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

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

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,
about which I am serious.
You can be sure of my presence,
confident of my grace.
Come and together let's change this place for the better.

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

I tell ya.
Angels
are not as much of a flight risk
as you first may think.
The cherubim however
are flighty
and way more likely to fly off
at the baby's first cry
Like they've got somewhere else to be.
Just try. You'll see.
Not even a bye-bye.

But angels, oh man.
Angels -
I'm a fan.

You can set your Sat Nav
on an Angel.
Dreamtime or lunchtime,
they'll be your guide.
- Sublime.

Me and Mary
were fans.

- Jesus!
Put those nails down.
If your mum catches you with those, she'll go spare.

Let me see beneath your perfection,
and look behind your Sunday best.
I want to see if you're super human
or if you're more like the rest of us.

I want to test your holier than thou,
your upfront semblance of flawless.
I want to check that you're all we see
or if there's less beneath the surface.

If you think you have no cracks or dents,
if you have no room for improvement,
I'd really like you to meet my friends -
as we need a new source of amusement.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows where he belongs.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben will recall where he is from.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's word is true.
Reuben's word is strong.
Reuben's word is wise beyond his years.
Reuben's speaking loud.
Reuben's teaching truth.
Reuben will be heard beyond his peers.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

Reuben's got his friends.
Reuben's got a tribe.
Reuben now knows who he'll become.
Reuben's standing straight.
Reuben's walking tall.
Reuben knows he'll dance to heaven's drum.

And now
he knows
he's loved.

More than one previous careful
Much more than moderate use
Less than unreasonably hoped for
Subjected to excessive abuse

Above your typical mileage
Much rusted under the sills
Worn patches in the fabric
Stains from occasional spills

Go faster stripes have been added
The rear windows now have a tint
Extra headlights recently fitted
A perfect first car, don't you think?

life's not a race, it's more of a dance
and some choose to dance in formation,
others pair up, even more dance alone
while some spin a DJ vocation

I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.

I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.

Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.

With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.

I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.

The prophetic use of Dr. Seuss
made it clear to Joshy
that he will face the world with joy
and return to tell his story.

His mountains will be oh so high
his mountains will be marvelous
Joshy will enjoy the climb
and Joshy will be fearless.

Sometime later, late at night
when children should be sleeping
Joshy will then tell his tale
but his brothers won't believe him.

Joshy will then smile and grin
and tell them they're just daft
if they just can't believe his tale
he'll not tell the stranger half.

Ezra James isn't the first
and certainly won't be the last
to go to sleep to the wonderful sound
of family having a laugh

Ezra James isn't alone
and will never have it be said
that he resents having to share
a bath before going to bed

Ezra James isn't afraid
of darkness after lights out
he knows for sure his brothers are there
of that he's never in doubt

Ezra James is safe and sound
he's certain of where he belongs -
loved by brothers, loved by God
in the heart of family Sibuns

We watched and listened
as He prayed.
And we wondered
what it might be like
to speak with Jehovah
as He did.

So we gathered up our courage
and we asked.

And then, smiling,
He told us.
He gave us our prayer.
And, as if for the first time,
it felt real.
It felt like we had permission.
We had an invitation
to call Jehovah 'our Father'
as He did.

I couldn't help but smile
when I thought what the priests would make of this.

Child to Father.
Direct access. Forgiveness
without a priest.
And the simplicity of asking,
of feasting
on the generous Spirit
as He did.

Oh, how I smiled.

And later,
when the others were asleep
I practiced this new boldness
and smiled in a whisper:

"Our Father in heaven,
most holy be your Name.
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done
here on earth
just as in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins
just as we forgive those
who sin against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
instead, deliver us from the evil one.
For yours is the kingdom,
the power and the glory
for ever, Amen."

I smiled.
And I slept
as He did.
Closer to grace.

Things you won't hear from God:

- I'm sorry we are experiencing a higher number of calls than usual. 
You may wish to call back later.

- All of our operators are dealing with other petitioners.  We will be with you as soon as someone becomes available.

- Your call is important to us, please wait or alternatively go to our website at www dot onbendedknee (all one word) dot GOD dot heaven, where you will find lots of useful information. 

- Listen carefully to the following options. 
Press 1 if you are the desperate parent of a child under one.  
Press 2 for all other requests.

- I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understood that.  Did you say, "HEEELLLPP!!!"? 

- Our office is now closed. Our operating hours are from 9 am to 5 pm. Thank you for calling. 

Things you will hear from God:

"Welcome.  I've been expecting you. What's on your heart?"

Have you ever had the feeling
while praying
that you've inadvertently
been talking
while God is speaking?

Don't worry -
He wrote it down for you.

How many times a day do you pray?

As many as needed.
Some days only once.
But it might take all day.

