Samarian oil
Samarian wine
On open Judean wounds
Bound by a Samaritan's hands
Never felt so good,
A salve to the national shame
Burning through the traveler's head.

Can there be intimacy without proximity?
Empathy without vicinity ?

Can we live without touch,
keeping brothers out peripherally?

No, that path only leads deceivingly
further into living life more miserably

So rather than espousing self-sufficiency
let's discuss band of brotherly

A brother unity that unconditionally
maintains a mature masculinity

A unity revealing a core fragility,
yes - a humility that risks indignity

I'm talking about an increasing capacity
a growling capability
for actual manual connectivity

I'm calling for a comprehensive solidarity
that embraces fierce timidity

You see I stand against living artificially
I'm all for living purposely

Yes, I'm here loudly
Campaigning
Against anyone
Living
Miserably

When I kick the bucket
I want it to be proper rusted,
zinc exposing steel.

When I kick the bucket
I want it recognisably mine,
a signature rattle.

When I kick the bucket
I want it made into a planter.
I want my bucket to bloom.

Mum was never happier
Than when supping tea with friends
Sharing well worn wisdom
Seen through a mother's lens

I can't deny I was a teary child
And when mum heard me sobbing
She'd make dash, be there in a flash
And smother me with hugging

Mum'd appear when needed most
She had a mother's sonar
A way of sensing where and when
We would really need her

Mum had a knack of persuading dad
That it really would be best
To not shout, to let me be
And let me stay half dressed

Mum would know where to find me
When it was time for tea
And it was worth being found
Not staying an absentee

Fish fingers at least once a week
Followed by artic roll
Bangers and mash, bubble and sqweak
Don't expect a finger bowl

Mum made each birthday special
She knew how to stretch the budget
She'd sit each month with my dad
And work out how to fudge it

I wouldn't be this man today
If it wasn't for my mum
Her care and warmth, her smile and love
Gave me my foundation

So this mother's day let me say
If your mum is still around
Make sure she knows down to her toes
Just how much she's loved.

"Steve" is a diamond geezer
"Stevie" can do no wrong
"Stephen" is in real trouble
But they all just want to get along

So whatever you think of him
Whenever he comes into sight
He'll give you a hug and he'll buy you a drink
And you'll be in for a heck of a night

A quote from a lovely movie, Lean on Pete:
"The nightmares are going to get better. They might not go away completely, but they're going to get better the more good times you have. And we're going to have good times, Charlie.  I promise."

I carry my bags beneath
my no longer baby blues,
partly framed
and closer to grey

The bags darken with their weight
and they unwittingly pull
the eye down
from the splayed crows feet

I carry my bags

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Whether you know it or not
There're those who look to you
Give them something worth seeing
Something honest and true

All of us carry our scars
Some costly, all hard earned
Don't waste the sweat and tears
Share the lessons you've learned.

We've all got younger brothers
We've all got younger sisters
Take some time to walk with them
Shake off the doubt that hinders

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Her's is a heart beat of hope
Hesitant but defiant
Faint but climbing
Gaining a higher hold
Gasping for deeper breath
Crawling into life
Into new born surprise
Shocked lungs shooting cries
Generating joy-deep sighs
From two families
For life

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.

The red folk and the purple people were distinctive in their hue.  In contrast, the Set Up bunch were chameleon, and to the casual observer they could pass for members of the congregation. That was by design, to be known only by their levite nature, their early arrival and late departure and (if you looked closely) by their hands.
The early bunch had remarkable hands. They were strikingly ready and willing, and could be turned to a wide variety of tasks.
They could never be described as specialist, and would never wish to be.  Their true specialty, if they have one, is only to be quick to serve and never draw attention to themselves.  
If they were ever persuaded to wear team tee shirts, they would have 'Ninja' brazoned across the back.  And that would be kinda cool.

"I'll leave you all the weapons for that",
Pat smiled and perched the two too-tall cinnamon buns
down beside me on the windowsill,
as promised fully armed with knife, fork and serviette

I entered the fray and caught the eye of the postman
as he fought with his cart along the too narrow,
not-quite-cobbled path, slick with rain,
and then he nodded and gave way
to the guy in the slow sports wheelchair

while the young mum on low reserves
wrestled with her twin girls
up past the town hall and gallery,
perhaps with the promise of grandma's cookies

- all this while Jill's coffee brewed patiently alongside the buns
as she and Deb re-ran long laughter of past adventures
and plotted paths to future endevours.

Welcome to the pharmacy, for poetry.

Before you take up your blade, Sharon
who do you see?
Will you be cutting to heal
or incising to free
some carefully hidden,
some up-til-now unbidden me?

