Come, we have a guest room
where you can recline with your servant king.
He will bathe your sore, dusty feet;
and you can rest.

Come, commune; join his other friends
and together break bread,
give thanks, sing hymns
and toast the coming Kingdom.

Come to the table with honest hearts.
Come, and in his presence find mercy,
find forgiveness and new purpose.

Come, celebrate the covenant
that confers on us a Kingdom,
bought by the blood
of the one who came to serve.

Do this in remembrance.
Do this with eagerness.
And when you pray say,
'Thy Kingdom Come'.

"Come!", and again we say, "come to the Kingdom":
The Lion of Judah has triumphed,
The Lamb of God is encircled
With the mighty voices of his angels
With the floods of tears of his saints
With the climbing praises of his people
With the rainbow prayers of the nations.

Every creature sings, "Come".
Every angel shouts, "Come".
To He who is enthroned,
To He who is King,
To He who reigns forever.
This is His promised Kingdom Come
Sign-posted, sealed and now delivered
To you.
"Come."

it's not so much a social force
it's not out to coerce
it's an embrace
and in the end
that's what it's all about
it's a focus on people
it's a focal point on community
a common unity of those entwined
common folk connected and over-lapped
those over-wrapped by common loves
securely bound by common ties
occupying common ground
filling common space
with a wrap-around embrace
that lasts a tight hold longer
that ignores odd body odour
an embrace that lasts
a whole lot together
-  It's what we have
in common

Sadness is finishing a great novel
on the train to work
and carrying it home
empty of suspense,
with a faint hope
for the yet unpublished sequel.

The completion
The utter exhaustion
Who could imagine that pieces of paper, overlaid and pressed down into a bottomless pit of my stomach could cause so much fatigue.
My house is now sold.

How I wish to disappear
completely, to unplug fully,
til I shut down-deep-withdrawn
and there focus on something
that's more internal
and less commercial,
less self-evidently marketable -
something less brand
and more a brand new venture,
out of sight, of mind
and of a sense of duty
to myself,
to the me I left behind -
somewhere less,
somewhere small,
where the music inside
was clearer
and nearer
to the first bars
of the first song
when I first sang along.
Oh, how can I disappear
completely and get myself ready
for my next swan song?

The mask of confession
reveals nothing
compared to the truth
within the worth of the wait
in the crack of the joke
on the breath of the embrace
of a friend beneath
a shared blanket
on an autumn morning
seeking a closer communion.

Not too big to weep,
not too slow to learn.
Not too old to dance
to a fresh new tune.

Never too late to jump
over my wrong conclusions,
to move at the speed of truth,
and outrun my grand delusions.

Not too proud to notice
the wonder of it all,
never dumb enough
to deny I feel so small.

Big enough to confess
I need to ask forgiveness.
Smart enough to kneel
and get down to business.

I've started.

I'm building.
I'm developing.
I'm giving.
I'm discovering.

They'll be secrets inside,
obviously,
- plenty that I haven't envisaged,
that goes without saying.

I've started.
I'm discovering.
And that's enough.

It was a long long way
through dark days
and dank nights
taking dark sides
against the other
against the distant
against the odds.
Trusting the relay of work horses
to drag our destruction
to haul our backsides
to dredge our pain
to our hollow -
to some kind of victory
that I'll never speak of again
outside of my nightmare prayers
for some kind of forgiveness.

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

Blessed are you, who are conscripted ,  when you are dragged into wars not of your choosing -
For you will be remembered.

When you give yourself permission
to be vicious
you can cause fear to rise
doubt to take hold.
No doubt, worse violence
is avoided
and disorder,
ordered,

but when you let your vicious out,
it's a ****** to put back -
and even when you do,
it'll know its way back out.

What choice of paint
Which layer of wallpaper
What chance haircut
will you dig down to to find
the former you -
the era that feels most
like arriving home
after night-turn
to a crazy-paved front,
a pebble-dashed alley
and tea and toast
and sisters' shouts and laughter
and Rikki's cold nose
against the house wake-up
and the cold bed waiting
in the sunlight,
offering the prospect of quiet
and space to process
the night's violence
its ****** silence and chaos.

