
sees or cares for -

That the world lies
someplace else
somewhere different
separate
alien.

I hear the lie out loud
and drown out the voices
so I must imagine
the sound of truth
so that one day
I might recognise it
and we will lie together.

(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.

We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.

I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.

I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.

But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.

To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings,  8 thrupenny bits.

I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.

I sorted
and I sorted again.

I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.

I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.

I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.

Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.

4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet, square in the threshold, charged with a ready welcome and ruddy face.

He stood with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor who too stood in a similar red coat and sore shiny feet and with his own style of smile.

He stood until he fell one March morning, in his thick red coat and his sore shiny feet and with a heart that failed to live up to the responsibility that came with the threshold and the coat and the shiny feet and instead chose to take its rest.

The man stood in his thick red coat and sore shiny feet square in the threshold, charged with a duty to smile with an open face, with no name but the one assumed for him and, unbeknown to him, inherited from his predecessor.

And he stood.
And he smiled.
As charged.

With a smile she built her man of the freshest snow with eyes of the coldest coal, - she laughed as she set his top hat at a song-and-dance angle and fashioned a fred astaire cane from a discarded broom handle, - she whispered her mischief, hoping for some reaction, but he kept his silence, with a marked chilled inaction - and as she began her dance, she couldn't help but be crushed by his stubborn hush and the steady fall of diluted coal dust.

You’ve got lost all over again
You need to just face it
You thought you were lost before
but now you know you are
You know you’re right about something and it’s this
You just need it to happen one more time
and then you’ll see the pattern
then you’ll find the key, the clue that’ll unlock the map
That way when the day ends you’ll no longer be lost
and you will have found that the day can end well after all
You know, like it’s supposed to
And then you’ll find it, right there, at the end, where it’s supposed to be
where it was all along
See?
Told ya.
4 dimensions work better.

My eye was drawn to the next bridge
before I had fully passed beneath this one.
I had thought it more appealing
until I saw it up close
and looked back at what I'd missed.

Then I fell.
I had been so sure of the path
I had mapped
I had planned
I had plotted a route
for my solo adventure
and then I fell
on both my feet

- all because of you

Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
waiting for M&S dinner.

The TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.

The toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.

The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, she can't relax,
her whining is remorseless.

Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.

Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.

Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.

Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster Tesco trolley.

For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.

Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.

Some do sing of Jesus
in half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

And there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.

But He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
And he waits for you who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Christmas can be a time
for each of us to choose -
Our Christmas King stands waiting
Will we worship Him in truth?

All dressed up and waiting for summer,
a summer as strong and as fresh
as this perennial dress.

All made up and ready for life,
a life as bright and as perfumed
as this fragrant woman waiting to bloom.

'Wake me when summer comes.
'Stir me when the sweet zest rises and the sun can kiss me as with the dawn.'

The panic speaks
eloquently and persistently,
telling me that I need a new filter
by which to drink in, to inhale
the good
and like an extreme diver, hold it in
while exploring the dark places.

You see,
the panic we feel on the surface
only serves to take us down,
while it denies us the means of rising again.

But if I can learn to pause,
to take in the good,
the wholesome, the nutritional,
then I can ready myself
to face the dark
and, having done so,
I will find the light again.

I had grown out of time-outs - those imposed minutes of inward reflection, of self confrontation in wait and ponder. I had forgotten that slowing and pausing could be a productive use of time, and that eternity does indeed wait for all who have the stamina to stop the clocks and drape the mirrors.

I had instead lived for the future, passing abruptly / obliviously through the momentary present, robbing myself of the present time to consider, to discern, to consult, to learn from those like my father who had travelled further through time, having time to use the time-honoured travel method of patience.

And now, in my father's cooling presence, I stalled in an unfamiliar, unexpected hiatus between generations, and was forced to wait for what would come next.

And I paused.

He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 1st anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

As brave as a poet who knows
That this is too important for prose,
Willing to reveal his inner becoming
And patient enough to show
Not tell what He's telling,
Nor too intent on bringing
The thought down to land,
Happy to leave it hovering
Leaving us to understand
That the truth is more often
Found in the hearing
And not available on demand.
So whoever has ears to hear,
Let them hear this Son of Man.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of the sun,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of the wind,
Depth of the sea,
Stability of the earth,
Firmness of the rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's hosts to save me
Afar and anear,
Alone or in a mulitude.

Christ shield me today
Against wounding
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the mighty strength
Of the Lord of creation

The prince and I are not friends,
though he seems a nice enough guy
and I respect him and I value the role he plays.

However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
knew him better
and fed him snacks.

