Crowdfunding ‘Verses for the King’


 FUND ME NOWVerses for the KingI have now officially started crowdfunding for the publishing of ‘Verses for the King’. It will be published by ‘Vineyard International Publishing’,I need to raise 50% of the funds. Please go over to www. PledgeMe and donate towards this project or buy a book. There are all kinds of cool rewards, including an eBook version and swanky little badges for your backpack.

Click here to donate or buy a copy.

Verses for the King

‘Verses for the King’ is a worship poetry book for anyone who likes to explore or engage with God. Its author, Kelvin Fowler, is a New Zealander who has lived in countries as diverse as the Philippines, Scotland and Mexico. He is currently a Vineyard pastor in Klaipėda, Lithuania.

This book draws us to God, who creates beauty out of despair; fathers orphans and meets us in special places. Kelvin’s passion for disadvantaged people and life in the ‘now and not yet’ shine through, bringing us face to face with a living Jesus.

Publisher: Vineyard International Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9870175-6-7

The Man at The Well

God in his compassion
lowered himself
to the heights
of humanity
and became one of us

Fully God
yet fully us
God with us

The winds of change
storming in the north
led a prophet
a lonely prophet
to utter an edict

A sign will come
a sign from God
a sign that will be God
a sign

A royal bairn will be birthed
from the belly of a virgin
the sign will have a name
that name will be Immanuel

And God came to us
God in his Glory
Jesus the son
humanity in her infancy

He came into the world
the world did not recognise him
he came for his own
yet his own did not recognise him

He was a tender shoot
in dry ground
like a reed
waiting to be broken
justice being
led to victory
God with us

An age passing
an epoch folding
as heaven
intersected earth
in the form of an infant

From the throne of his cradle
with the government
upon his shoulders
our prince of peace
changed everything

He ushered the coming kingdom
the not yet
into the now
the curtain ripped
the laws of old
fell from the heights of old
and landed squarely
in the temple
the temple of our hearts

He made us holy
bore our suffering
separating our sin
like the sunrise from the sunset
and crowned us with
love and mercy

His pierced skin
delivered glorious healing
from an unjust punishment
that set us free
brought us peace
and bought us salvation
from an everlasting father
and mighty God

He trawled the depths of humanity
set captives free
and rose from his suffering
returned from the hearth of hell
to the hearth of intercession
the abode of angels
and the cathedra of his father

But the altar is smashed
in the now
between what was
and what will be
he is God with us
our wonderful counsellor

Fully human
fully understanding our humanness
honoured with a broken body
in our brokenness
yet complete
to bring our completeness
he is God with us

We are not abandoned
to our coming graves
with his proclamation
on his thighs
the lord of lords
on his cloud of glory
will ride the skies
and finally
every knee will bow
and every tongue
will worship
our king
of kings

The one who was and who is
the infant in the manger
the boy in the temple
the man at the well
and the glorious
prince hanging on a wretched cross

Jesus the Christ
God With Us

it is mine

it is mine is published in ‘The Kiwi Diary 2013‘.

Cover art by Lauren Stewart.


it is mine

filtered Otago light
gently criss-crosses my face
as I amble beneath black beech
singing songs to riflemen
wafting words upon the breeze
from a carpet of moss and mulch
that embraces my feet
with the security of the
land of my birth
i am home
i am Kiwi
and this mud
between my toes
it is mine


Standing, shouting
wind and salt spray
sun burning, blistering lips
dodging mud
dinting aluminium
on the roof of our old Landy

salt ‘n peppered with dust and dirt
bleeding sauce
entrailing abattoir scraps
perched perilously upon a popsicle stick

grunt, muscle, noise
engines revving, accelerating
braking, sideways, blipping
loud speakers, flags
and spectacular crashes

all in a day
of a boy and his hot-dog
at the speedway


Speedway is part of my collection of poetry that just aint good enough for competitions or publication in literary journals. However I would still like to share it with you.

Her Journey

In horror she watched
her drunken mother
tumble to her end
and in horror
she read
of her drunken father’s death
ten years institutionalised
and craving the honour
of being treated
as if someone cares for her,
that is her life

cast into the shadows of school
to be tolerated not taught
a bad one, an orphanage kid
drowning in a system
that refuses to acknowledge
her existence

slowly sinking
into the claws of poverty
its talons around her throat
quenching her pain
with the spirits of addiction
until death shares her bed
hopelessness in a hopeless situation

what wells will she draw upon
to extinguish the fires of her hell
what strength will she find to aid
her buckling legs
and whose cloak is wide enough
to cover her despair.