6 nights to go before
a quick change
to afternoon shoplifters,
junction prangs
and more palatable stories
to take home with white lies
and shielded emotions

An isolation of poets.
A distancing of poets.

A contagion of poets.
A household of poets.

A necessity of poets.

If I was content
I wouldn't write
Create
Sing
Love
Or even look behind the veil
If I was content
I would just be still
Lord, save me from content.

Before you take up your blade, Sharon
who do you see?
Will you be cutting to heal
or incising to free
some carefully hidden,
some up-til-now unbidden me?

When you take up your blade
and test the fresh edge
do you have an image of a me
fixed in your head?
Can you see in your mind
a kinda-me roughly out sketched?

When you make your first cut
do you have a clear vision
of what I'll reveal
have you made your decision
as you press down and carefully cleave
with loving conceiving precision?

When you lay your blade down
do you see I've appeared?
Do you know I'm complete
when the excess is cleared?
Or when you sleep do you wonder
whether there's a less of a me
maybe a more of a me
silently waiting here?

I have to go round the back
to arrive, to drive, cupboard,
* find
what I want to talk, to shout, push,
* express
because I, it's a big map,
I can't get, can't reach,
* forget
my teeth, the things out of my mouth,
the pages in my head, the long taste,
* words
that I want to hammer, hold, grip, throw,
* use.
It's like a different train, boat,
* country.
It's uphill.
I'm at bedtime.

Oh I don't like this
This isn't right
It's another country
Everything's one long fight

It's like a foreign language
Nothing's the same
It's all gone wrong
Tell me her name again

I just wish it was like it was
I just can't keep track
Oh don't get old Steve
It never comes back

You won't leave me will you...

A cool breeze of relief
Blows through my fears,
Bringing perspective
And a light shade of assurance.
So while I still feel
The taunts of the monster,
Her voice has grown fainter
Because you now hold my hand.

You said no heart has imagined,
but you gave a few hints
of a massive mansion, a river
and a fruit tree with 12 varieties,
spouting monthly.

You said we couldn't imagine
what you've got prepared,
but I can't imagine anything beats
a Coronation Chicken sandwich,
with Branston,
on a warm summer's afternoon
with friends and laughter
and Monty's head
resting hopefully on my knee.

You called it paradise
and you mentioned wine.
If that comes with a new body -
one that doesn't protest
to a fine Merlot
then that'll be fine with me.
That would be paradise.
That'll be heaven indeed.
So long as you don't forget
the Coronation Chicken
and the pickle.

The bridge character
is essential to the narrative,
it's just not HER narrative.

And later,
as if because the readers
have asked for more,
as if something about her
caught their imagination,
prompting fresh fan questions,
she features again
and the panels frame
more detail,
more of her back story,
her motivation
and perhaps we learn
her true name.

In a few years time
it may be that
a reader develops into a writer,
or perhaps an editor,
and a story is commissioned
telling HER history
with colour,
with space
and we see, at last,
her scars
and at last we see
the essential essence
of how she came to be.
And we identify
with HER.

But one night
when we look back
when we read again
that first appearance,
we realise that there remains
some unexplained detail,
a few missing pieces of her jigsaw

and as we put the final touches
to our too tight cosplay,
we wait, with hope
for her OWN title
that just might reveal
her full narrative.

Have I loved enough,
Have I denied myself?
Have I ducked the responsibility
That comes with so much grace?
Is mine a cost worth counting?
Is mine a cross worth lifting?
Have I reduced my discipleship
To a too comfortable pace?

Lord, I'm tired of this highway
With its crowded lanes and tolls to pay.
Let me live your love without speed limits
Along your narrow way.

I lay staring,
Still against the quiet groaning of a heart
Which weeps way beyond my reach,
Sighing beyond the shallows
Where I hide.

