Proper good
Plenty loud
Mighty big
Deeply proud

Mega fine
Shiny bright
Scary close
Family tight

We share the pleasure of a shared joke based on shared experience in shared lives, with no target to speak of, but with a simple open mockery of the value we place on our own shared past, whether unique to us or shared wider with our middle aging generation or perhaps universal to all humankind - a past we hold close but hold lightly lest it slip away from too much introspection and over-close scrutiny, but still a past that bears the shared weight of hearty family laughter, full of love and belonging.
Quaking, I finish with the gravy jug, catch the hesitant drip with my forefinger and pass it on, enjoying the richness of this moment.

I watched, fascinated, at each Stag standing,
legs splayed wide, chest expanding,
one hand playing pocket billiards,
the other cupping an imperial panetella,
or the odd ***-end of a king-sized silk cut.

I watched each **** strutting, squinting
against the improbably impressive smoke signals
emanating from a side grimace, indicating
not just contemplation of past glories,
and an absent kin,
but a surprising level of self-congratulation
and not solo signals, but a tribe-wide cloud of pride,
bellowing in resonance, creating a crescendo of
'you just know they would have loved this'
coupled with an elaborate semaphore display
that would put any plume of peacocks to shame.

My family gathered to mark their history,
to reinforce a crucial coupler of family territory,
to shout their quiet authority like ancient royalty,
as monarchs of this urban manor, their laughter
rising in assumptive victory, leaving no doubt
that this clan would face all future threats
with no more than 'a quiet word'
and a micro-assertion of their claim
over their ancestral turf.

I watched my forever-family,
my forever-England, planted secure
in my ever-after summer,
on this once green, scorched earth.

Auntie Janet asked me to say hi and that she doesn't blame you.
Grandad sends his regards and says he needs a little more time before he can see you.

Pete says hello and he'd like the long skewers returned if you get them back.
Mary sends her apologies and says you can keep the hachette.

Mum says you're invited to Uncle Bert's funeral if you're up to it. She'll deal with Uncle Arthur. 
Sarah says to thank you. She and the baby are doing much better.

Jim said he'll see you when he gets out. He owes you a major one.
Dad says you were right and not to beat yourself up. What’s done is done.

The nurse says you need to rest. It’ll take as long as it takes.
- Do you want those grapes? Don’t want them to go to waste.

I've written straight with crooked lines
Told truth true with white lined lies
Quenched the fire with months of dust
Healed your wounds with salves of ****
There's nothing here that's as it seems
The river will slow farther upstream

I find humans fascinating.
Confusing, frustrating - yes,
but fascinating.
Take a look next time you're out.
Watch them carefully.
They are
- fascinating.

Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success

No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces

Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide

I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed

Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking

Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring

But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers

You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless

You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile

You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance

Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing

Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace

Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term

Fathercraft
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.

This is my food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.

Blessed are the father-hearted
The reluctant to be child parted
Blessed are the bushy bearded
The happy to be pulled and smearded

Blessed are the on-all-fours
The role-players with scary roars
Blessed are the rollers on floors
The willing to ignore both knee-sores

Blessed are the hearty laughers
The bellows of the not by half-ers
Blessed are the childlike fathers
And happy the children who follow soon after

Father is a verb
It's not a noun to be worn like some crown
It's not an honorific
It's a doing word beyond what you do with your ****
It's not some name that you automatically deserve
Believe me, fathering is a lifetime of a verb

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 
sacrificially.

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father,
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation.

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are,
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also,
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother)
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great
sacrificially.

For example,
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed,
He'll proudly walk
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride,
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

Father is a verb. -
Father's Day and Father Christmas
have tried to convince us, - but don't – be - fooled:
You can, may or will father, depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive.
you can't father alone, only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard with jokes on recycle.
(insert dad joke here)
Yes, father is a verb.

It's something that you do, despite the hour,
it drives right on through the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten fingernails to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation (with an ill-suited hat on).