When you take up your blade
and test the fresh edge
do you have an image of a me
fixed in your head?
Can you see in your mind
a kinda-me roughly out sketched?

When you make your first cut
do you have a clear vision
of what I'll reveal
have you made your decision
as you press down and carefully cleave
with loving conceiving precision?

When you lay your blade down
do you see I've appeared?
Do you know I'm complete
when the excess is cleared?
Or when you sleep do you wonder
whether there's a less of a me
maybe a more of a me
silently waiting here?

Blessed are the frustrated
For they know this life is defective
Blessed are those who resist
For they know that they await a liberator
Blessed are the impatient
For they have their sights on freedom
Blessed are those who live in hope
For they will not be thwarted
Blessed are the dissatisfied
For they know this is but a pale reflection
And blessed are those who
Despite the fight on their hands
Despite the yearning on their lips
Despite the ache in their hearts
They reach out in love
They speak in peace
They bring hope to others
For with such as these God's Spirit rests.

"Remember your eights,"
He grandly announced,
Intently surveying his interns.
"If your work appears beyond you
Negotiate,
Delegate
Or work late."

I stared rabbit-eyed,
Stunned by his smug, well-worn rhyme,
As I saw my evenings fade away
Knowing which of my numbers was up.

I watch the rush of our trees,
their impatience,
their hurry ignoring seasons
running full pelt at growth
and fast forwarding their budding,
their fruit bearing,
in good time to take advantage
of the recent resurgence in the 5-a-day.

I watch and blink.

Some things I will not say
I will not form those words
Lest they be heard
Lest they be believed
and the truth of self
be known.

No, some things I will not say
I'll keep their silence
Keep my distance
and stay quiet
safe on this side
of my deceit.

If we conceive of a deity
captured perfectly
within our trim theology,
we fool ourselves.

He's true to his word,
but too big for a book
that fits in our human hands.

When the Spirit's around
- that's the third of the Three -
He regularly raises
fresh questions for me:

The sought and the seeker
the truth and the teacher
the help and the helper
the gift and the giver?

The breath and the voice
the chooser, the choice
the anointer, the oil
the peace and turmoil?

The joy and the cries
always there to baptise
the bearer of fruit
with fresh gifts to boot?

As wild as the wind
He'll breeze where He will
I've tried to contain Him
but He won't remain still.

I won't ever define Him
or assign Him a lable
just accept He's my God
and that my God is able

to be true to His Word
while resisting defining
He'll still leave me questions
but that's not surprising.

He kicked off creation
was around from the start
and I'm just the latest
to play my small part.

I am a man
a man who writes poetry
that’s who I am.

Do you see?
Do you see what I see?
A different world
A gift of the future
where promise lies in a whisper
forever
for whoever sees.

I'm not talking frenzy
I'm not feeling fury
Although it's not fiery
I'm still feeling angry

Its root's in frustration
a hidden foundation
of deep indignation
from silent vexation

I need a new outlet
to offset this upset
Something to attack
to reset my mindset

So while poetry is helping
to sort out my feelings
I'll punch out my raging
as part of my healing

No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,

not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,

a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.

Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.

The most Holy Spirit.

I met a bold painter
With no brush to his name
He held up his stylus
And happily explained
It's all about screen time
It's what you install
It's the choice of the subject
And this one is bald.

By Steve Turner.

Christmas is really 
for the children. 
Especially for children 
who like animals, stables, 
stars and babies wrapped 
in swaddling clothes. 
Then there are wise men, 
kings in fine robes, 
humble shepherds and a 
hint of rich perfume. 

Easter is not really 
for the children 
unless accompanied by 
a cream filled egg. 
It has whips, blood, nails, 
a spear and allegations 
of body snatching. 
It involves politics, God 
and the sins of the world. 
It is not good for people 
of a nervous disposition. 
They would do better to 
think on rabbits, chickens 
and the first snowdrop 
of spring. 

Or they'd do better to 
wait for a re-run of 
Christmas without asking 
too many questions about 
what Jesus did when he grew up 
or whether there's any connection

(Voice of the Swan by Eric Idle from Monty Python.)

Don't you ignore me,
I could break your arm you know.
I could cut you down with a well placed puncture wound.
I've got important friends, oh yes,
I'M protected by royal statute.
Oh, I see, NOW I have your attention.
NOW you're taking notice.
Well, just you listen,
you might get away with your cheek with those common Mallards,
but don't think it will wash with me.
Now, give me some of that there cake
and perhaps I'll leave you be.

I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.

The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.

- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse

The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.