As a boy
the prince would slip into the palace kitchen
between meals.
Sometimes he would persuade
his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister
and he would make them laugh.

I know this because of the prince's note.

The prince sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.

A cheeky boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and showing kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
now remembered and valued by family
and also by royalty.

What do you think of that?

Easter will be late this year.
It's still cold and the blossoms
shine pink,
carpet bombing indiscriminately.

Easter will be late this year.
March paces itself
striding to the end
of the tax year, the start
of price hikes and a train
of trans-continental refugees
from some god-awful war
just spitting distance from Lidl.

Easter will be late,
but Mother's Day will bring
a distraction of blue elastic bands
bound around barely blooming daffs,
happy in damp sticky hands.

And then they'll be the anticipated
crucifixion.

Resurrection
can't come soon enough.

You have greater worth than you suppose.
So, please listen to what I propose.

Don't default to self-less,
but be more deliberate in your selflessness

leaving space for a little selfish too.
Dont settle for less. Don't just make do.

Learn what makes you happy and then embrace it.
Recognise what makes you angry
and carefully express it

without being cranky
confront frankly and talk.
Don't just shut down and walk.

And accept the help your friends offer.
They wouldn't have offered if they couldn't be bothered.

Your friends have an investment in your friendship,
so don't let those friendships slip. They too benefit.

When you make contact, know you do not impose.
Because, it's true, you are of far greater worth
than you have presupposed.

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about each bump and scrape
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs and desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
or leastways thereabouts

What remains of the day
is of greater value due to
its failure to yet emerge,
its ability to yet be known
and it's there that lies
its potential
to not fail to meet
its true potential
- unlike the past

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about bumps and scrapes
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs with desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving with more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
least there or thereabouts

Settle down please.
Today you will be trained in Level 1 crucifixion.

First, the nail. Please pass the bag along once you have taken one nail each.

You can rely on these nails.
Each one is forged by hand, hammered out and shaped with skill.
'You can nail it with one nail,' as they say.

Nails can be used to fasten almost anything to wood. Choosing the right nail for the job can make a big difference in hold power. As there is no need to conceal the nail head and we require maximum holding power, we have chosen common nails for the job. When the nail is temporary and will be pulled out again, as with crucifixion work, we have found that a double-headed or duplex nail is the best choice. However, due to cut backs, we have reverted to the common flat headed nail.

Experience and common practice calls for driving the nail through the thinner limb into the thicker timber. For maximum holding power, the length of the nail is such that it passes almost, but not quite, through the thicker timber. 

Take a careful look at the illustrations provided. As depicted, for best results lay the condemned on the crossbeam and bind the arms in place on the timber before nailing. I refer you to your ropes and knots training last week.

One nail is sufficient for each upper limb if placed between the forearm bones above the wrist. You will find that some limbs will have been subject to a break beforehand. If this is the case, we advise that you use additional rope to bind the limb to the cross beam and that you select a site for the nail further up the arm if necessary.

Now you are ready to secure the feet. Place the feet together one over the other. Hold them in place while a colleague drives one nail through both feet. Please hold them steady and resist any attempt by the condemned to frustrate your task. Keep steady pressure on the feet while your colleague hammers the nail home.

Before lifting the crixiform into the hollow, ensure each nail has been driven in securely. Once you and your supervisor are satisfied, lift the cruciform in one swift movement ensuring the base slides neatly into the hollow. Two or possibly three of you are needed for this.

This is the greatest test for your handiwork. The impact of the timber landing at the base of the hollow will cause the body to jar under its own weight and place additional strain on the nail. In the event that a nail comes loose, you are advised to lift the cruxiform out and to use a second nail on the unsecured limb.

In most cases this will not be necessary and the condemned will hang securely long enough to allow the body to die, even if this takes several days.

Once death has been confirmed using the accepted method, lift the cruxiform down, remove the nails and inspect them for damage. If deemed reusable, rinse and dry them before storage.

If there are no questions you will now each be assigned to an experienced colleague to assist with a crucifixion. If at any time you feel that you are likely to *****, please use the bucket provided. There's no shame in this, the first time can be quite shocking; there is usually more blood flow than you initially expect. However, you will soon learn how to complete the exercise with skill and professionalism. I have complete faith in you.

Please keep your nail, you'll need it later.

The right way to say something
something important, something of emotion
is a gift and a craft.

The right way to tell your story
is your's to decide.

So decide.

I breath in to find my inner Geezer
ready to speak with a more common vernacular.
I channel my South Londoner
and ensure I have my chipped mugs
ready out on the counter.

I pull the Nescafe and PG Tips forward
from the dusty recesses of the top cupboard
and locate the white sugar, checking that I have
at least five heaped teaspoons’ worth
for the coming encounter.

