Beauty lies beneath.
Wait for it to emerge.
New shoots, rich earth.

Part the foliage.
Give them more light.
A chance to fight.

Simply crouch.
Dip your head.
See beneath.

Beauty lies beneath
the bleak.

[not Walt Whitman]

Begin with questions
Lead with both ears
Dig for honesty
Don’t freak out at tears

Listen for the truth
Seek the 360
Never assume
Don’t judge so quickly

Curiosity over Certainty
breeds Questions
that have Validity.

(Thanks to Ted Lasso
and Richard P. Feynman.)

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.

Before Christmas
there was Christ.

Before the sleigh.
Before the conifers.
Before candles.
Before the paper decor.
Before Christmas became
about lesser gifts.
Before basted turkeys
and Santa myths.
There was Christ.

Before he became the suffix
to the festive.
Before he became less Christ
and more Chris.
Before we suppressed his divinity
and took away his dignity.
Before we replaced him
with a capital merry Me.
There was Christ.

Before Christmas, Christ gifted himself
and took the part that was key
to making a mercy path back
(by way of a much starker tree)
to His eternal city.
Where the crowns aren’t paper.
Where the feast lasts longer.
Where Christ is rightfully King.
That’s where the true party will begin.

I'll brush my teeth before I die.
I'll shave and shower
and empty my bowels.
I'll put on a pair of my comfy underpants,
select the good socks,
slip my feet into my birkenstocks
and wrap myself in my father's heavy dressing gown.
That will be enough for my Maker.
And for the poor sod
who finds me in my arm chair.

But I'll be sure to leave
my bath towel on the floor.

Be glad and generous, smile and share.
Be glad and generous, devoted to prayer.  
Be glad and generous, breaks walls and bread.
Be glad and generous, and the Kingdom will spread.

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

Be like Pooh!
Gorge you way through
the gospel til you are full.
Relish its sweetness.
Feast on its goodness.
Let it so stain your lips
that your friends will insist
that your appetite is insatiable,
that you are incapable
of living any life
that is not fully sweetened
by the honey of the gospel.

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.

the ground beneath my feet
soft grass that’s fresh with dew
cold with deeper warmth

the air that I breath
fresh breeze warming inside
rising to long strength

the hope within my dreams
wide and filling my morning
building fresh foundations

Be present
and present yourself to the now.
Ready for the not yet, yes,
but fully engaged with this stage of your story
before you continue your aging journey.
Relish this stave, this chord
and let it resonate sufficient
for others to appreciate the accord,
the melody
that comes from ignoring the risk of arriving late
and instead embracing the reverberate.
Let it captivate, facinate while you wait
in your latest, lasting, linger-longer note of now.

You have memories
to look back on,
on-this-day ago
one year, three years, five years
ago, all-your-yesterdays

fade, perhaps repressed
or once carved with care
to exhibit the best
to omit the stuff you'd rather forget
and so the sculptor shaved

keeping with the grain
until the rather-not-dwell-ons
fell before the sweep of grace,
each scrape joining
other eliminations
to be gathered up
and cast into the fireplace.

The sculptor sanded, polished
and revealed the much loved
gargoyle within
proving once again
the effectiveness
of shaving away the best
forgotten.

The next wave will be better.
If I just wait,
if I resist the bait
to join the others,
if I deny the impulse
to jump into right now,
then I know there's a better wave
beyond the horizon...
The next wave will be better.

Great tea
boils down to a tender leaf
cultivated slowly on small trees
watered liberally by long rains
reaping a full fragrance
harvested from high estates
packaged to be picked
and infused without fuss
or ceremony
in a warmed ceramic ***
for two
to draw out the deepest flavour.

Cup of tea?

Big Art: The art of collaboration.

Big bouncing, cushioning,
resonating, in-phasing.

Small piece-by-piece-making,

patch-working, ingredienting,
combining, conjoining,
absorbing,

- collaborating.

Sometimes biiig
Arms-open
Welcoming

Ocassionally cold
Camera-quick
Calculating

Now urgent
And a mile wide
But always far
From his cobalt-blue eyes.

Movies are
at their best
tightly scripted
bravely casted
boldly acted
richly promoted
highly rated
Poetry

What doe's it talk to majesty a bit MSN cry?
How fast download the roast mist a MSN go
beforehand he really his gossip?
How management days mist a MSN present beforehand he films hid like storeys?
ALOT

“You’re big and ugly enough,” he did mean it kindly
as he passed me a wrench and continued to guide me.