It turns manliness into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, it works in the singular:
I can father; You can father
    (and I'm not talking *** here;
     that mostly needs a partner.)
But also,
-  it works in the plural -
we can father; and they can father, because, you see,
in this village it’s a joint activity:
we father (and we mother) collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "later!". -
It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter.
sometimes active: directive, protecting.
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening.
... holding, and hugging.
It responds to need, you see, but works best proactively,
works great sacrificially.

More specifically, in the end it’s a doing word
not a noun to be worn like some tilted crown
It's not some post-coitus reflexive honorific
It's a feat way beyond a sudden beget.
Father’s not some title that you necessarily deserve.
It's one that's sorely earned.
Please believe me - that’s right, you heard,
father is a present continuous, long lifetime of a verb.

Storm-stilling fury and wreaking ball laughter
Lie still now,
Encased in his pale, goliath frame.

Harbouring agony rather than giving an inch,
He faded a morphine-dose further,
Withdrawing himself as only a father can,
And made his last withdrawal.
Finally releasing me
to follow no model but my own.

I look in the mirror and what do I see,
pure imperfection staring at me,
curiously wondering, wonderfully curious
at what new imperfection I soon will be.

I've found its important not to be perfect
not replace imperfections for better or worse.
it's when we make peace with our faultless defection
that godly perfection starts getting to work

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

Dan was a vegetarian-wiseman
A three square prayers a day man.
So deep in the den Dan stuck to the plan
And ended the night as he began
With ALL his limbs no less than
Before the lion became his new best fan.

Now the king saw Dan was no mere stunt man
So he sent out an urgent all points telegram
And overturned his ill-concieved prayer ban
(Which was previously proposed by a bunch of conmen)
And he told the people of EVERY clan:
"We must ALL fear the God of fearless Dan".

Striving in fear
or living in favour
Feeling the dread
or hearing the angel

Psalms 23
1 The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.
4 Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.

In the presence of my enemies...

IN THEIR FACE!
Right there in full view,
where they can't ignore it -
You lavish your favour.
You flourish extravagance.
You banish restraint.
You shout exuberance.
At the prepared table
we feast together -
a glass sloshing,
chin dripping,
teeth staining,
finger licking,
shirt smearing,
belt loosening,
belch competing,
mouth spilling,
song inducing,
mum tutting
FEAST!
- right there
before my dumbfounded enemies
and in your glorious presence.

You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely your goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Amen.

Let's talk about your father.
How did that make you feel?
Let’s talk about that.

It’s okay, take a breath.

How did that make you feel?

Breath. That’s right.

Tell me more about that.
Did that make you feel afraid again?

Breath. Good.

Can you tell me more about how that felt?

That’s right, breath.

How do you feel now?
Can we talk more about that?

Deep breath.

Is that you?
Or just your memory of you?
There’re both real.

Breath.

Don't be a local.
Don't deny yourself the wonder.
Don't forego the sunlight,
the movement of the sky
the dance of the water

Don't be a local.
Don't focus on timetables.
Don't get lost in ferry dramas.
Lift your head into the wind
and take in the glacial.

Sometimes it gets fierce
like it's looking to escape.
But I tell it not yet.
I get it to calm.
Tell it I need it in place

But no matter how much
I speak peace it still gets fierce.
So much so I have to wonder
when its time will come
and mine will go.

But not yet. Not now.
Now I'm fierce enough.
Enough to speak peace
in words learnt over long years.
Long enough to keep pace,
keep to my off-beat rhythm
that’s beaten it down
into a life-long submission

While knowing that life-long
isn't long enough
and the beat won't go on
ad nauseam.

But yes, I get fierce enough,
enough to keep the beast in its place.
- My time hasn't expired yet.

I know my time will get old.
But not yet.

Fierce potential
For pain
For hate
For fear

For love
For joy
For care

Forever potent
In every moment
For success
Or disappointment

So take each day
And squeeze it dry
Choose with care
Your closest allies
Don't want for trying
Don't fall for the lying
Stay true to your dreaming
It's yours for the taking.

I sat, gripped
as my tears fought to tear free
from her vice-like stare
and her mother-strong hold,
each knuckle white with intent
and scabbed with rage.