Later, from behind the net curtains,
I see him sizing up my roof from his van
and I wait for him to walk up the drive to push the doorbell.
Oh, no, THE DOORBELL!

And, too late, what credibility I had pieced together cringes
at the anticipation of the Batman themed doorbell ring,
which until that morning had seemed an appropriate ice breaker.

I can't see above the frosted glass,
but I can see the dark smokey light.
I can feel the music
beneath the rumble of generations
and I swing one foot out of time.

Once in a while the doors thud open,
with a roar of wreaking-ball laughter
and I grip my lemonade a little tighter,
happier as an outsider.

The frosted glass remains,
but it looks cleaner now.
I push the door, the same dark red,
much lighter now.

The whole place seems smaller,
less of a mystery.
I order a lemonade shady,
feeling like I don't belong,
knowing I never wanted to really.

Poetry is the shortest way of conveying something really big -

an aqua silence
balances a reflected peace
a restrained light
while I wait in filtered hush
and the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
stills me, re-fills me,
tells me to wait further
to rest longer
and not wonder why
the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
quiets me, speaks to me,
seeps deep in me
while I weigh the possibility
that the fish have it right
when they refuse to bite

I sit in aqua peace
and refuse to bite

He didn’t realise just how easy it was to slip
how you can lose track
lose count and how simply
a habit can become addictive

Once you get the taste for the hit
you find yourself reaching for it
and before you know it, you’ve slipped
into a dependency -
lucky this time you’re only a *****
for Lemsip

I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day

I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more

I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece

I sit with you, mutually leaning comfortably as we tremble on the sofa with Adam ******* filling our evening with laughter and I breath in your aroma - that bouquet of shampoo that you prefer to all the other scents offered in the ad breaks.

I'm no good at remembering brands or labels and your bottle of choice doesn't appear on the screen anymore in any case, but I know the smell of you fresh from the shower,

and you fill my head with happiness.

Zero cubed has no more value than zero squared,
but has a more pleasant shape and is able to bear greater weight.

It always reminds me of a spell I learned as a teen
from the rag and bone horse who was never in a hurry
and was always happy to chat,
sharing his experience which came from many roads
and long hot summers in the '50s
when he was younger and less careful.

Zero, he told me, is a useful start
to many constructions and worth mastering
if you ever intend to move on to primes.
Primes are slippery, he explained, and require focus.

Zeros similarly require a focused mind, but are easier to build with.

So I spent the summer of '74 getting used
to the feel and the texture of various zeros,
then carefully moved on to zero squared.
By the September, just before school, I'd started playing with zeros cubed
with not a little success.

I picked them up again in the Christmas holidays and then,
almost by accident, I came across the spell:
zero times zero times zero divided by infinity.

It still makes me smile.

The following spring I discovered girls.
And for the next 6 years I put the zeros aside.

But I won't quickly forget Benjamin, 1974
and the smile of magic.

Solomon smiled,
chanced a stretch and blew
the obligatory bubble
to the captive audience.

Solomon smiled
and formed his first proverb
of the day
concerning the foolishness
of worrying about anything.

Solomon smiled,
and after some deep,
wet-fingered thoughts
concluded that both love
and money
are best held on an open hand.

Solomon smiled,
and nodded along to songs
that he'd someday pen,
content for now to test his grip
on an offered finger.

Solomon smiled,
and settled into the joy of a hug,
in the warmth of a cuddle
and promised to anyone listening
that he'd live in the moment,
so long as it was a moment
such as this.

Father God smiled,
endorsed every thought,
every word
and promised Solomon
more of the same.

The socialist and the socialite
sat themselves down for supper.
Arthur wore a blood red rose
while Sophie went for feathers.

The socialist and the socialite
had only a little in common
and neither said much at all
about the paths they'd trodden.

The socialist and the socialite
ate with polite conversation.
He had the slow cooked brisket,
while she had the salad with chicken.

The socialist and the socialite
left quietly with an old studied calm,
but once their door was firmly closed
fast fell into each other's arms.

The song meant nothing to me, but spilled brim-full of faint meaning to more attentive ears than my own.

The song meant nothing. While I stood bemused with my less than perfect pitch and my imperfected sense of rhythm, both played out imperfectly through my stubby finger tips.

The song meant nothing. I was only too aware of the thesaurus of love, but the language eluded me, all the more at the opening bars when it would have been most useful.

The song meant nothing and I resorted to the clumsy sign language of childlike affections and smoke signals signing hesitant expressions of late-conceived emotions.

The song meant nothing, its meaning remaining an octave beyond my range, stave after stave.

