One of my earliest memories in my history
(if not THE earliest)
features a tree.
A stump of a tree
in the middle of our back garden.

And my dad and his friends removed the tree,
maybe an Oak, I don’t know,
I just know it was there first
and we removed it to make room for growth.

That was an unnecessary necessity
and the start of something that lasted.
Not as long as the tree, but still,
you can’t have everything.

I'm pottering and napping
with no space for snap chatting
I'm reading and snoozing
with no online browsing
I'm just taking downtime
some space for just me time
I'll see you tomorrow
when I emerge from my burrow

as he sat soft beside me.
“Sure,” I said, with ill feeling.
My instinct was not to cross my friend,
I had too few left.

I nodded to the Ape behind the bar and he obliged
with one lemon & ginger and one green tea.
He knows his regulars well
and we know we’d need to wait til later for anything stronger.

“Look,” he said, and I turned to see
a gap and I counted the two teeth that were missing -
no, not missing - he opened his hand
and there they were, both accounted for,
safe and secure in his grey leathery palm.

“Look,” he repeated, (a little slurred this time)
and turned his fist so I could see
the missing skin and the bruises
that gave testimony to his amateur status.  

His ****** grin and wet laughter
shook the silverback back into action
and we got a plate of malted milks.
Like I say, he knows his regulars well
and he’d listened when I told him
where he could get a regular supply,
direct from Staffordshire, in the UK.

“Lo-ok,” he said (more hesitant this time)
and lifted his shirt a little to reveal the knife wound,
replete with knife, buried to the hilt.

“Loo-,“ he started to say, as he slid off the bar stool
taking his tea with him, the porcelain shattering on the stone floor.

I winced – the cups had been a gift
to the Ape from my mother.
‘Why should the chimps get all the best crockery?’ she’d explained.

“I’ll pay for the breakage,” I said
and the Ape nodded his furrowed brow
as he swung round to grab the dustpan and mop.

I drank my tea,
counting off the friends that remained.

Let bygones be whatever they'll be
and regret a thing of the past,
temper that sorrow
with plans for tomorrow
and invest in friends who will last.

Graciously he turned to me
By grace I saw his face
Graciously he spoke my name
By grace I heard his voice

Graciously he spread his arms
By grace I ran to him
Graciously he took me on
By grace I took his name

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

Graciously he holds me close
By grace I hold on tight
Graciously he lifts my head
By grace I lift my voice

Graciously he walks with me
By grace I keep in step
Graciously he strengthens me
By grace I run unchecked

By grace he is my God
By grace I shout his name
By grace he is my king
By grace I sing his name

Take your own life
violently by the scruff,
and LIFT.
Once you have its undivided,
wholehearted attention,
stare it straight in the eyes,
and say 'Enough!'
'This is a self-interest intervention.
'Get over this,
shake yourself free
of this mid life need
for a preoccupation
by hostile thoughts
and self-absorbtion,
put to one side
self-indulgent fictions
and get real,
get serious
and get a life
that is true to the person
you now are.
And start by ending the comb-over.
It's a non-starter.'

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

can we skip the bit
where I'm not sure
what it is you feel
and if it's the same
as the feeling
that I'm feeling is possibly real
and possibly how
someone as amazing
as you is feeling right here
right now?

- can we dispense with the fear
that what appears
to be actually here
is actually just a figment
a fiction based on
a misread permission
to stay this close, mistaken
like a ghost of a reflection
in a tarnished mirror
that hides the terror
of being seen this clearly
by another.

- can we move on
to the unguarded laughter
and the freedom to touch
the surface of your face
and the assurance
that we've reached across
a safe place,
a within-our-reach shared space.

- can we stay in this moment
for as long as this path lasts
and can this path
take us from our past on
into a future without-masks
where we nurture
each other to greater
and to deeper
laughter?

- can we do that?

