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.

I've found it's dangerous to be different
and that it's likely to offend
but I can't help my being me
and I no longer will pretend

that I'm the one who is at fault
that I owe an apology
when the truth is that it is you
who should get used to me

I don't mind your naive questions
I welcome every one
but don't assume that being different
makes me a source of fun

instead let's reach agreement
that we've both got lots to learn
and while I try to learn some patience
you'll learn deference in return

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.

Can a mailbox truly expire
or does it simply get archived?

Can a text really be deleted
or does it move to another folder?

Can I simply log off and shut down
or do I remain partially connected?

When I manage to restart
I hope I retain some memory.

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.

Do not rise gently into the dawning light.
Young bones should relish the pause before break of day.
Let your teenage bones embrace what remains of the night.
Rage, rage against the alarm of light.

She said, 'its okay -
it's not what we thought
So it's time to stop short,
to let go, step back
and take a different route.
It's time to play a new track,
one which gives more scope
for dancing without tripping
for singing with no mind to the heckling.
So step back,
let go and go your way
while I go mine.
It's okay,
its just that this time
we both ran out
of each other's time.'
And she went.

Don’t tell our parents, but I think I’m ready
for the next step, I want to hold your hand
and perhaps walk the longer way home.
I’ll shorten my stride and keep in time with us
because it all slows down when you’re talking
when you lick your lips to keep them moist
and they manage to reflect the dipping sun.

I’d like to sit face to face with your face
while you talk about the sky and the stars
about the horizon and what lies beyond
the slow canal and the horse that’s pegged there.

But let’s not tell our parents yet,
I’d like to find out what this is like
before they talk and spoil it for us.

I make a mug of tea and butter a slice of toast and am not surprised by her smile, years before and right there, waiting for me with the sound of The Express being folded, crossword almost completed, as she rises for a kiss and a 'hello love', and the trusted 'I've got the kettle on'.
We hug and I sit as she stands and takes down two mugs, just as she recalls something or another that she meant to give me last visit and now wonders where she placed for safe keeping for this moment - and she's gone,
leaving me sitting in the kitchen resting in the familiarity of her calls from the other room telling me she'll find it in a sec and chiding herself, until her cry of finding and her return
with something of my dad's that she thought I'd like or perhaps a grey photo, with a young me, head sliced to fit a frame long discarded, but having left its trace with a stain of Sellotape
- and then we talk of nothing but people and happenings that left family stains we cherish for the pictures they conjure and for the bond left undiminished by time and if anything made stronger by any mug of tea and toast and the still-left-unlocked front door always ready to receive me with a 'hello love' from deep within the home that stayed open forever and now keeps a space open for memories and a silent undertaking that I'll somehow perpetuate this welcome.

Brave to ask.

   Wise to listen.

      Inspired to act.

         Transformation.

Come
and take a double touch of His grace
on your tear stained face,
hinging on His mercy
coupled with His ability
to not assume, to not barrel past,
but to rather ask (and twice ask)
with a balm of a voice and intentional hearing
and His long compassionate waiting.

Come
and take a double touch of His grace,

Jesus wasn't one for placing His touch 'in passing',
but He placed His touch with presence -
His was an off-the-fence, no-pretence full in the face presence.

Come
and take a double touch of His grace.

He held back from the passing pack and exercised the knack of knowing to look back, going far enough to reach a truer understanding,
to reach out with both arms and so allowing
Him to encompass all previous experience of heavy handed mishandling.

Come
and take a double touch of His grace.

For He knows that truthfully the healing is secondary
to the placing of true medicinal touch,
to the reassuring brush
of acceptance,
to the knowing that you've received close hearing
and closer grasping -
a meeting of more than minds, a confidence of souls truely entwined,
standing embracing and only releasing once we have the assurance of knowing
that we've been double-touched with honesty and that we're twice as much connected fully
and gracefully with the One who truely never turned from anyone's face.

Come and take a double touch of His grace.

No,
Not 'a little down' -
But ravaged
By a relentless demon
Of depression
Eating at my mind
Never satisfied
Robbing me of focus
Sapping me of strength
To push back the covers
Never mind the tougher challenge
Like eating
And deciding what to wear.
Maybe tomorrow
Will be better
Lighter
A harbinger of greater
Hope.
No, not 'a little down'
But a long way further deeper
With a frayed rope
Of a hand holding mine
Relentless in its determined
Caress.
God Bless you for being there
Please hold on.

These are the ingredients for a poem. But like all recipes, you don't need every ingredient every time:

MUSIC
- beat, rhythm & rhyme
IMAGERY
- pictures painted
IMAGINATION
- describing what's not there.

STORY
- the narrative, the journey within the poem
STRUCTURE
- size & shape (line breaks and stanzas)

Also, you may have a inclination to use a particular ingredient to the exclusion of others - so as you recognise this, experiment with those ingredients which you are less confident about using.

Note
- the first three are where poets typically find their freedom to explore ideas within the poem;
- the last two are where the reader typically finds handholds / the anchor to better engage with the poem.

An inner page
frayed but full to four edges with marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence that nothing is ever finished only paused pending further inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond the perimeters of this captured inner rage.

Why so smug?
Seems those pygmy dreams
bore fruit long before
you left safe harbour.

Come back home
once you have defeated
land-locked fear,
hurdled every heaving horizon
and found the stars.

Come back and show me
your war torn scars
and deep wild bruises.
Show me a worn down ego
and weathered soul.

Then you can boldly enter
eternal harbour.