The song meant nothing, but still I sang.

It’s early – the dominant sun rises, giving
a growing warmth as the urgent seeds dive deep
and the faithful sower dips his head,
dips his hand on repeat and sweeps his graceful arm
away from his small stomach, from his shrinking satchel,
trusting the seed to the sun
and working his way back to the feast.

The Speakers for the Dead raise their head
and speak softly and measuredly
So to be better heeded
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead dress modestly
Not drawing attention to themselves
So that the living listening can focus
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead inform themselves
Of all aspects of the life of the dead
So not to drift into speculation
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead aqaint themselves
With local language and idiom
So no misunderstanding should arise
And so to ensure that the dead can be heard.

The Speakers for the Dead
Ensure that we can be heard
By the living and the deaf
And so to ensure that the dead can be answered.

I watch the rush of our trees,
their impatience,
their hurry ignoring seasons
running full pelt at growth
and fast forwarding their budding,
their fruit bearing,
in good time to take advantage
of the recent resurgence in the 5-a-day.

I watch and blink.

The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.

(Voice of the Swan by Eric Idle from Monty Python.)

Don't you ignore me,
I could break your arm you know.
I could cut you down with a well placed puncture wound.
I've got important friends, oh yes,
I'M protected by royal statute.
Oh, I see, NOW I have your attention.
NOW you're taking notice.
Well, just you listen,
you might get away with your cheek with those common Mallards,
but don't think it will wash with me.
Now, give me some of that there cake
and perhaps I'll leave you be.

He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.

In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.

He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.

And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.

The thrill of hope
A hope of promise
Behold the birth
Of joy and solace

The birth of love
A love for life
Behold a child
A born delight

Treasure the unknown, the unseen
for there you have untold story,
unsung song and unimagined vistas
waiting to greet us.
And, yes, some of the paths are long,
the climbs hard,
the adventures testing,
but we have good counsel,
and good company
and they will take us
through the deep story to the high chorus
where the harmony will be sweet.

I hold with care the value of
The Wait
despite the loud backdrop of
The Immediate.
I relish
The Not Yet,
not looking for a premature rush into
The Unfinished.
I anticipate
The delicious Hope,
ignoring the clamour of dissent.
And not taking anything for granted,
I do all I can to clear space:
space to listen with intent
and space to herald
The Promise of the Soon,
The ready-coming-King,
and space to embrace
The God-with-us
Now.

The Vegan King
Looked across the table
At his son,
Wondering where he had gone
So wrong
And what would become
Of his kingdom
Once he had passed on
His mantle
To a vegetarian.

There are things of great significance
greatly sought
greatly valued
which I cannot put in a search bar

There are things I cannot place
on a spreadsheet
or in my pocket
which I place above all else

There are things I find
difficult to quantify
impossible to define
but which have immense meaning

And so, I do not try
to capture them
to count them
and instead I invite them in

There are things I don't speak of
There are those that stay unsaid
That remain untugged threads
and swallowed sighs

There are things that grow inside
There are those that ferment to full strength
That remain encased
Unrepented

There are remnants I don't share
There are those I keep to myself
Lest they seep out
Lest they drown out all else

There are things that will drown me,
that will **** me dead,

but not yet.

Some things I will not say
I will not form those words
Lest they be heard
Lest they be believed
and the truth of self
be known.

No, some things I will not say
I'll keep their silence
Keep my distance
and stay quiet
safe on this side
of my deceit.

I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
- But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is truly God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last line of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.

Blessed are they who are conscripted, when they are dragged into wars not of their choosing
- for they will be remembered.

Blessed are they who are convinced by politicians' rhetoric, when they are shamed into service by posters and speeches
- for they will be remembered.

Blessed are you when leaders lie to you and lead you to your slaughter, sing and be brave,
- for you will be remembered.

Blessed are you when men shell you and seek to **** you, sing and be brave, my brothers
- for you will be remembered.

You are the salt of the earth, thrown out and trampled underfoot.
You are the light of the world, placed in darkness and buried.
But truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappears, not the least drop of your blood will by any means disappear from this soil.

Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these and encourages others to forget, will be called least in this kingdom.

But you,
you
will be
remembered.

this is me,

hurting, but healing with care,
and living with purpose.
falling, but dancing with grace
and keeping my footing.
trudging, but keeping pace
with someone who's been this way before.

head high, not bowed low.
speaking up, not keeping it down.
living loud, not hiding out.
welcomed home,
not cold shouldered, but bolder
in the image of the original.

now this is me!

This is me
This is who I am -
No-one will ever mute
The real and present me.
I am here to display
So stay close and pay heed
To the true me.