The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley

to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave

- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.

Next time we meet we'll be dancing.
Callous cancer stole so much,
But not your beauty,
Not your love,
Not your name written in the Book of Life.

Next time we'll be dancing.
We'll have forgotten our tears,
Our anguish,
Our defenceless clenched fists,
Beside the silent plastic bed.

Next time
We'll be too distracted by wonder
To recall any of this.
We'll be too busy dancing.
See on the dance floor, Lorraine.

And when you BLESS
Be prayerful,
careful to be mindful
that God's presence is vital
if actions are to be blessful.

And when you bless
Listen,
just stopping and sitting
signals that you're willing
to be hearing
while your tongue stays stilling.

And when you bless
Eat,
yes feast over several courses,
invest is slower morsels,
be someone who pauses
to hear other people's stories.

And when you bless
Serve,
and not just in church,
but with imaginative verve
serve all of your neighbours
even those who are homeless.

And when you bless
Share,
yes dare to bare
a little of your story,
more of the messy history
that brought you here.

And, less you think
that you might have impressed,
be mindful that
we all put on our pants
one leg at a time
when we're each getting dressed, yes
we all equally need
God's ever forgiving kiss
so with no eye on who's looking
- just BLESS.

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.

'There's yogurt in the fridge.'
There's always strawberry yogurt
in the fridge.
When all else is lost
there's speckled bananas,
there's stale rich teas
and there's week-old,
****,
pale pink
yogurt in my fridge.

I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
- But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is truly God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last line of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.

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.

I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
The right level of access.
I'll live in the past with my friend regret
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang
With more than enough to secure
Familiar safe harbour.
Or perhaps to suspend belief from high hopes
Long enough to cast adrift
With just the ever present wind to give direction.

Draft #2
I don't believe you,
That I can't change the past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more.
I'll harbour in the past with my friend, regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to hope misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang,
With more than enough to fasten
To that familiar safe haven
And one day I'll suspend my belief from high hopes,
Forlorn and cast adrift
With a tried and true ill wind to give direction
And find safe pasture.

Draft #3
I don't believe you,
That I can't change my past.
I believe that I only need
To dwell on it a little more
And so prise it open.
I'll shelter with my old friend,
Regret,
Refusing to venture further future.
I'll cling to a hope that I misplaced long ago 
With almost enough rope to hang from,
With more than enough to fasten myself
To that familiar safe haven.
And one day I'll suspend my belief
From high hopes, forlorn and cast adrift,
With my tried and tested ill wind
That will direct me and will find me
a well worn safe past and safe pasture.

Within the long Selah,
deep in the chasm of the pause,
His words sink,
seep,
down into the cracks,
into the gaps
and salves where bitter words
were once rooted
and grew to sprout a harvest
of self recriminations
to the third and fourth generation.

Within the long Selah,
in that cleft
his seed begins
a fresh sowing
and leaves new promise
of a fresh crop
of sweeter fruit.

Ignore the lyrics:
You can't pursue love.
You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or had;
it's a doing word that you both have to work at.
Love is a language expressed in deeds
and so clear expression of your love best succeeds when you both discover what the other most dearly needs.
So spend time planting daily deeds of love, every one a fragile seed.

Continue to listen day and night
and learn what each other prefers and what you both like.
And then, when you get it right
you'll be answered by a unmistakable light in their wide glistening eyes.
-
Do it on a date.
Do it with your mates.
Do it when you're tired and it's heavy eyed late.
Do it in the everyday mundane way
you pair your own socks
and clear away last night's takeaway.
-
Laugh often and have fun
especially when you feel life has you on the run
and be sure to surprise each other both regularly and often
Maybe even invest
in a pair of water guns.
-
Share the fragile thoughts
you find at the forefront of your mind.
Reveal your vulnerability, the hurt you feel when life's been unkind.
-
And in response to that revealed insecurity, ensure you tread carefully  until you see the healing that comes from interlacing lovingly.
-
Speak your love every day.
Articulate it come what may.
And that way you'll ensure that it stays
at the forefront of each of your todays,
on the tip of your tongues
so when you inevitably take a step wrong
you'll both recall why you're together
and why it's worth the endeavour that it takes to push through that unexpected foul weather.
Love one another through that gale
and sail on to meet the adventure
that's yours to discover:
Through the miles of your wherevers,
for the duration of your whenevers,
strong enough for your whatevers,
standing together,
forever relentlessly loving each other.
-
So may the Lord of your tomorrows bless you together.
May the Lord keep you smiling whatever.
May his face shine on you in all kinds of weather.
And may He give you peace
that will never cease to give you pause to thank Him for his grace
forever.
-
And all the assembled people said
AMEN.

