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!

brother elder
brother younger
brother blood
brotherhood
brother arms
brother guards
brotherly love

The two of them staggered in
and flopped onto the worn sofa.
Neither spoke.
Neither tried.
They were just grateful for another day.
An earned break
A pause poised at their tipping point.

Chaos rose with a broken smile,
raising a slow arm,
'See you tomorrow'.

But Order was already asleep.

When I create,
when I build and make,
I seek a transfiguration,
a hope-full salmon-leap
toward the new creation.

I rise and dance beyond redemption,
I reach and pour the full fruits
of God's fresh fermentation.

I embrace God's ancient intention
for us to dream with His vision
taking us toward His now and not yet
new heaven and earth re-creation.  

When I create, I'm not just fixing,
I'm building with His blessing.

Some futures wait
Biding their time
Maturing slowly
Fermenting
Allowing their aroma to herald their coming
Waiting for a welcome.

Some futures are more impatient
And crash right in uninvited
With no warning
Not allowing us any time to prepare.
Some futures arrive unannounced
And make themselves right at home
Taking over all that we had built
Imposing their change
Without waiting for our permission.

And all we can do is make room
And build anew
All we can do is hold on to each other
And rebuild into the future
And make it our own.

Some futures wait
biding their time,
maturing, slowly fermenting,
allowing their aroma to herald their coming.
Forecasting, politely waiting for a welcome,
a by your leave,
an if you please,
gifting time to ready ourselves
despite their inevitability.

Some futures are more impatient
and crash in with an oblivious grin.
Uninvited, unwanted,
giving no hint of a fair warning.
They waltz right through,
all elbows and no grace,
treading on tender toes
as if they own the place.
They arrive unannounced
without the warning of a fanfare
and make themselves right at home
in your granddad's favourite armchair.
Throwing themselves down,
taking pride of place.
Showing no awareness
of how they dominate the space.
Bringing in their king kong odor
taking over all that we had built,
imposing their change
without the faintest sign of guilt.

And all we can do is make more room.
All we can do is hold on to each other.
And all we can do is build anew
and rebuild our lives into this forced future

and make it our own once more.

This is what friends, what families were designed for
For times of grief, for times of can't cope
A surrogate for God's loving arms
A foretaste of an eternal hope.

It took a little time to get this old, but it wasn’t hard.  
It was rather just a case of taking one day at a time and not letting the day that is yet to come dominate the day that is.  Each day is sufficient to fill the time we have and cramming in that which has yet to have its allotted time will just cause angst.

It took a little time and that’s how you should keep it – little.  Don’t let any one moment inappropriately inflate, lest it lord over the moment you have in front of you.  So, whether this year amounts to a 10th of your life span, or a 40th, a 50th, or (as in my case), a 60th, give it equal honour.  Let it have its moment in the sun.

It takes a little time to build a life.

That bumper sticker
is only two lines away
from found poetry

Don't be so quick to judge.
Not until you've walked a mile
(or at least for a while
in the park)
in my soft bedded,
anatomically shaped,
suede mules.

Then you'll appreciate
the air with which
I bear my superiority
with barely a hint
of complaint.

The paper weight will hold
my ink down
in a way my fluidity never could.

No matter how violent
my metaphor, how heady
my imagery, how blistering
my narrative - it will hold
the reader's attention,
ensuring my thoughts reach
each reader's own resolution
a little before the weight shifts
and the burden of their eyes falls
heavy on the turn
of the page

and then their eyes will lift,
burdened with new meaning.

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.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the aroma,
the touch of love,
the echo of hearts
that rise to adore.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise the savour,
the weight of feast,
the press of voices
that sing with laughter.

Children understand loveliness.
They recognise Christmas
within the heat,
the fire and glory
of Christ's forgiveness.

Children understand Christmas.
Look to them.

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 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

God's not choosy,
He chose 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

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.

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

Searching for a piece of the puzzle
Pondering the last cryptic clue
Rethinking your intended tactics
Selecting the right block to remove

Whatever choice you're facing
Whatever age you are
Remember that it's just for fun
She's still your sweet old grandma

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.

Christmas is a construct
We've been listening to lies
There's no reindeer in the stable
Santa wasn't any Magi

Jesus got no Christmas stocking
He had nothing to unwrap
The Kings, they turned up later
And that manger was cold and damp

Christmas is a construct
There was no snowy frost
Joseph wasn't draping tinsel
He wasn't rushing up the shops

And Jesus wasn't quiet
He kept them all awake
Like any other baby
He didn't sleep til daybreak

There were no holly berries
No mistletoe or ivy
No pine tree in the corner
At that first nativity

But that sudden choir of angels.
The promised ****** birth
Yes, all that really happened
God did send peace on earth

There's much we have constructed
Even more that we've left out
But Christ remains in Christmas
That's what it's all about

God coming as a child
God reaching down with favour
God with us. Yes: Immanuel
Our promised Christmas Saviour.

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

Not joy in a bottle, but Joy in a manger.
Not tied with a bow, but wrapped a lot tighter.

Not dependant on snow, the turkey or gifts.
But Joy that out-lasts the toys and the myths.

Not under a tree or mistletoe sprig.
But Joy that stays longer and seeps down deep.

Not dependent on feeling or temporary cheer.
But Joy from a Saviour who will always stay near.

He's the Joy who outlasts.  
Joy who gifts meaning.
Joy gifted from Heaven.  
The true Joy of the season.

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

He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves.  So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass.  That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him.  Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay?  You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell.  It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend.  Bring him some water.  Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.

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.

Can soft and quiet sing loud and strong?
Can self-possessed burn hot lifelong?

Can serious hearts giggle delight?
Can gentle spirits fight for right?

Can loving souls know good anger?
Can wind-filled sails stow good anchor?

They not only can, but will again.
I've seen it within the clan Del Ben.

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.