Hannah has her cleaning boots,
they're really rather fine.
They match her rubber cleaning gloves
and her yellow cleaning sign.

The grieving wind led our solemn steps,
and screamed through the ranks of sodden planks,
each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
fervently recalling local lives lost.

We trudged over those memorial boards,
sponsored grief borne by each grain,
as again salt dripped into the Mouth of the Severn.

At the pier head our tears contested
the callous grey waves
and lost
again.

I bowed before the grieving wind,
Screams streaming through the ranks of sodden planks,

Each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
Fervently recalling every loved life lost.

I trudged over those memorial boards,
Guiltily treading on the grief borne by each grain.

Then I laid fresh brine into the insatiable mouth of the Severn,
While my loss and I contested every callous grey wave,

But we were beaten again.

Unfallen tears glisten
unsaid words choke
unspent rage fades
at the back of my throat
I stare at the wet windscreen
my phone in my hand
the silence still falling
draining like sand
through fingers that stop grasping
as my eyes close to see
that this is the close
of our long closing scene

not rooted,
not foundational,
but transitional,
I mean - tabernacle.
Following cloud and flame,
and restless for Jordan.

not stilted
not intellectual
but relational,
more than routine ritual.
Led by spirit, filled by flame
and restless for Jordan.

I knew a formidable, tempestuous man
and whilst he did much to his credit,
his dark grey moods
and the air that turned blue
clouded his very real merits.

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.

She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.

Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –

And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.

And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.  
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.  

And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.

Diverted, never Defeated

rushing like water into its misted future
crawling like moss in a camouflage of the past
giving lie to our tiny present

a passing shadow of day-creatures
flit for their designated eight minutes
failing to fully grasp their moment

while the trees stand watch -
still present, pointing to a future only they see

Diverted, but never Defeated

My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better

Let's collaborate and coordinate, cooperate and disseminate.
Let's not disassociate or dare to hesitate, rather let's keep going til we reach a state of counterweight that celebrates the gifts our Father freely donates for us to re-dedicate and elevate His name til we resonate with the angels at heavens gates.
Amen.

he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!

I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great

They were a common or garden,
run-of-the-mill variety
of right weird bleeders.
Individually, nothing I'd not seen before.
But oh boy, together -
it was like the circus had passed through and their apprentice scheme had got left behind.
Mind you,
you could see what they were attempting,
and give them a few years
I'm sure they would figure out a style
and colour scheme
that worked.
For now,
well like I say
- right weird bleeders.

The known universe was split into two parts.  They were almost completely separated by a thin membrane and had been for 55 years.

On the inner side there was room for one individual, secured behind a flimsy, somewhat porous and pliable divider. It had to be pliable as the individual concerned couldn't decide just how much space would be needed at any one time.

On the outer side the rest of the universe ebbed and flowed, only occasionally taking note of the activities that jostled relentlessly just a short distance away on the far side of the membrane. It was almost as if it was quite unaware of the inevitable collision that was to come once Steve finally published his poetry anthology.

Once he hit that button the two worlds would have to establish new terms for their coexistence.

Only time would tell if it would be a peaceful one.

I sit in the light of my phone,
with memes numbing my mind
I search the fields for answers
I don’t expect to find
I don’t find very much of use
amongst the scrolling screens
They lead me down rabbit holes
where I’ve already been

I ask for better light by which
to see the greater truth
by which I might find something
to push away the gloom
and the answer comes from above
in the silence of the night
a sign drawn by the flight path
of a west bound starry light

And the star delivers a summons
to shepherds and kings alike
to Come and Behold a greater king,
timing it just right,
bringing east and west together,
offering peace on earth
- a peace in the light of a greater truth,
enlightening the world

This light’s an invitation to you
to come and behold a child
But I think I better warn you,
he’s no longer meek and mild
Baby Jesus is now a Risen King,
and no better light you’ll find
to set a brighter truer path,
for you and humankind

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

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

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, he can't relax,
his 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.

Gran will talk of Christmas past
when everyone was home
'Cept in Gulf War 1 when Uncle John
went away, ....

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 remember Jesus
from half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

For 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.

He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
waiting for those who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Whatever your experience of Christmas
you can come just as you are,
His love is unconditional
He'll accept you warts and all.

So come on!
It’s a season to celebrate!
To dance, to sing and to shout!
Your Saviour invites you to join Him,
so when you sing this Christmas, make it count.

God said, come now
and let us mystery together,
fire and phoenix together,
rhythm together, step together,
be danced and held together.  

Let us rest in my meadow,
feast to our pleasure
and pour to our brimful altogether.

Come let us be here together.

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,
sprouting 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!

Maker
Originator
Innovator
Landscaper
Sculptor
Painter
Writer
Director
(Mould breaker)
Care-Taker
Sustainer
Restorer
Reinventor
Renovator
Collaborator
Benefactor.

Maker of all.

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.

We frolic and laugh, for the dragon sleeps.

  We glory in the pleasure of this short summer,
  the cool of the brook and the still warming sun,
  for the dragon does still sleep.

  We will not give good attention to the dark,
  though it sits not so far away. We play at peace,
  for the dragon does still sleep.

  We shall not quieten, for he more than slumbers,
  his sleep is the sleep of the near dead,
  though he may yet rise and torment us once more.

  We will not wait on that future fear.
  We will rather frolic in the warmth of sun and laughter,
  for the Tamar dragon does still sleep.

And we know a Champion
who is a slayer of all our dragons.

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."

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold, his soft touch
stirs in me multiple wonders.

I’m stirred and I gaze into his face
and I gauge his embracing grace
in the way his body moves.

His graceful body moves
into mine and embraces
me whole, bone and soul.

His gentle, generous whispers
suffuse my soul as he strokes
my fragile spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed,
sated by in his gifted innocence.

I’m turned and I’m sated
by the flow of his thick breast milk
and the sweet fruit of his vine.

Together, we sway to slow angel-song
while he tutors me in timeless arts,
in his long-lost sweeping steps.

His timeless arts arouse in me
long aches of ancient senses,
not least the thrill of love’s touch.

And so, hand touching hand
I’m released, liberated
to love him and to run.

I run, released into him
sinking into him, to dance
in step for an eternity.