God came in three –
they set aside time and space
for collaborative creativity

God came in three -
and in that 'us', 'our' and 'we'
they metaphor’d mutuality

God came in three -
advocated once and for all
a celebration of plurality

God came in three -
illustrated that all families
are a godly thingamy

God came in three -
they invited us, you and me
to join them for eternity

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.

I miss my little brother. Especially at harvest. He was a hard worker – strong back and long reach. The kind of brother you want around.

‘Course, there was much more to him than strength and size. His art demonstrates that. He used to love experimenting with oils in his down time and had a knack for vivid battle scenes.

They say you paint what you know and not a year went by when he wasn’t called up for service. They would come to the farm to say the king needed him, and there was no refusing that call.

What he saw on the front line haunted him. So much was expected of him of course, but I think we overestimated his ability to cope with the ordeal of combat. Folk mistook his stature for a propensity for violence that needed release. We knew different. He was happier in the fields.  

I heard dad talking with him while he painted. It was clear my brother knew the value of a champion. The lives saved. The men who got to go back to their farms and families. The gods had gifted him, dad said. But when I see his canvases, that’s where I see the gift. Lasting reminders of the trauma that lesser men can wrought. Reminders of the suffering one man can save us from.

I miss Goliath.

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.

Isn't it unfair? I mean,
why does your heart grow back bigger?
I mean, it grows - why? Experience?
Is it a version of 'what doesn't **** you,' etc.
Is it cos it gets stretched to breaking point?
Or maybe it's more like how water
expands when frozen
(that makes no sense, ignore that last bit.)
But your heart does seem to grow
back after a while, and it feels bigger.
Or maybe it just feels emptier
because it got used to being so full.
Anyhow, I'm left with this bloated heart.
So, I'll keep writing,
hoping to keep the excess in check.  
Or at least it'll give it a workout.
Till it has something better to do.

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

I can't speak for the others.
I can only reflect on my own thoughts and the heat of my own discomfort.
I can't speak for the African woman who wept beside her oversized suitcases on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, I can only consider her tears and what they did to my own heartache.
I didn't speak, but I reached over after several minutes of communal silence and placed a man-sized tissue (clean and unused) on her lap.
Before I was back in my seat, she had taken it and covered her face in her grief and the tears came again.
The grandmother across from me got up next and placed a red stripped mint in a twist of cellophane on the woman's skirt.
The dad who stood in the doorway, like he was dressed for the beach, followed, leaving an offering of a capri-sun.
The child in the buggy looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragement to him as he offered his Spider-Man, pressing it to the woman's hand.
And as she unveiled her face and saw the offerings, she laughed, brief and wet, but with a smile that stayed. She hugged Spider-Man, nodded and then with a mother's sensibility to a child's needs, handed it back with thanks.
After a moment she found my eyes, and mimed a request for a fresh tissue and then in the silence she settled for her journey as we all looked away, dutifully silent.

I can't speak for the others
I can only reflect on my own thoughts and the heat of discomfort.

I can't speak for the woman who wept beside her oversized suitcases on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, I can only consider her tears and what they did to my own heartache.

I didn't speak, but I reached over after several minutes of communal silence and placed a tissue (clean and unused) on her lap.  Before I was back in my seat, she had taken it and covered her face in her grief and the tears came again.

The grandmother across from me got up next and placed a red stripped mint on the woman's skirt.

The dad who stood in the doorway, dressed for the beach, followed, leaving an offering of a capri-sun.

The child in the pram looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragement to him, as he offered his Spider-Man, pressing it to the woman's hand

and as she unveiled her face and saw the offerings, she laughed, brief and wet, but with a smile that stayed.  She hugged Spider-Man, nodded and then with a sensibility to a child's needs, handed it back with thanks.

After a moment she found my eyes, and mimed a request for a fresh tissue and then in the silence she settled for her journey as we all looked away, dutifully silent.

I realised with momentary surprise
  that my mirror was stuck back
  in 1985
back when I knew I knew how to smile
  and believed in my peculiar sense of style
back when my lower back was furthest from my thoughts
  and I thought my hair was the peak of good looks.

My now flipped face frowned at the trick of time
and at my lesser hair’s climb
  down,
bringing myself back to my present face
  and to continue with my routine head shave.

You can't heal under a mask
Wounds need air
So do secrets
Both are hard to hide

Listen -

no matter how impregnable
how tall the border wall
how faint their call
no matter how great the chasm
between you and them
between your point of view
between your world view
and where they have taken their pew

- Listen

don't write them off as blinkered
as closed minded, as none-so-blind
don't assume you're the more
twenty-twenty vision kind

- Listen

don't shame them or be all too ready to belittle them
don't be dismissive of them with no respect for them
and for what has led them and theirs
to their honestly held position

- Listen

assume their good faith and in a space that's safe
assume a position of good natured
mutual consideration and seek mutual revelation
of God-given wisdom

-Listen

And as you clear that common ground
you are bound to build a safer compound
a creator-shared hallowed ground
where the heard are found
while bound for wisdom –

together.

The bigger my heart,
the greater my capacity for hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I need to think.

Not looking back to see
You not looking back at me,
Knowing a sinking feeling
And that this time
It's really good bye then.
Not on a break, but a divorcee.
Not a "let's see", but a "smell the coffee".
Time to walk away and turn a corner,
Time to deep dive in this sea once more.

The bigger my heart,
the greater my capacity for hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I need to think.

The greater my reach
the more grounding I need.

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

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the more my heart weeps.

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold.
He stirs in me
in more ways than one, wonder.
I gaze into his face
and I can gauge his grace
in the way his body moves
with mine and by how
he embraces me bone and soul.
His gentle, generous whispers
infuse within me as he strokes
my spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed
in gifted innocence as I’m sated
by his thick milk and the sweet fruit of his vine.
- - Together, we sway
to slow angel-song
and he tutors me in timeless arts,
teaching me sweeping steps
and arousing in me
ancient senses. 
And so, hand in hand
I’m released,
liberated to know him
and to run with him
and to dance in step
- for – an - eternity.

When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.

I am not as you see me now:
booted, colour coded, weighted down by disinfectant and toilet rolls,
sweeping, mopping, bringing cleansing, facilitating,
helping others meet God ...

- oh, so I guess I am

- I am how you see me:
serving, pushing my way right to the back, preferring others
and finding Jesus there, with his blue gloves and apron,
ready to pick up and sweep up, refill and mop up
whatever is left behind

and ever-ready to pick up and refill
whoever finds themselves left behind

We're heavenly hosts for Jesus
and you'll find us where you need us.  
At the back.

'I hear the Father say,

"Your patience indeed is shallow
- but my restive child, rest and pray,
find in me your refuge,
I am all you need today."

The Lord is harbour. He is anchor.
And once this season passes,
once the channels open
He will be our compass

and we will sail.'

After a while they tell us.
We're being held at a signal.
But being held doesn’t feel like this.
When I'm held
I feel warmth.
I feel connection.

Here I feel placed on hold.
I feel a coldness, distance.

I'll wait for a fresh signal.

[written with Isaac Cornford. Thanks mate.]

He loves me because he loves me
He loves me because he can
He loves me because he chose me
He loves me - that’s his plan

It’s always his plan to love me
To cast out all my fears
His love will always surround me
He loves when no one’s near

He loves me most and loves you more
His love will never run out
His love is true and gets truer
His love is never in doubt

His love is nothing that we’ve earned
It’s nothing we deserve
His love’s a perfect gift to us
A gift we can return