Are those my cream eggs?
Those look like mine.
Where did you find them?
I'm sure I had nine.

Are those my cream eggs?
They better not be.
Cos if they are,
You owe me!

One step at a time
One punch at a time
One round at a time
One fight at a time

And when life throws
all it has at you,
all at one time, then
every step
every punch
every round
every fight
that leaves you standing
is a win

and every time
you hit the ground
only to rise again
that is a victory
that is worthy
of the champion that you are.

No.
Not ornamental,
more fundamental.
Not sentimental,
but rudimental.
And when I wear it
it's very much an intentional
statement of who I am,
how I live
and who I worship.
So, no,
not simply pretty,
but pretty much essential.

There are cross roads
and there are roads to a cross
- both require decisions with resolution
- both require a sure step, a clear head
and are better approached
with a clear vision of what's ahead
through the lens of a clear decision,
framed by a determination
to follow the true compass spirit within.
And at each turn it's advisable to count the cost
of whatever toll the path will demand of us,
while bearing our eternal destination in mind.
And as that last true hope settles into a smile,
we consult the map book,
make our choice
and walk on.

You may know
cruise control is of no use off-road.

You need both hands
all four by four wheels
and good independent suspension
especially in your posterior region.

Cruise control is useful I suppose
when the road ahead is predictable
and you don't expect the unexpected.

It's not an option
that I've had cause to opt for,

but it's good to know it's there.

A cup of promise
A cup of wrath
One cup he offers
One cup he took

Cute,
like a baby scorpion
like a pink gun holster,
like a fluffy straight jacket.
You know,
not cute at all.
But still ..
You know -
Cute.

"Who gets to call the shots matters,
but so do YOU.
So turn up,
take YOUR shot
and - be - your - most - excellent."

Next time we meet we'll be dancing.
Callous cancer stole so much,
But not your beauty,
Not your love,
Not your name written in the Book of Life.

Next time we'll be dancing.
We'll have forgotten our tears,
Our anguish,
Our defenceless clenched fists,
Beside the silent plastic bed.

Next time
We'll be too distracted by wonder
To recall any of this.
We'll be too busy dancing.
See on the dance floor, Lorraine.

Dance deep beneath the central bar,
jump, spin, step and blur;
bruise, slide, collapse, collide,
pick yourself up and ssmile
a grin that shouts: never give in.
Pick up the beat, refuse defeat,
skip, slap,
skip, slap,
skip, slap, - leap,
let your feet - fly
...and repeat.

Yesterday was a bruiser
Today’s real contrary
Tomorrow’s undecided
But I’m remaining wary

This dead line isn't
an alive line - it's
the end of the line
that chimes with little
and ends with a full stop
that's not a little empty
and that's not going to end there
not by a long chalk
at least not til it's taken its toll
and without being asked
you begin to see
that it tolls for thee.
And between its last echoes
this dead line declines
your pleas for more time
So this is indeed
do or die time.

I want to express my indefinite joy
that you've settled indefinitely.
Joy that needs no further permission.
Joy that carries no expiration. 

You and yours are definitely loved.
You and yours are definitely valued. 
And you are all definitely welcome. 
Indefinitely.

Dear Mr Finch,

I visited your village this morning.

I was struck by the lines of greens.
I was smitten by the mighty trees.
I was gripped by the citizens,
by the softness of a hand
placing change with care into my hand
by the ease of each smile,
the feel of less stress
and the kindness I found.
I was touched by the welcome.
They did you so proud.

Yours contentedly,
Steve the Londoner.

The colour pops.
I love the contrast with the dark flecks
and the extended black seams.
The drape of the paler tails adds
to the sense of elongated stature.
And the weight feels just right in my hand.
Let's see if the next carrot is just as good.

At your denial you were at your creative all-time-best as you added vivid detail that distracted and buried the facts beneath a story that captured our imagination rather than releasing the truth of the situation and risking the shame of a truer declaration lying a few lines beneath your masterly woven but ultimately deceptive late night conversation.
And you left us none the wiser.