Long before I was her father
she flew
perhaps with fairy wings
or maybe a cherub's -

I can't be sure,
but I know she flew

cos she kept her perspective
and taught me to drink my fill
from each moment
and not move on til
I'd tasted the dregs.

Long after those early lessons
I still need to practice
this most basic of skills.

Driving your son
is like dispensing a truth serum,
extracting revelation

Driving your daughter
is like tuning in to an ongoing drama
with you a minor player

Distracted by solitude
I drove blind
and let the music pass on my inside,
undertaking,
seeking to pull me forward in its wake
- but deaf to its invitation,
I failed to hold up
my side of the conversation
and dropped back
in my own slow lane
alone again.

By the time the day catches up with me
The moon is full
And my tears have dried.
Tomorrow will be better.

I've got all my ducks in a row
Turned out 1 is rubber
2 are decoys
And the other 4 are vultures
But they're definitely in a row

It’s before nine.  I have another chilled hour
before the Swallow cafe opens for cooked breakfast
and a day before the family funeral.

The sky is clear to the east, but further north
there’s pre-spun wool resting lightly on the hills,
heavy with possibility and miles from home.

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

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.
I'll have to wait
and see.

Earth, it’s so good to speak with you again.  Come and rest here with me.

- Okay, but I don’t feel this is helping.

Why do you say that?

- I knew you’d say that.  Always with a question.

That’s because I think you have the answer.

- [SIGH] This is not helping because - nothing - changes.  If anything, it’s getting worse – in fact I know it is - You know it is.  And the disease is spreading faster.

Disease?

- Yes, DISEASE!  How else would you describe it?  The illness, the infection – the dis-order.

And what order would you seek to restore?

- What?

You said ‘disorder’ – that suggests that there was order that has been disrupted.

- Yes.  That’s obvious.

When was this?

- When was what?

When was this order?  When did the disruption start?

- We’ve been through this before.

Well, let’s walk through it again.  Perhaps it will help.

- [SIGH]
…
- [INTAKE OF BREATH] Okay.  You win.  I’m not sure when the disorder began, but I know we started fit and healthy.  When things were smaller, less crowded, less rushed and less - well, less – I don’t know how to describe it.  Less complicated.

What made it complicated?

- [Quietly] Choice.

What was that?

- CHOICE!  You gave them CHOICE.  You let them CHOOSE to do this to me.
…
- It’s like you knew they would ***** this up and that I’d pay the price.  It’s like I’m just a pawn.  It felt so good back in the garden, life was simpler.  There was balance.  You were there, you must remember how my eco system was just right – you loved your walks in the cool of the day.

You know I still love you.

- You’ve got a funny way of showing it.

You know I’ll make good on my promise.  That I will make you new.  This is a season. 

- But you left me in their hands. You gave them authority over me, to do with me whatever they wanted.  Couldn’t you guess how this would go.  The abuse, the neglect, the greed!

There are those who still take their stewardship seriously.  My people are still active.

- Not active enough!  Not re-using, re-cycling, re-pairing enough to off-set the stench I have to inhale, the filth I have to absorb, the poison!

I hear your frustration, your groans, your pain.  Redemption will come.

- And what happens til then?

Until then, I have placed your fate in the hands of my children, that’s true enough.  Let’s hope that they appreciate the gift that you are and that they grow up quick enough to turn the tide.

- They’d better hurry up.  I can’t take much more of this.

You and me both.

.
#morethanchocolate
#morethanbunnies
#morelikelove
#morelikebloo­dy

This month I call you Saviour.

Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.

But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
to draw on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity
and ultimate betrayal in the big city.

This month I address my Hosannas
to you, my loving, risen Saviour.

He had His detractors - did Jesus
some aggressive,
while others were more subtle.
And these had more success:
with cute bunnies,
concealed eggs
and confectionary.
But, despite their best attempts,
the Story remains unfinished.

There's nothing magical about being intentional.
It's about the beneficial, not just the permissible.
Don't be mindful of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency of every mouthful
Watch the size of your morning bowlful
And what you spread on a wholemeal bagel.

That way you'll find you'll be more healthful.

Although I should be a little more truthful –
I can get all emotional
And potentially inspirational
About my preferable, honey-based
Sticky sauce that’s truly capital (BBQ).

It's good to make you smile
by simply being myself

You too make me smile
effortlessly

Let's make more time
together
and make less effort

The parent said to the child,
"Just you listen to me -
"Do as you're told, you'll be fine;
you need to wait and see."

The child smiled at the parent,
relieved to have someone in charge.
Their worry had been overwhelming
with much that couldn't be grasped.

The adults looked on, both curious
at the exchange that they'd observed.
They continued on their journey,
sharing all that they had learned.

There’s something pure in the dawning light
A hint of a greater, holy light
That flames and warms,
Particularly when reflected in a daughter’s eyes
Shining with perfection, reflecting
The warmth and the beauty
Found only in God’s resplendence.

It was hiding in plain sight, yet eluded me for days. It had adopted a 'keep still and maybe he won't see me' tactic, proven to be successful on many an occasion.
When I came into the room with one purpose in mind, that is to find it at all costs, it repeatedly contended with my scan of each surface, employing its camouflage turned up to 'you'll never find me, not if you looked for the rest of your life'.
And then I remembered, I simply had to give up, and as it relaxed, it would emerge from the background, and I'd be able to put it somewhere safe where I was bound to find it next time.  Perhaps.

I had mistaken the embers for ashes.
I passed by, blind to the fire,
betraying the flames
and leaving the phoenix
for a more prescient pilgrim.