on saturday morning we grace around recycled rustic tables, lowering our heads over gluten free brown toast topped with gently scrambled free range eggs, adding soya milk to decaffeinated, ethically sourced coffee, self contained in guilt free reusable cups -

and still we fret.

Every fire fascinates
Each battle beggars belief
News of drought and death
Sees viewing figures increase

Solemn faces on the screen
Scenes that 'may cause distress'
Each prompt us to be thankful
That our lives are so blessed

Now move along the sofa
I've got a heavy tray
I'm ready for a horror
Just - press - play

Protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me and my mates will testify loudly that I've held them close and testified to their six percent proof deep into the beer fueled night, tears clouding my glasses and my judgement, cliffs hanging dangerously close to the edge of despair with my back up against the howls of derision which fall on deaf, hard ground and against all hope stand, still next to my protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me...

She'd crayoned indiscriminate orange cheer and saw that she'd later been placed high up on the fridge door. From experience she knew that this meant that she had created something of worth, something with a 3-year-old's indiscriminate love, kept in place by a bright red magnet right next to a half-finished shopping list.  

At their next visit she pointed and laughed - it was still there, though a little askew and over-caressed, judging by the finger-grease stains. Her pride was self-evident as she presented the picture's yellow counterpart and watched it being mounted with a matching magnet.  

This time she noticed the tears, so had to ask her mum what that meant.  

She quickly learned and later at the Royal Academy she was ready with a handkerchief when her grandfather teared up staring up at the family portrait in her signature sunshine palette. She enjoyed the smile as he reached up as if to bless the elevated portrait with his familiar caress and grand-paternal pride.  

But the repeated queries about the bright red spot that featured on most of her portraits went unanswered.

The first problem
is solitude, it's isolation.

It needed a befriending
It needs a communing
Not just with our maker
But also with one-another
with an attitude of a no-greater,
never failer, a coming along-sider.

It needs you and me
to greet with a holy kisser,
to bury and plant something
that will grow straighter
(perhaps sometimes leaning counter),

carrying, confessing,
praying and bearing with,
building one another
up into a more no-greater
love than this:
laying down ourselves
for our friends
no matter.

The first problem
was isolation.
So let's embrace a friendlier
God-given solution.

Let's be friends.

I'll tell something about Joe
There's one thing he'll never outgrow
Entertaining his mates
With tales of new scrapes
He'll always put on a great show.

I have a great mate called Simon
Who refuses to put more weight on
He'll watch what he eats
Week after week
And soon he will look like Mike Tyson

I know a poet name Chris
Who will tend to think it remiss
If he can't get together
Some poetry matter
I guess it's one of his gfts

There is a young woman named Jenny
Whose skills and abilities are many.
She steps in when she's needed,
Expectations exceeded.
She's nothing short of uncanny.

There is a young man named Josh
Who's decided to make a big splosh.
Don't be facetious,
He's a follower of Jesus
And due for a thorough good wash.

There is a young lady named Kay
Who loved to go shopping all day
She'd keep looking around
Until a bargain she found
And no one dared get in her way.

There is a young lady named Anna
Who just can't stop smiling no matter.
She laughs everyday
With no sign of dismay
As her boys simply love her and hug her.

There was a young couple in Hanwell,
Whose love just couldn't be hid well.
They opened their home,
With never a moan
And ensured their friends were fed well.

There is a young man named Billy
Who can't help but laugh himself silly.
He sniggers and snorts
Gaffaws and contorts
Enough to make him feel dizzy.

There once was a magpie named Abi
Her friends would make her so happy
By leaving around
Shiny things to be found
Whether useful or a tiny bit tacky.

There is a dear lady named Betty
Who is always willing and ready
To sing and to dance
When she's given the chance
And never seems to get sweaty.

There is a young lady called Marsha
Who's German, so whenever you ask her
What type of food
Goes with all kinds of moods
She'll tell you it's a frankfurter.

There is a young pastor named Jason
When he studies his bible he's brazon
He praises and prays
By night and by day
His knees have serious abrasions.