She recognises love
through a fading memory
but has managed to
grab his finger tips
his warmth
permeates her tender body
blocked wells begin to flow

with the little faith she has
she tosses her anchor
from the pits of her confusion
into the waters of her rescuer
and washes her feet
in the river of life
dry bones dance
as the orphan is adopted
hope from hopelessness
for a tethered soul
as the King of Glory
reaches down
and gathers her up
in His redeeming arms

his tears roll down her cheeks
as he washes her scars with his blood
together they rejoice
he in her victory
and she in his radiance

holding his hand
she skips by his side
honoured to be cared for
and allowing her poverty
to drown in the acknowledgement
of his existence.

She sleeps in the light
dreams of her father
and wakes at the beginning
of her uncertain journey

incense rise
angels delight
as our sweet new bride
enters his body
and walks the narrow path
her future is uncertain
the way is wrought with danger
but in the privacy of her mind
she finds peace

her worship
is her smile.

Smoke Filled Basement

Ash trays and beer mugs
fire trap, smoke filled basement
jazz piano and double bass

Hot humid summer night
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Sydney Opera house and bridge

Hernandez late night coffee
Ethiopian Vienna
amongst taxi drivers and pimps

Driving in your Corolla
leafy Eastern Suburbs
chewing the breeze

Governors, Dunners
reminiscing, looking forward
relaxing, enjoying

Peter this is how I remember you
your stupid dinosaur
and corny smile

God I have a question
they tell me he will die, today or tomorrow
stupid, spiteful, stinkin’ leukaemia

I know the times
the eschatological tension
the kingdom now but not yet

I know you have given
I know you take away
your name will be praised

But I still have a question
a little question
a big question

Selfishly God
he is my friend
and this really hurts

the question I have
is simply

Why God?
Why? Why? Why?


~3rd Place Editor’s Choice Award

Worship in Victory

Worship in Victory

I will worship in the face of injustice
I will worship ’cause He is worthy

Worship when the children are hungry
Worship when the orphans are crying
Worship when the addicts are dying

I will worship in the face of injustice
‘Cause He alone is worthy

I will worship when the widow is lonely
I will worship when the single mum is alone
I will worship when the disabled struggle

I will worship in the face of injustice
I will worship in the face of the enemy
‘Cause the Lord Almighty alone is worthy

He spreads His wings and covers me
Protects me with His right hand
He leads justice to victory
Feeds the hungry
Fathers the orphans
Gives life to the addicts
Comforts the widows
Empowers the single mum
And enables the disabled

I will dance in the face of injustice
‘Cause the Lord Almighty brings justice to victory
And He alone is worthy

I will dance
I will worship
I will twirl

And God will bring justice to victory

Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

To read more poetry click here.

Worship in Victory has been published in ‘a church for others’ at ‘FaithWriters’ and in ‘Journezine’

Working Dad

As the sun goes down upon another tired summer’s day
that lonely hour after the kids have gone to bed
and before stumbling drunks fall chasing other people’s dreams
I quietly ride the bus though fading streets
allowing jazz to permeate the solitude of my thoughts.
Bee-bop a bee-bow-bop.

Reluctantly through necessity I trade my asylum
for a factory where morn, noon and night
classic rock blares under fluorescent tubes
and loo paper conveys along mile after mile
of concrete floor and ragged dreamless men.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

With soulless cardboard box in hand I take my place
amongst an ocean of well meaning, forever-changing paper
and with a mechanical stroke of my hand I callously judge:
rejects to the floor, quality to the middle-classes;
thus emulating decisions that keep darkening my dreams.
Swish-whoosh-thud, swish-whoosh-thud.

Whistle blows, neon eyes greet morning skies
with buds in ears, the morning news embraces my slow commute
from a bevy of broken tired men trying to earn their weekend dreams
to the lingering sound of a loved working mum and our beautiful kids
who, innocently pursuing a better future, have just left for school.
Pitta-patta, pitta-patta.


~2nd Place Editor’s Choice Award

Too Many Years

She’s tired
too many years
wars and wars and so called freedom
wearing and wearing her out

Pain etched lines across her face
lost loved ones
alcoholics and children
ravaged by life

Pork grease and dirt warmly embrace her
garlic and salami
sing with her sweat
songs of isolation dancing in loneliness

Prolonged survival hardness
elbows her way down the trolley-bus
she stands, stares and glares without seeing
refusing comfort and seats alike

she won’t sit down
because if she did
her pockets would relieve themselves
of her boss’s cutlery