There's power in skinny
In lithe
In nimble
There's beauty in less
In straight
In narrow
There's strength in slight
In gangly
In graceful
There more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

There's beauty in buxom
In curves
In convex
There's comfort in contours
In creases
In waves
There's strength in stout
In plump
In physical
There much more to be said
For a fresh look at spatial

I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.

I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.

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.

Reach to the back of the old,
Reach behind the boxes entrenched with dust,
Reach beyond the shelves of tarnished trophies,
Reach beneath the tarpaulin brittle with age.
Reach and ignore the stains of the years
Stretch, *****, seek
And your fingers will brush
Against unfamiliar, new-to-you gems.
Reach and from unexplored corners
Reveal new treasures from the storeroom;
Treasures to enlighten
Treasures to surprise
Treasures to delight
The disciples of the kingdom.

It wasn't so much childhood trauma as it was a soap melodrama. But I wasn't the protagonist and I soon realised that I had become redundant to their narrative.

Part way into the 8th series I left to star in my own spin off at a boarding school set in the Chilterns where I had greater success. Oh, yes - there was the occasional well-choreographed cross-over, but nothing substantive; and I successfully developed my own independent brand.

Years have passed and we don't do cross-overs anymore, but they may turn up for the occasional, one-scene guest appearance.

I prefer it this way. It's not Made In Chelsea, but it's my own reality drama.

I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.

I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.

A pause
A choice of disconnection
An examination of options
An opportunity to change direction

An opening
An invitation for interruption
A deliberate contemplation
A much needed punctuation

A calming
A stilling
A waiting
A hearing

A surrender
A release
A long deep breath
And unexpected peace

You created my inmost being; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I was woven together in the depths of the earth; from the first stitch your eyes saw my unformed body.  Before you completed that first row all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

You selected the yarn by colour, by weight, choosing the texture with utmost care. You picked out the ideal needles, counted the ***** of wool and with a smile settled down to cast on that first stitch.

Your fingers blurred into action as you chatted with family, confident of the pattern you yourself designed  -

With a knit and a pearl the stitches increased and decreased to ensure the desired shape, maintaining a consistent gauge stitch after stitch, row after row.

And after hours of knitting and chatting, with a satisfied sigh you cast off and held up the result of your handy work to the light for all to admire.

How precious you are to me. How I wonder at this body knitted together with such love and with such great skill.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully knitted.

See how the colours shift -
with each fractional adjustment
I'm met with a 360 revolution
emblazoned horizon to horizon
a panchromatic world of beauty
in a constant state of flux,
with variations,
both major and minor,
circling round 
with each marginal movement
of my creator's hand.

As brave as a poet who knows
That this is too important for prose,
Willing to reveal his inner becoming
And patient enough to show
Not tell what He's telling,
Nor too intent on bringing
The thought down to land,
Happy to leave it hovering
Leaving us to understand
That the truth is more often
Found in the hearing
And not available on demand.
So whoever has ears to hear,
Let them hear this Son of Man.

I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there

Take your place amongst the brave ones
The take-a-chance ones
The get-up-despite
and try-it-again ones.

Take your place amongst the daughters and sons
living post-lockdown
and let's run.

There are things of great significance
greatly sought
greatly valued
which I cannot put in a search bar

There are things I cannot place
on a spreadsheet
or in my pocket
which I place above all else

There are things I find
difficult to quantify
impossible to define
but which have immense meaning

And so, I do not try
to capture them
to count them
and instead I invite them in

Skin deep scars were easy to shoulder,
while the deeper ones each hardened my heart.
Life-long wounds still wept and smouldered,
carving permanent paths.

Hidden cuts wouldn't stop itching,
and beneath my smile shadows kept screaming.
Treacherous memories would sting
and bite right through my once thick skin
then slowly burrow, refusing to die,
spreading their cured lies ...

The scars are mine, the wounds are real,
the memories are with me, still
I was the haunted boy, the wild child.
I was the son loved, beaten, reviled.  
I was the dreamer. I was the drama.
I was the fiction that made me me......
--
That was then, but now see,
I have a new writing team,
a change in narrative, a brand new me,
a departure from my past continuity.

Now I have a team-up.
Now I have back-up.
And in this story arch,
I get a power-up,
one new ability:
His power to HEAL ME!

When is a fleeting stray thought
a senseless fool's distraction?
And when is my sudden idea
a true sage-like inspiration?
No weight of long experience
No number of tried and tested
No diet of **** it and sees
seem to give me true wisdom.