If you never try it
You'll never know it
You'll ever wonder
Forever doubt
So break out
Be a chance taker
A faith placer.
Take the bruises
Absorb the scrapes
That come from escaping safe harbour
And storm the border
Of your known neat and orderly
Childhood home.
Welcome to London.

(spot the Carol)

These three kings of orient are  
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,  
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly  
to lay them before the King.

Meanwhile three ships come sailing in  
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.  

Later,
in Royal David’s city,  
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming,  apparently.  
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;  
no wonder the baby’s awake.

All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;  
the king-of-angels  baby who out-shines any wondrous star.  
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;  
born to give us second birth:  
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,  
come to redeem us all.

‘Come – receive – your - king.’

Merry Christmas.

Wakey wakey
Rise and shine
Grab the moment
Start your climb

Get off your ****
Put it in gear
Raise yourself up
Your moment's here

Pull up your socks
Tie up your shoes
Now seize the day
This time's for you.

Open both eyes
put on your slippers
and carry on

Take a bowl
lift down the cereal
and carry on

Angle the mirror
pull a face
and carry on

Choose a tie
polish your shoes
and carry on

Walk to the corner
buy a paper
and carry on

Return home
sit alone
and quietly, carry on

Casting my cares,
but not on Him.
Casting down river -
holding the rod,
keeping watch on the reel,
on the bob of the line.
Angling to reel it in when needed.

I'm not letting go,
not for a second.

Oi! What you doin’ sat over there,
cold shoulderin’, ignorin’ your mates?
Oi! Cephas! I’m talkin’ to you.
Who you impressin’ with your pious handshakes?

Why you pretendin’? Are you forgettin?
You trying to ignore just who you are?
You sat down with Him, saw who ate with Him
You saw up close what He stood for.

You know He didn't care who’s been snipped.
You’re not closer to Him sittin’ there.
We all are equally, fully forgiven.
So ain’t it about time you just grew a pair.

Tell the truth to your chums -
Pull up a chair.

Know this - I am.
Know this - I can.
Know this - I will
and know this - I will, with you.
And yes, that's a promise,
Oh, I'm serious.
You can be sure of my presence,
confident of my grace.
Come and together
let's change this place
for the better.

I've faced change
and I've found it strange how

change stretches
change races

change strikes me dumb
change leaves me numb

change weighs heavy
change breeds worry

change twists and turns
change burns -

change leaves you standing
leaving you thinking

challenging mediocrity
offering opportunity

flouting comfy rules
removing familiar tools

stripping plans bare
making you scared

- but bringing you hope
clearing the smoke

increasing the pace
clearing some space

sweeping life clean
on to the next screen

- change is a constant
he shrugs off all constraint

he's fearlessly bold
with an irresistible hold

he bucks every trend
not afraid to offend
and he will fast become
your firmest friend.

Welcome change.

Look again
and touch the surface
of another view
Then reach up, deeper
and find yourself new

There's an art to sitting
with someone in their pain.

There's a quiet art
to letting the shape of it
form in the quiet,
in closed fists
in cloaked words,
in short gasps for intervention
and to resisting the urge to intervene
with anything other than a tear.

There's an art to it I'm sure.
But sometimes it takes a child
sitting with a grasp of charcoal
to do it justice.
---

There's an art to sitting with my pain.
There's a dark, quiet art
of letting the shape of it
envelope me, hold me,
squeeze me til the breath of it is gone
and I can fill both lungs afresh,
deep and light in the shade,
by the song in the brook,
the song from up river.

There's an art to it I'm sure,
cos I get stuck mid-breath,
mid-cry.
I can't hear the voices in the water.
I gasp alone, circular breathing
the snot and the dust
and I'm left choking again.

There's a dark art
and it fills my canvas,
charcoal on white,
with a corner given over
to a faint grey light.

But I can't hear the brook.

She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.

She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.

She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?

She looked again.  And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.

But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.

A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.

Do you get me?

No shame, you know.
Just small self doubt
a violent chin
and contention for identity
for happiness
for unafraid space
with a smile and Stanley.