There is a young woman named Amy
Who is more than a little bit brainy
She studies real hard
At home and abroad
But is also a little bit zany.

There is young lady named Tessa
Who loves a good meal and a blether
She studies God's word
Although she prefers
To do so with friends altogether.

I know a pastor named Pete
Whose day is never complete
Until he's concluded
Which quote to include in
His sermon due later that week.

I have a sister named Janet
Who has a wonderful habit
When you need a friend
You can be sure to depend
That she won't get into a panic.

I have a sister named Jenny
Who is always willing and ready
To offer a smile
While cooking with style
I can smell the results already.

I have a sister named Sally
It's hard to keep a clear tally
Of the number of times
She's cheerful and kind
It really makes you feel happy.

I met a young woman named Megan
Who's either laughing or grinning
Whenever she's near
She spreads serious cheer
And then she gets on with the mopping.

I know a young lady named Ivy
Whose kids are constantly smiley
Her calm and good grace
Pervades the tent space
From Monday to late on a Friday

I know a great lady called Abi
Who's started an interesting hobby
As well as her teaching
Cooking and singing
She now does professional cleaning

I met a dear woman named Bev
Who won't look at a Chicken Kiev
She says she prefers
To bake flap jack squares
And fry up some great eggy bread

I met a dear woman called Debbie
Whose mood is consistently peppy
She readily hugs
All her old chums
And makes new friends in a jiffy

Now Rachel is a woman of class
All you need do is ask
She'll readily help
And if nothing else
She'll be ready to fill up your glass

I met a dear lady named Gwen
She's a perfect motherly hen
She cares on instinct
Her fashion is dis-tinct
And she scored a perfect round 10

I've met a great bloke called Mark
Who's been heard to pass a remark
That despite all attempts
To live life in a tent
It's an idea that Abi has parked.

Family is not an F word
however family was for you,
cos when family leave you raw and bruised
friends are family in lieu

A pick up at Gatwick
at way past midnight
is a glimpse into the void
tempered only by the joy
and delight of family
reunited

God stood
On the edge of uncertainty,
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation
On a venture that would be his signature dish.
A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationships.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest is history.

You see,
Though unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Til Christ stepped up and paid the cost
Of the curse we deserve...

But as a foretaste
Of that greatest sacrifice
God was pleased to accept
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family repast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided
Undeserved forgiveness
And tasted of promise
That the Lord will provide
For a new world
With his own lifeblood.

God stood at the beginning,
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation 
On a venture that would be his signature dish.

A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationship.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest
is history.

However, although unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a very short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle 
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Until such time when Christ would step up and pay the original cost
Of the curse we deserved...

But as a foretaste 
Of that preferred sacrifice
God was pleased to accept 
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family feast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided forgiveness
As a foretaste of a greater high priest
A greater promise
That 'The Lord Will Provide' 
For a new world
Fit for his future bride....

God stood 
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity
And saw that it would - indeed -
be
good.

Grateful, without a fight,
just a gentle sigh
and an answered prayer,
she stepped forward
and took the hand offered.

Go gentle, dear mother.
After your rage, after your fierce tears,
- go gentle, into that greater light.

Ghost or shell
Be sure it's all me
Raising hell

Make peace with your ghosts
- they're too hard to ****,
too tough to resist,
too close to the truth.
They will always be there for you.

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
A freckled-faced banshee fan
Pale make-up matching my skin
I don't easily tan

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
They call me ginger-goth man
Taking my sunlight secondhand
Part of a bat cave clan

I'm a post-punk ginger goth
A Mary Shelley fan
The original goth had ginger hair
I continue as she began

god is not a proper noun.
It’s more a job description.
Jesus is very different:
god embodied in a person

So, don’t go exploring
a systematic doctrine.
Begin with seeking out
a person worth discovering.

White's a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage,

(topped-up by a Y chromosome for some)

which can't be worn lightly.

Let’s not kid ourselves -
despite the painted ceilings
the flaky teachings
- God is not a white man
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender-bearing genitalia.

