King’s cross Costa haikus

Man on his way up
Red backpack, optimism
Good luck fancy suit.

Tackling the world one
Street at a time, time to fly
King’s Cross to the world.

Miss Peregrine’s home
Passing bus full of people
To homes of their own

Secret agent man
Working for fashion police
Dude is crazy lean.

So cute matching coats
Father and son, twinsy teal
Sports team cheer squad Dad.

Number one-forty
Same gray door as the neighbor
Door one-forty-two.

Laughter with dear friends
This is what Costa is for,
Writing track for life.

Dumpster standing guard
What are you hiding, green man?
World’s greatest bouncer.

Blue rims on doorways
Window panes split like swatches
What color inside?

Full grown scooter man
Rockin’ that yellow gold shirt
Ankle flip of joy.

My dear friend Desters,
Laughing across the distance,
Makes me smile inside.

Elegant Courtney,
Silver rings and fashion sense,
Beauty in and out.

Bread on the mailbox,
Why are you just sitting there?
London at its best.

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The father king

Thigh-high strands of grass part before a pale pink foot, mice and voles scattering as soles fly over the ground, bent on the sky. Arms spread like eagle’s wings flick through the swishing towers, the delighted peal of laughter ringing out through her twisting wake. Corkscrewing through the field, a girl—a daughter—chases dreams, her loving Father behind and before her. Tumbling to the ground, the grass bends beneath her, catching her as she goes and springing back as she leaves. Rolling to a stop, her Father finds her, bending low in the grass to kiss her forehead, her cheeks. Laughing, she grabs his face, pulls him closer, hugs his neck. Lifting her in his arms, he starts to spin, her legs flinging out behind her with no fear of him letting go. Falling to the earth himself, he catches her with his chest, deep, resounding laughter booming out of his lungs and into hers. Snuggling into his neck, his arm, he feels the soft touch of her hair, the sweet smell of the long, thin strands. He watches what he has made, what he has planned come to fruition, and holds her hands as she leans on his chest, full of wonder at what he’s created, her smile as she watches the world.

“Papa,” she says, smiling, and turns her bright eyes upon him.

“Yes, daughter?” he asks.

“You’re never going to let me go, right?”

Her smile grows as she asks, confident of his answer.

“No, I won’t,” he tells her, and she smiles again, confirmed in her belief.

Nestling down next to his side, she wraps thin arms around him, unable to fully reach and squeezing hard.

“I love you, Papa,” she murmurs, and her voice folds towards sleep.

“I love you too,” he says. “More than you’ll ever now.”

By then she’s already asleep, but he holds her all the same. Basking in her love and sunshine, he lets out the yawning laugh of a lion and closes his eyes, heart swelling to forever.

“I’ll never leave you,” he says quietly, pressing a cheek to her hair. “I will always be here for you. I will always be here.”

And beyond all reason, all sad stories and sorry endings, he always is.

A Brighton morning

Sunlight streamed in from between the tops of the houses, kissing the cool pavement and calling it into warmth with caressing beams. Grass, chill with dew and ripe with pale greens and yellows, waited in expectant shadow, watching the sun’s unyielding march towards its peak while taller stalks bobbed with the weight of their seeds.

Up the street, small children wrapped in skirts, slacks and polos threw dress-shoed feet like dice on the fading sidewalk, clucking mothers and black canvas buggies trailing behind with skittering wheels and wide-spread wings. Bony-fingered women and rounded men watched the world coming to life from the cool hollows of their front-door awnings, tapping off their ashes into dirty white bowls while forest fauna stood guard from the garden posts. Small white dogs and indifferent cats twined in behind lace curtains, plugging in in their own small way to the world beyond their glass. Behind brick walls, seas of shale waited, carefully tended and ready for the ripples of children, street cats, at night the occasional fox.

Beyond their borders, rivulets of green sprang unprovoked from the sidewalks, shoring up against litter and beer stains, bearing the weight of careless sneakers and still choosing to fight.

High above, casting white seeds, seagulls wheeled, riding salt air currents on strange orbits above their homes. Crying the hour, food, alarms, they squealed like clamoring children, huddling together at last when exhausted, at peace, on splattered roofs, the horizon too far to reach. Fenced in on all sides by ocean and chimneys, low mountains of soot-darkened fog, they gathered in small white clusters, gazing up with shiny black eyes at the great blue orb of the cloudless sky.

Cawing out deep breaths of sea air, then whispering in their own small tongues, they all agreed together that Brighton was not such a bad place to land, that here they could have rest.

Purpose

What is your purpose?

It’s a curious question. A difficult question.

I’m told it’s not a destination, a process instead of a product.

But what does that really mean, and when I’m called to do ministry, called to call others, how does such a thing translate? How can something so broken, so in-progress be of such use?

When I ask the question, when I seek the answer, I see God provide. To be a mirror, to showcase progress, to reveal His heart the best that I can.

It doesn’t necessarily look like a novel, a blog or a short story. It might come through a poem, a description, a word or phrase. It’s wounds brought to light, wounds that are healing, blessed, beautiful rest. It’s peace and prosperity, perseverance, broken worries, fears laid to rest. It’s free gifts from the Father, the blood of His son, His Spirit’s hand.

It’s hard to wrap my heart and head around it, and I’m not sure I will until this is all done, but I do know that God will provide, even when I don’t understand. He will make my purpose clear as I draw near, and keep me close as I call on His name.

If purpose is a process, I’m well on the road.

Thank you God for your purposes, and that even if I don’t, You know what they are.

Brighton

When I was told I was going to Brighton,
I was told it would be gloomy.
I was told it would be cold,
I was told it would be hard.

But that’s not what God says about Brighton.
He says it is vibrant.

The grass is greener in Brighton,
The people more likely to return a friendly hello.
The sun shines brighter in Brighton too,
And the sea plays on the rocks,
Shushing out with tree-filled whispers,
As He calls us into the sun.

The sky is blue in Brighton,
The clouds dance in the sky.
Depression might have a temporary hold,
Identities lost, the search so deep,
But there is light in Brighton,
And hope reigns in the skies.

The son sings life in Brighton,
He calls out to the lost.

The son sing life in Brighton,
Come, answer His call.