In my dark grief I find more depth to life
than what appears to be there at first sight
There I see more in my shadows
than what was lit by my first bright light
and there in the lee, God whispers
with a new voice
with a depth that finds me
at my midnight

The boys are all about the cheeses,
the platter, the crackers.
The girls are all about double cream.
The thicker the better.

The boys select the cheeses
that are bluer and smellier.
The girls stick with tiramisu
with a coffee chaser.

It makes no difference to the bill
which each year gets pricier.
They add a charge for the ambiance,
no matter what we order.

Did I hurt you?
Did I help you?
Did I push too hard?
Did I ask too much
of you?
Or was it just
what you needed?
Was it defeat?

I live by daily participating
and not by distant gesticulating.

I live by putting love into action,
not by singing for holy intervention.

I live by getting both hands soiled,
not sanitised and kept unspoiled.

If you want to follow the Nazarene
you can't keep your hands wet wipe clean.

This is life as he envisaged -
living like we're one big village.

Roll up your sleeves to each elbow,
let's serve together and not alone.

This is life as Jesus did it -
all hands-on, with dirt and spit!

After Do Not Be Ashamed by Wendell Berry

Unashamed

You can mute yourself at will
Or find you've hit mute in error.

On ocassion you might find
someone has muted you.

You can go off camera.
Observe and listen.
Unseen, unheard.
Ocassionally waving in the hope
that you will be called upon
to contribute
to comment
on the wisdom of others.

And after a while, on realising that
you've gone unnoticed, unneeded,
you give yourself permission
to walk away,
to simply listen in
while making a cup of tea.

And after a while, you walk out,
to test your necessity
and you won't be surprised
to find it wanting.

But then
as you return.
as you choose candour,
bear your inward clarity
raise your yellow hand,
as you select unmute, unashamed
click camera, unashamed
and find room, find voice -
then a sure screen will rise
from the margins and their eyes
will seek you out
and the mic is yours.

Long distance gazing
exercises the imagination
filling the mind with out-of-reach thoughts
and within-our-grasp possibilities.
You need to pace yourself however.
Over-stretching can cause you to topple
into sorrow.

Short distance grinning
close up gawping
is bred from appreciation
for the unexpected
and creates opportunity
for shared mirth
and reflected smiles.
Over-stretching causes face ache
and further laughter.

As I mature
I'm getting so much better
at distinguishing
between the inspired ideas
and the drug-induced ones.

If only politicians could do the same.

Attributed to Sir Francis Drake.

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
with the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show Your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask you to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push back the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

This we ask in the name of our Captain,
Who is Jesus Christ.

Dive deep.
And push down
til you reach the dark.
Dust off the sea bed
and take hold of your bedrock.

If you don't
you'll sink anyway,
but without a tether
and without a way back.

So take a breath.
Dive deep.
And once you've got hold of
what lies there,
bring it to the surface,
scrape it off,
so it can be seen
and noone need wonder
what's down there.

Dive deep.
What choice do you have?

Not slow -
But patient,
Like love is patient.
Patient like watching the ark being built
And staying His torrential hand.
Patient like letting His friend Lazurus die
Knowing greater glory was planned.
Patient like explaining for the umpteenth time
How He must suffer at the hands of men.
Patient like watching Judas scheme
Waiting for His preordained end.

Not impatient to come again
Yet not slow to keep His promise,
Simply yearning that all might be saved
That salvation might be accomplished.

Man, slow yourself down,
Why you walking so bold?
Stridin' like combat,
Rushin' to get old.

We'll get there together,
Just lift them quick eyes
Don't miss the already.
Breathe in the realised.

That's how you move:
Slide your kung fu,
Put down your fists
And take a close view.

Come and speak softly,
Hear the real you
And before you know it
You'll see the new true.

The mangy lab
and the golden retriever
sat waiting
as if asking – which would I choose?
Which was no choice at all.

Both belong to me
and both would follow me
at heel.
One to dog my steps
and one to push his head
under my empty hand
to let me know I have a friend.