God designed all of that paraphernalia
for us to enjoy, out of a love of diversity
out of a mischievous plan for human sexuality
out of a need to be reflected in more than one gender
because one was not strong enough to fully bear
to accurately render God's image alone.

Be clear, being white is a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage
placed on our shoulders by successive generations
who denied,
pushed down,
held back
and placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate of humankind.

God is not a white man -
No, they agreed upon the olive skin
of a chosen, a select people
and wore that dark complexion with pride.

So put aside that ancient lie.
God is not some white guy.

God is translucent.

This is my compilation of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Wrapped in eloquent grace,
Punctuated with tearful praise
User manual or admonishment
Hope and encouragement
Stories of enemies and friends
- where battles end
in the end.

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
Soft like the call of a lover
Earnest like the tears of a running Father
Substituting justice with forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my compendium of choice
This is where I hear God's voice
This is where I hear words collide with joy
This is where words can fly

This is where you'll hear God's voice.

You see, my God is a poet.

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice -
a voice wrapped in grace
or punctuated with tearful praise.
User manual and admonishment
Hope and encouragement
Stories of enemies and friends
where battles end
in the end

This is my anthology of choice
This is where I hear God's voice -
a voice soft like a lover
spoken comfort like an open-armed Father
Substituting justice for forgiveness
Love Joy Peace and Patience

This is my anthology,
my community of choice

This is where I hear God's stanza'd voice -

Tonight,
God
is a poet.

God of mystery?
I don't think so!

A God who
Embraces
A transformer
Defender
Affirmer
Way clearer
Stand by you whatever-er.

A God who
Endures
A giver
Kisser
Hugger
Commender
Showing favour no matter-er

A God who
Comforts
A deliverer
Protector
Forgiver
Builder-upper-er
Never put downer.

A God who's
Proud of each of yer
His followers.

Our God often waits away from the crowd, standing in the margins,
right up against your discomfort of being closer to the edge of others.

He invites you to intentionally trust incidental strangers,
because that’s where He’s made his home,
in the threshold of love, in each adjoining reaction, one to the other.

So go to the margins, to the verge of your comfort, reach out
and get closer to your marginal, desert road, cross-border God.

And there you'll find the ordained moment, the precious place of gentle surprise
and the sudden challenge that heralds adventures beyond what you can ask or imagine.

Step outside your norm, but within His plan for this day

and maybe – just maybe
you’ll meet an Ethiopian.

The prophetic use of Dr. Seuss
made it clear to Joshy
that he will face the world with joy
and return to tell his story.

His mountains will be oh so high
his mountains will be marvelous
Joshy will enjoy the climb
and Joshy will be fearless.

Sometime later, late at night
when children should be sleeping
Joshy will then tell his tale
but his brothers won't believe him.

Joshy will then smile and grin
and tell them they're just daft
if they just can't believe his tale
he'll not tell the stranger half.

It's a perfectly rational human response to feel anxious,
to weep, to stare into space and imagine the worse.

It's a perfect human response to take a breath,
to be kind to ourselves and be supportive of each other.

We're not perfect,
but with God's good grace we'll give it a go.

Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.

Why can't they invent silent tech?
Design tech that bit closer to quiet?
Why does it need to hum or to whine
to constantly remind me
it's watching, listening, waiting,
biding it's time,
denying me the silence
that might breed peace
... or perhaps simply echo
my emptiness.  
(Thank heavens for tech.)

How you doing?
Not too bad.
What's new with you?
Oh, you know, not much.
Where you been?
Around.
Where you off to?
Nowhere special.
Well, it's been good to talk.

Persistent ill-will
Will fester and creep
Deeper.
It will reopen old wounds
And keep seeping down
Dragging down
Happy to knuckle down
To a common level
That we can all disagree upon,

While nurtured good will
Can soften all sorts of ill designs
With a front-line grace,
That keeps pace with a peace
That salves injury
And deftly soothes
Each latent misery
Paving a way for relief that thwarts
Any undermining sneak-behind thievery
So weep no more
And shred that unbelief:
This is where Hope is chief.