I tried to prise her grip away
scared by the strength of her frail frame
but she bore down all the same
and her nails inscribed one indelible plea
for me
to stay.

I've seen redundant heroes
Inked and fully formed
They're faded from a lack of use
Like blunted dusty swords

I've seen redundant heroes
With no questing quite begun
Unknowingly replaced by you
The hero player-one.

And this is my final Word on the matter.
You seem to have either
forgotton
or misunderstood
or ignored
my earlier communication.
So this time I will make it uneqivocal.
This time I will bring it down
to your level.
This time I'll say it in person.
Stop talking for just a moment.
Pay the most careful attention -
This is my Son.
Listen to Him.

"Once you have found it
keep your Voice on you at all times,"
my Uncle told me,
"you never know when you might need it.
Do not entrust it to anyone else -
they won't value it the way that you do.

"And do not leave your Voice
where they can steal it,
but slip it in your inside breast pocket,
close to your quiet heart -
where you can reach for it
at a moment's notice,
and when the moment comes,
you take it out with a steady hand
and you let them see
that your Voice is not lost,
it is not tired,
that it lies ready
that it is willing
to speak truth to power,
to voice comfort to the powerless
and sing in chorus with quieter voices."
And he patted my hand,
"You'll know. You'll know."

Years later,
when I found my Voice
far from where my Uncle had sat,
I knew it was mine
from its familiar shape and weight in my throat,
from the way it resonated
with the call I had suppressed
and the way it chimed
with the voices of those
who chose to stand with me.

And now that I've found it,
I exercise my Voice in song,
I practice it in comfort
and I school it in truth
and I always keep it close
to our quiet hearts
where they cannot steal it from us.

Fight fire with water
Not with fire

Who would do that?

Apart from those
investing in ashes
Reaping from rapes
Taking from trauma
Gaining from guns
Winning from wars
Paying the ferryman
under the table

Who would do that?

You cross the uncharted floor
And on the far side of your long hope
She takes your hand.

You fall into her slow dance
And smiling, you relax, close and warm
In her knowing arms.

You follow her graceful lead
And feel the eyes of the crowd around
And you dance on.

Today is a first draft day
With no re-write on its way
I’m at the messy stage
the unstructured phase
with a faint promise of better
or maybe just more neatly arranged.

I’m a first draft
and on days like today
I feel it.

The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.

We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.

We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.

Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.

We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.

We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.

Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.

I got places I need to go
I got people I need to see
I got plans to change the world,
but first I need to ***.

My debt-ridden past,
more than I asked.

The transactional present,
less pleasure, more torment.

An easy-payments future,
more payments not fewer.

So many give-aways,
at a price I cannot pay.

It's neo-consumerism,
with the soft bite of fascism.

We're infected by the bug,
so we take
the offered
drugs.

The dreaming cod
The rapacious gull
On the shore of Evolution
On the crest of Extinction
Sought harmony and discovered discord

But while we were dulled by our difference,
divided by distinct destinations
over facing horizons, we are destined
to discover our far dateline.

It's not the force of the blow
it's the force of the feeling,
the grit of her teeth
and the words that's she's snarling.
It's the loss of the mother
I remember her being,
it's the hate on her face
that leaves my head reeling.

It's not the force of the fist,
it's the fear that this
is all that is left
of the mother I miss.

What is it about a national flag
draped over shoulders,
tied at the neck
or wrapped like a toga
that makes me cross the road?
Why do I suspect it covers anger?
Why do I hear a shout of challenge,
rather than a song of honour?
Was it too many urban marches?
Flying London bricks?
And cracked skulls?
Let's put flags beyond reach
on flag poles,
and preferably not at half mast.

[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]

Not everyone flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
you launch and take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a flyer.

Not every line flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall,
your thoughts take flight.

An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a poet.

Not every prayer flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
your prayer takes flight.

Your spirit resonates with His
and you see His face.
And when you get to your 'Amen',
you see that you've got 
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a pray-er.

The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.

The shorts I wear to bed
have a back pocket.
When I chose to buy them
in a twin pack with a tee shirt,
the pocket was not
a deciding feature.
However, I acknowledged
that it was there by design.