Do you get me?

I'm not so very special
I'm no way near essential
The world can cope without me
Blink and you just may miss me

I'm not a key ingredient
I'm pretty much redundant
It continues to amaze me
that God can bother with me

I find He always has the knack
to dig deep way down in the sack
and lift up what he finds there
to a place He has made where

no matter how far you've fallen
how far lost you have become
He clearly still remembers you
the uniqueness that He placed in you

So don't listen to the hecklers
don't dare settle for any less
Tune in only to His voice
and know this: you are His choice

God's not choosy,
He chose me.

I never chose my chromosomes
I never chose my genes
I never chose my race
I never chose my skin

I never chose my name
nor any of my family
I never chose my native tongue
nor my nationality

I never chose very much about me

But I chose the ones I love
I chose you for me

I noticed the sudden silence
balanced on the off beat
of a carol left incomplete,
but after a while I found
- despite my long belief -
I was enjoying
the competing peace
a little more than the jingle,
the insistent hush
more than the chimes
the spreading rest
more than the dance.

And I put it down
to the close knit company.

you can't go far wrong with chutney.
a large pickle jar,
gold topped
with a seasonal trim around the rim,
made with patience and love.
- just add a strong grip
with stronger cheese
and a selection of savoury crackers
- and there you have Christmas.

Sitting in darkness
Waiting for the light to come
Refrigerator

The prosecco waits
Lying still, cold and alone
Refrigerator

A gentle humming
The blue cheese fragrance escapes
Refrigerator

The door opens wide
The light shines in the darkness
Refrigerator

....

The turkey won't keep
Between Christmas and New Year
Refrigerator

Fa-la, la-la, *******-la!
Deck your halls, don't skimp on the holly.
It's the season to be jolly -
Shelve you woes, wrap up your ills,
use your credit, put off the bills.
Follow us for merry pleasure,
you know we're all in this together.
It's just started, it's one long trial,
but we'll get through it, just fix that smile.

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

May your bells jingle all the way
May your snow be crisp and even
May your ding **** merrily on high
And may Saint Nick keep you believing

His complex plurality of unity has been worshipped with a scarcity of uniformity, with a variety of melodies across humanity's long history and He has responded with reliable proactivity, speaking with consistency through a variety of agencies and always with generosity, ushering His family into his eternal city where at last we will no longer see Him as if through a glass darkly, but instead see Him in His full and unending glory.

The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.

History snores at the back, too tired to notice the present company, and
Maths figgits nervously, his mind overwhelmed by possibilities and permutations, while
Geography let's her mind wander, dreaming of paths yet travelled and regarding this classroom as just another staging post, but
English mutters disapprovingly at the thought of so much hassle and any proposition that might disrupt his carefully balanced timetable.
French sighs and shrugs, unconcerned, but can't help but be curious about the
German sitting so self-composed and self-contained across the aisle, somehow managing to ignore
Science as he argues with himself and apparently agrees another working hypothesis. And at the door
Divinity wonders and ponders what brought us here today and says a brief prayer for forgiveness.

Hannah has her cleaning boots,
they're really rather fine.
They match her rubber cleaning gloves
and her yellow cleaning sign.

The grieving wind led our solemn steps,
and screamed through the ranks of sodden planks,
each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
fervently recalling local lives lost.

We trudged over those memorial boards,
sponsored grief borne by each grain,
as again salt dripped into the Mouth of the Severn.

At the pier head our tears contested
the callous grey waves
and lost
again.

I bowed before the grieving wind,
Screams streaming through the ranks of sodden planks,

Each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
Fervently recalling every loved life lost.

I trudged over those memorial boards,
Guiltily treading on the grief borne by each grain.

Then I laid fresh brine into the insatiable mouth of the Severn,
While my loss and I contested every callous grey wave,

But we were beaten again.