Good your journey
true your road
wet your mouth
loud your song

Good your journey
true your friends
wet your eyes
loud your song

Good your journey
true your road
your friends
your heart

Feet flat, knees level,
I take the laptop position:
wrists and forearms relaxed,
shoulders loose.
I begin with a quick and precise combination
of key words flowing like darts from my fingers.
I ignore the too obvious feints and
scroll swiftly down,
keeping my laptop balanced
as I consider my options with care.
Sweeping away retail sites that got past my blocks
I focus on my target
and execute a killer click
and - bow
to sup my cooling tea.
I'm a Google master.

Feet flat, knees level, he takes the position:
wrists and forearms relaxed
and shoulders loose.
He begins with a quick combination,
flying like darts from his fingers,
while looking for advantage.
More alert now, he ignores obvious feints
and scrolls swiftly down,
shifting his stance to maintain balance.
He considers his strategy - and then,
sweeping away block-proof pretenders,
focused on his target,
he exhales and executes a precise killer 'CLICK'.
Smiling, he takes a well-earned bow
to sup his scalding coffee.
He's a Google-jitsu,
early-morning Master;
know him and fear him.

'- just as you are.'
These gracious words
Soaked down
And nourished my deep
Until I could lift my head
Until I could look into his eyes
And laugh once more,
Tears and all.

I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.

My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.

I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,

(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.

Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.

He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.

I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.

I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.

Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?

And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?

They say that it’s the thought that counts ...
and I wonder how He counted the cost,
from the first conception of His salvation plan
to the final arrival of God made man.

What were His first infant thoughts?
What did He think of His mother’s first touch?
And the assault of the cold, the earthy smells?
And perhaps the chime of several cow bells?

Each chime heralding this greater gift,
out-giving even a mother’s first kiss,
or the gifts from shepherds and eastern kings.
This God-gift out-gave all they could bring.

They say that it’s the thought that counts
and I count this gift of Immanuel,
this Godly-conceived first Noel
as by far the Greatest Gift of all.

So…
once the wrapping’s been wrapped
and the gifts have been given
once bells have been rung
as is our tradition

once the turkey’s a carcass
while mince pies remain
(and you wonder if salt
will lift that wine stain)

that’s the time to receive
the one Gift worth having
the Christ of this Christmas
the Gift come from heaven

the Gift that’s the Greatest
the Gift that kept giving
the Christ who stayed with us
the joy that kept coming

So …
as the carols’ words fade
don’t let this chance drift
welcome Christ this Christmas
the Greatest Gift

The yet expressed won’t stay repressed, won’t rest until we find a way to say out loud what lies within our still breathing, beating breast – grieving and weeping to attest to the love we feel even now though we can no longer confess that love to the one we miss but nevertheless can’t stop but manifest in our words, our deeds and indeed in our tears

- staining our chest where once we held them close and long to hold them once again.

The ready empathy took me by surprise.
She took precise aim with her eyes
And pierced my worn armour
With ease,
Slowly and calmly
Drawing out my story
With her tears
Diluting my grief with her kindness
Lightening the weight with each smile
Beneath the spring blossom.

To be as grounded as a kite,
dancing wild in the wind,
eyes on the sky,
but secure in my roots,
in my tether
to excited, nimble hands.

My bones don't fit anymore
My hair grows heavy
Bearing down on my neck
Like a vice.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings
While my ears are consumed in flame.

But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.

REDRAFT:
My bones don't fit anymore
My hair infuriates
Growing wild with rebellion
My eyes fill at the slightest provocation
While my ears are consumed in flame.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings seeking flight.

But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.

It's about GROWTH.
It's about what type of fruit
inevitability grows.
But you don't get to pick and choose,
you don't get to specialise -
You can't specify your choice of variety,
no, it's a job-lot, in its entirety.
But don't get stressed,
it's not about yield or performance,
it's not a contest.
It's about the kind of person you express,
the flavour of person folk taste
when you're most hard pressed.
It's about the fruit of God's Spirit,
the overflowing character of Jesus.
But don't fret,
don't boast -
it's about
GROWTH.