For months I gave it no further thought.
For months it was as redundant
as a breast pocket in pyjamas.

Then one morning,
as I was juggling
with a cereal bowl
and clothes from the dryer,
I slipped my phone,
still playing a pod cast,
into my back pocket.

And for a moment,
as the conversation followed me upstairs back to the bedroom,
I smiled at the foresight of M&S.
I should have realised:
they know their stuff.

He leads me by waters of rest,
waters bubbling with competing song,
each voice heralding restored souls,
flowing down perfect paths through the greenest pastures
where our master-shepherd has prepared my rest.

Even in deep darkness,
I need not fear
for His rod and staff protect me.

Surely steadfast love follows me
as I return to dwell in the house of the Lord all my long days
and there I shall feast at my Lord-Shepherd's high table
forever.

Thank you for preachers
and Sunday school teachers
for childhood friends
and for youth leaders

for Christian Endeavour
and Boys Brigade
for holiday club
and weekends away

for memory verses,
for hymns and for choruses
Thank you for songs
that set out your stories

Thank you for pastors
showing compassion
Thanks for memories
that still give direction

Thank you for roots
secured in your Word
I rely on them still
to provide daily food.

Thank you Lord Jesus
for building in me
a strong foundation
that helps me stay free.

(Hebrews 12.2 – expanded version)

"…looking to Jesus,
the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him...

For the JOY of following his father's will
For the JOY of offering us salvation

For the JOY of putting an end to death
For the JOY of his promised resurrection

For the JOY of ascending to his Father
For the JOY of sending the Spirit of truth

For the JOY of commissioning disciple makers
For the JOY of preparing many rooms

For the JOY of planning his wedding feast
For the JOY of coming for his bride

For the JOY of gifting the water of life
For the JOY of drinking kingdom wine

For all these JOYS set before him,

…Jesus endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God."

where nothing will rob him of these JOYS.

a reluctant sun -
new grass reaches up for warmth
with growing patience

parched earth and blue sky
glare at the adandoned pool
- elusive relief

dark leaden clouds -
soggy leaves and damp cold feet
are not my friend

snow trimmed fences -
heated neighbourly disputes
make lukewarm relations

I am not
as you see me now
I stand straighter
walk taller
speak clearer,
- but just now I've shrunk back
to a fragile tenacity
that can easily go unnoticed.
I am not as you see me now.
I am more -
you'll just have to take my word for it.

I love a window,
how it changes.
- So full of life,
so far away.

Tomorrow I'll rejoin the fray,
Seeking to keep us all a little safer; Restraining, revoking,
Cajolling, provoking,
Addressing those who fail to see
A more enlightened way
Of treating the wider community.
Workers seek to save
And secure a future for their families
While navigating over-selling audacity,
Under-disclosure with a lack of clarity,
And obscure charging opacity
Or plain old mis-selling strategies.
So thanks, but I'll pass on that job hint
And continue rummaging through the regulatory tool kit,
And find the spanner that'll fit
The next nut that I'll inevitably be faced with.
It's great to hear your stories,
But for now I'll continue where I best fit
Pursuing retail investigations
With my best forensic slick.

I sit, staring through my tears,
still, against the quiet groaning of a heart
which weeps way beyond my reach,
lost within her fears and aloneness,
only tethered to this world
by a frayed grasp of my hand.
and so I hold on.

I believe in choice.
I believe in the power of choice.
I believe in the God-given right
to freely choose
what we choose to choose.

Freely choosing -
Freely making -
Freely selecting -
our choice.

Freely taking
one of the options
offered to us,
freely declining
to take the others.

Freely deciding what we want,
what we will,
what we'd like
to choose.

I believe in our free will.
I believe in just one-more-
before-I-go
slice of cake.

I can still taste the toothpaste,
my ears hold a dampness
from the flannel,
my pants give rise
to the airer’s freshness
and I’m yet to lose
the stiffness of my bed -

and yet
I remain hopeful of the day,
that it will weigh heavier,
grow mustier,
yield an aroma
I can relate to.