“You’re big enough and ugly enough, to handle this truth.  
It’s now time that you learned that it’s just what we do.
We take on the rough along with the smooth.
You will learn that the world will expect this of you.”

And so, each year upon year I took on rough truths,
until cold battered hands were no longer smooth.
I grasped the sharp nettles, and I braced for disputes
until strong opposition decided to move.

I ignored muscle pains and maintained my strong grip,
all the much tighter when I felt my hands slip.
Through gritted cracked teeth, expletives would slip
but I beat mounting odds with dulled cries of relief.

Now a few decades on, I’m still big and I’m ugly,
but I’ve got a light touch for words that hold beauty.
There’s a time for raw strength but space for what’s lovely
and the lovely gives strength to meet each day’s duties.

My dad did mean well when he passed on his insights,
but there’s much more to my strength than winning each fight.
I’m no longer a big, ugly stereotype -
The best part of me can be found when I write.

I bit my tongue
Spat out the bitter taste of failure
I forced down the bile of defeat
and lived to chew,
to eat another day

I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.

The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.

- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse

The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.

The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley

to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave

- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.

Our biscuits were in tupperware
Sealed tight but not tight enough
Digestives and custard creams
Slowly got stale and soft.

Our biscuits were in tupperware
Bought in bulk, a cheap job lot
Garibaldis and dry rich teas
Tea-dunked to hit the spot.

Our biscuits were in tupperware
Mum was a tupperware lady
Biscuits, cakes and crackers
Stored to last til pay day.

Black futures -
not a month
not a meme
not hash-tagged and gone
past in a blur.

Futures built
on the foundation of the past,
but rising past past expectations
and housing future generations
of black lives that answer back
and build better black futures.

The future's bright.
The future's colourful.

Blessed are the frustrated
For they know this life is defective
Blessed are those who resist
For they know that they await a liberator
Blessed are the impatient
For they have their sights on freedom
Blessed are those who live in hope
For they will not be thwarted
Blessed are the dissatisfied
For they know this is but a pale reflection
And blessed are those who
Despite the fight on their hands
Despite the yearning on their lips
Despite the ache in their hearts
They reach out in love
They speak in peace
They bring hope to others
For with such as these God's Spirit rests.

Blessed are you frustrated

Blessed are you frustrated
For you know this life is defective.
Blessed are you who resist
For you know that you await a liberator.
Blessed are you impatient
For you have your sights on freedom.
Blessed are you who live in hope
For you will not be thwarted.
Blessed are you dissatisfied
For you know this is but a pale reflection.
And blessed are you who
Despite the fight on your hands,
Despite the yearning on your lips,
Despite the ache in your hearts,
You reach out in love,
You speak in peace,
You bring hope to others;
For with such as you God's Spirit rests.

--------------------------

1 Corinthians 13:12
12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

See Romans 8:19-23
19 For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.
20 For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope
21 that the creation itself will be liberated from its ******* to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.
22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.
23 Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies.

Blessed are you wounded
for beneath your scars lies healing.
Blessed are you wounded
for you have survived.
Blessed are you wounded
for in your pain you found life.
Blessed are you wounded
for, though the world stares
from a safe distance,
Christ stands near -
closer than any enemies,
closer than any friends,
closer than each tear.
And He holds you.

May you live in interesting times
May you lounge in sunnier climes
May your roads be thrilling and clear
May you always find froth on your beer
May your friends be faithful and honest
May you fulfil most your promise
May you always be singing new songs
And may you truely know you belong

May the seasoning of the season
stuff you full of all that's holy,
all that's holly
and all that's homely.
May your sudden new year
surprise you with a new sense
of living fully,
resolutely
and purposely.
And may the Christ of Christmas be present meaningfully daily.

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.

I pulled down the love is blind
and shut out the outside light,
and in the dark I let my love lead me
by touch alone, and so alone
we filled the room with our light
and kept the healing between us burning
til first chill of night,
when we saw it was safe to lift the blind
and tap our way back out into the world
- still alight
with our love is blind.

You think me weakened by the sun
You watch me beaten by the rain
You lose sight of me in the mist
And still I rise to bloom again

The blossom landed softly
and spread its smile unevenly
- even wickedly -
before over-reaching herself
and fading
into an inappropriate pink
only then to be reinforced
by a cherry drop
and another,
eventually
pooling
and forming a flower
of its own
in full bloom

It's seems way too early
for blossom
and for blossom to fall.
But who am I to judge?
I've never borne such beauty.

We’re told to watch the body language
that it may be subtle
and difficult to decipher.

But in the right hands
it cries out in its fluency
it sings in its inflections.