Unfallen tears glisten
unsaid words choke
unspent rage fades
at the back of my throat
I stare at the wet windscreen
my phone in my hand
the silence still falling
draining like sand
through fingers that stop grasping
as my eyes close to see
that this is the close
of our long closing scene

not rooted,
not foundational,
but transitional,
I mean - tabernacle.
Following cloud and flame,
and restless for Jordan.

not stilted
not intellectual
but relational,
more than routine ritual.
Led by spirit, filled by flame
and restless for Jordan.

I knew a formidable, tempestuous man
and whilst he did much to his credit,
his dark grey moods
and the air that turned blue
clouded his very real merits.

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.

She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.

Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –

And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.

And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.  
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.  

And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.

Diverted, never Defeated

rushing like water into its misted future
crawling like moss in a camouflage of the past
giving lie to our tiny present

a passing shadow of day-creatures
flit for their designated eight minutes
failing to fully grasp their moment

while the trees stand watch -
still present, pointing to a future only they see

Diverted, but never Defeated

My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better

Let's collaborate and coordinate, cooperate and disseminate.
Let's not disassociate or dare to hesitate, rather let's keep going til we reach a state of counterweight that celebrates the gifts our Father freely donates for us to re-dedicate and elevate His name til we resonate with the angels at heavens gates.
Amen.

he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!

I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great

They were a common or garden,
run-of-the-mill variety
of right weird bleeders.
Individually, nothing I'd not seen before.
But oh boy, together -
it was like the circus had passed through and their apprentice scheme had got left behind.
Mind you,
you could see what they were attempting,
and give them a few years
I'm sure they would figure out a style
and colour scheme
that worked.
For now,
well like I say
- right weird bleeders.

The known universe was split into two parts.  They were almost completely separated by a thin membrane and had been for 55 years.

On the inner side there was room for one individual, secured behind a flimsy, somewhat porous and pliable divider. It had to be pliable as the individual concerned couldn't decide just how much space would be needed at any one time.

On the outer side the rest of the universe ebbed and flowed, only occasionally taking note of the activities that jostled relentlessly just a short distance away on the far side of the membrane. It was almost as if it was quite unaware of the inevitable collision that was to come once Steve finally published his poetry anthology.

Once he hit that button the two worlds would have to establish new terms for their coexistence.

Only time would tell if it would be a peaceful one.

I sit in the light of my phone,
with memes numbing my mind
I search the fields for answers
I don’t expect to find
I don’t find very much of use
amongst the scrolling screens
They lead me down rabbit holes
where I’ve already been

I ask for better light by which
to see the greater truth
by which I might find something
to push away the gloom
and the answer comes from above
in the silence of the night
a sign drawn by the flight path
of a west bound starry light

And the star delivers a summons
to shepherds and kings alike
to Come and Behold a greater king,
timing it just right,
bringing east and west together,
offering peace on earth
- a peace in the light of a greater truth,
enlightening the world

This light’s an invitation to you
to come and behold a child
But I think I better warn you,
he’s no longer meek and mild
Baby Jesus is now a Risen King,
and no better light you’ll find
to set a brighter truer path,
for you and humankind

Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
both ready for M&S dinner.

TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.

Toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.

The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, he can't relax,
his whining is remorseless.

Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.

Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.

Gran will talk of Christmas past
when everyone was home
'Cept in Gulf War 1 when Uncle John
went away, ....

Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.

Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster tesco trolley.

For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.

Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.

Some do remember Jesus
from half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.

For there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.

He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
waiting for those who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.

Whatever your experience of Christmas
you can come just as you are,
His love is unconditional
He'll accept you warts and all.

So come on!
It’s a season to celebrate!
To dance, to sing and to shout!
Your Saviour invites you to join Him,
so when you sing this Christmas, make it count.

God said, come now
and let us mystery together,
fire and phoenix together,
rhythm together, step together,
be danced and held together.  

Let us rest in my meadow,
feast to our pleasure
and pour to our brimful altogether.

Come let us be here together.