The testimony of grey hair
supported by statements
from notable strands
on both earlobes
and more hair on my face
than on my head
are proof enough
that with great age
comes great capillaries

Countless paths
Alternative routes
Only one guide
can see you through.

I will take joy in my sadness
I will make praise in my complaint
I will walk tall as I stumble
And stand firm even as I faint

I see death rise around me
sickness renews its attack
But while you remain my saviour
There’s nothing that I lack

You're the light in my cold darkness
You're the song in my despair
You're the peace in this chaos
You're the answer to my prayer

So I’ll confess my allegiance
I will shout your name with pride
I will take joy in my salvation
and climb with you, my guide

We met halfway
we exchanged stories
of paths trodden
and, so encouraged,
we parted,
we moved on
to complete our journey

A loving dog is an unmatched prize
unconditional devotion and unrivaled joy
highest pleasure in the smallest of treats
persistence with (ocassional) fearlessness

unmatched energy for short car rides
turning inside out in excess excitement
highest stretch for meat thought beyond reach
rarely without a glorious itch

A loving dog is an unmatched prize
and our loss unmatched at this, our last goodbye.

Poetry can hand me
a hand rail for the steps down,
can steady me for the unexplored depths.

Poetry can hand me confidence
that I am not alone
that there are words
gifting markers of hope
leading me back to the surface
should I choose it.

Like an urgent *** on a winter's day
Like an expelled guffaw as I turn away
Like a released church **** as I say the amen
Like a line of poetry as I reach for a pen
Like the first slice of steak from a full warm plate
Like a longed for kiss at the close of our date.

That's the pleasure I feel with you on the phone:
The hope, the promise, of soon being home.

The truth and power
of our faith
hangs on the cross,
on the height of sacrifice
on the lengths and depths
Christ was willing to go
from holy conception
to physical resurrection
from passover supper
to Emmaus meal
to fish on the beach
to the promise of a feast
at his Father's high table.

The truth on which we stand
hangs on God made man
and on us made new
all due to our LORD Jesus Christ,
God's Son, our Saviour,
our once and for all time
holy, acceptable sacrifice.

The truth and power
of our faith
hangs on His cross.

The angel's nose is in the dirt.
His sacrifice apparently saving us to our grief.
He lies there broken for us, prayerfully still,
there for the sake of the children,
for the sake of decorum,
protecting us from the accidental,
from the potential risk of an angelic fall
crushing the griever as they stoop
to place their flowers.

My sister chose the flower arrangement
from the top table of her daughter's wedding
where the fallen should have been
and perhaps could have stood
giving a heart-felt and gently humorous speech,
offered a toast to beauty and happiness,
but instead lies emotionless

in the dirt.

Somethings last longer when kept in cool dry places
and I for one have found the perfect resting place,
surrounded by plenty of taken up shelf space
where I can store up my strength, and sit contented
in this inspired, quiet space, amongst the bookcases
where we are encouraged to slow our pace
in the long-lasting embrace of Carnegie’s generous bequest.

Yes, we’re blessed with quiet, at least for the most part,
apart from the softly voiced query and help at the desk,
apart from the dad reading aloud and reading time’s louder address
to cross legged, momentarily suppressed younger guests.

It’s quiet apart from the regular swish of the obliging doorway
swinging wide its welcome followed by
the vital wipe of wet feet on the new red mat,
punctuated by the unsnapping of buggy straps
and empathetic mum to mum picked-up-from-last-time chats.

It’s quiet apart from the regular slap of scrabble tiles,
clicking knitting needles
and the long considered placing of a jigsaw piece
accompanied by a contented creak
of a chair as someone adjusts a numbing *** cheek.

It’s quiet apart from the buzz of book clubs and poetry recitals
exchanging much treasured lines and long loved titles.
It’s quiet apart from the beep of books returned or issued out
under the arms of rested readers, no doubt
heading home to their own cool dry places,
reading lamps and carefully positioned comfy chairs.

It’s quiet apart from the spoken thankfulness of readers young and old,
each enjoying spending time within the fold
of this, our beloved Hanwell Community Library.

It's easy to be distracted
by each distruction of the past
It's harder to stay focused
on the fight of tomorrow