In the right company
you can’t tear your eyes away
from the clear meaning.


We’re told to watch the body language
so we watch his hands, his feet
each pierced to make a point.

We watch the words hanging there,
terrible in their eloquence
accentuated by His sacrifice.


We’re told to watch the body language
because in the right hands
actions speak so much louder than words.

And His can still be heard.

How much do you value
weight loss on a scale
of 1 to 20?

22

I've not said ******* since Tuesday
The week is going just fine
The fates has relented
The Gods have consented
My stars have begun to align

I've not said ******* since lunch break
I thought it too much to ask
The lift doors conspired
My coffee went skyward
And I ended up on my ****

There was a young woman from Richmond
Who dreamt of playing James Bond
She posed in her mirror
With the look of a killer
While her baby just giggled and yawned

Before projectors
Before screens
Before Wi-Fi and cabling became a thing
Before keyboards and strings
Before the first drum tried drumming
I am.
And I will be forever,
says our faultless Lord.

While the power may fail,
while signals may drop,
while cables will inevitably come loose,
my love levels will never need a boost.

I will never forsake you or fail you.
I'll never go on mute
and that’s the truth,
says our Father-God.

He had a well stocked mind,
but with little stock taking
and with little order,
and so with little hope of finding
just a little rationale
for what sounded a little like tripe.

Look lady, do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.  
I alreddy told ya, I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.

Now, fair enough, it might look bog standard,
but you must remember, it was already cack-‘anded,
so I'd thank you for shutting your gob
with all your talk of you bein' robbed.  

Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.  

You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.

- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.

You know what I mean?

B-stream Steve looked both ways
Longing for what he saw.
Thinking he'd be much happier
With those boys he held in awe.

Instead he floundered midstream
Never quite feeling satisfied
Telling himself that one day soon
He'd climb or slowly slide.

B-stream Steve looked both ways
And found as he got older
The gulfs between a, b and c
Were more in the eye of the beholder.

While streaming helped those in charge
He needed to keep in mind
A boy in the middle was much better placed
To befriend those ahead and behind.

If my second brain is my gut
and if my gut presents as a she,
does that mean that it's best that I think
that my head best thinks as a he?

And when I want to follow my heart,
does it flutter somewhere betwixt
that path that she feels down deep
and the path that he just can't resist?

When I find myself at a fork,
and it's not at all clear which ways mine,
my gut, my head and my heart -
they'll figure it out just fine.

But if ever I find I'm in doubt
which voice it is I should heed,
I just have to ask myself this,
- for which path I'd be happy to bleed?

As brave as my poems.
As simple and stark,
concise and complete,
in whole or in part,

yet with room for expansion,
letting you, as you read,
add truth to the equation
with the values you need,

giving permission to speak,
in the space in your head
and to complete the connection
or just take it as read. 

Oh, to be as brave as my poems.

The wind, he said, is lost
laughter.
Breathe it in and glory
in the joy it brings
in the forgotten smiles
of another age
and make your home.

The wind, he said, is dispelled
tears.
Let it in and as it meets your eyes
it will cool and condense,
re-creating past sadness,
distilling until the salt stings
with ancient lost glories.

The choral fraternity
breathed coordinately,
perfectly quietly,
and (crucially) sequentially,
so that the consequent silences
went largely unnoticed,
fortunately.

The long steps down
to the green sea
sweeping black-green seaweed
high on the sand seen
from the empty band stand
on the cliff top gardens
chased by screaming
ice-cream hunters
are each
rife
with salty memory
and I drink it in

praying to dad, kneeling in the cool of the day, feeling cursed as an olive tree, lost in the red-deep shadows of inevitable choice, looking through tears, years in the making, staring into the stillness of a longest goodnight, with a dry kiss goodbye, facing an undeniable betrayal, secure in the blooded palm of God's hand, in agony

After a while of enjoying
the greens of the trees
and the mottled breeze,
I let the view sink in
then fade into the long view,

After my heart settles,
that's when I focus on the sapling,
stark in its youth.
I wonder about the speckled leaves
and the cracked bark,
then I follow the flow of the branches,
taking each in turn,
eying each branching to each tip.

It's then that I realise
there's one branch
that holds onto 2 severed,
lesser limbs.  

They look like they are attached,
part of the whole,
but the truth is they are detached,
precarious perhaps,
but enjoying wider movement,  
a greater degree of freedom.

Should I release them?
Should I lay them down to rest?
Or root for the deceit?
Leave them holding on
for as long as they can?

Then the breeze rises
into a gust,
and the choice is taken away.  

That's when I find myself weeping.