Strong knees and open eyes

Straight back and open ears

Strong voice and open hands

Straight through to the throne of grace

You walk
You sit
You kneel

You ask
You wait
You weep

I listen
I speak
I weep

I hear
I stand
I act

my finger traced the cracks and brokenness,
found the gaps and incompleteness,
while you carefully took each jagged piece
and added a golden vein of grace
to mark the restoration,
creating a celebration
within a divine appreciation
of this, a broken reflection
of my origin,
starting and ending with you

this is me,

hurting, but healing with care,
and living with purpose.
falling, but dancing with grace
and keeping my footing.
trudging, but keeping pace
with someone who's been this way before.

head high, not bowed low.
speaking up, not keeping it down.
living loud, not hiding out.
welcomed home,
not cold shouldered, but bolder
in the image of the original.

now this is me!

You're only as rich as you feel
You're only as well as you live
You're only as loved as you linger
You'll only have what you give

You're only as full as your plate
You're only as good as your last
You're only as fast as your finish
You'll only have what you have asked

[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]

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.

We share the pleasure of a shared joke based on shared experience in shared lives, with no target to speak of, but with a simple open mockery of the value we place on our own shared past, whether unique to us or shared wider with our middle aging generation or perhaps universal to all humankind - a past we hold close but hold lightly lest it slip away from too much introspection and over-close scrutiny, but still a past that bears the shared weight of hearty family laughter, full of love and belonging.
Quaking, I finish with the gravy jug, catch the hesitant drip with my forefinger and pass it on, enjoying the richness of this moment.

Blessed are they who are conscripted, when they are dragged into wars not of their choosing
- for they will be remembered.

Blessed are they who are convinced by politicians' rhetoric, when they are shamed into service by posters and speeches
- for they will be remembered.

Blessed are you when leaders lie to you and lead you to your slaughter, sing and be brave,
- for you will be remembered.

Blessed are you when men shell you and seek to **** you, sing and be brave, my brothers
- for you will be remembered.

You are the salt of the earth, thrown out and trampled underfoot.
You are the light of the world, placed in darkness and buried.
But truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappears, not the least drop of your blood will by any means disappear from this soil.

Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these and encourages others to forget, will be called least in this kingdom.

But you,
you
will be
remembered.

Uncle Christmas was mucking out happily mucking in and wondering what might have been had his twin not been sneakier and the first to emerge to claim the 'Father' moniker. 

Uncle found to his surprise he was quite content to be the deputy and not have the pressure at the top of the Christmas hierarchy. Rather he was happier working with the reindeer, being grubbier, a little smellier, leaving his brother to bear the fur lined mantle that was heavier.

However,
at each and every Christmas dinner when the family all got together to enjoy the post-advent breather, Uncle would still insist with his Christmas pudding grin that compared to his older twin he was far harder working,
a little better looking 
and definitely 
relatively 
slim.

This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.

It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.

No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.

Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.

Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.

Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.

Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late

mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.

Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.

And when you pray
Ask from your heart
and when you pray
Seek from your soul
and when you pray
sniff around without ceasing
through your tears
to find the doors
that He has prepared
to brand new frontiers
for you, His pioneers.
Then knock
and don't be shocked
that he wants to talk.

When you pray
stay to hear what he has to say.
Don't be so ready to rush away.
Stay, and you might be surprised
that the interaction becomes two-way.

The shorts I wear to bed
have a back pocket.
When I chose to buy them
in a twin pack with a tee shirt,
the pocket was not
a deciding feature.
However, I acknowledged
that it was there by design.

For months I gave it no further thought.
For months it was as redundant
as a breast pocket in pyjamas.

Then one morning,
as I was juggling
with a cereal bowl
and clothes from the dryer,
I slipped my phone,
still playing a pod cast,
into my back pocket.

And for a moment,
as the conversation followed me upstairs
back to the bedroom,
I smiled at the foresight of M&S.
I should have realised:
they know their stuff.

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.

"Who gets to call the shots matters,
but so do YOU.
So turn up,
take YOUR shot
and - be - your - most - excellent."

And this is my final Word on the matter.
You seem to have either
forgotton
or misunderstood
or ignored
my earlier communication.
So this time I will make it uneqivocal.
This time I will bring it down
to your level.
This time I'll say it in person.
Stop talking.
Pay attention:
This is my Son.
Listen to Him.

Standing smoking under the front light looking out into the night on the step of another flat share which for a while I can dare to call home wondering when I will own a place of my own where I can kick up a stink or pile up the sink, where I can strike a light, where I can curse as loud as I like, where I don't have to take myself outside and stand staring at nothing with nothing but my key and the glow of my roll-your-own for company.

The slow tea flowed with a knowing tease, letting the flavour seep bone deep as I watched with a growing marrow-level ease, feeling the aroma sink gently down lower than ever before, leaving a lasting trace of exotic leaf, as her voice broke through the spell with her ancient enquiry: "milk and two sugars was it, dear?"

The sensuous snow layered soft flakes over her long limbs as she reached and raised the deep red cloak from where it had slidden, chiding Nicholas for his haste, while inwardly relishing this moment of personal pleasure in the back of the now spacious sleigh.
"Happy Christmas, dear," she whispered.

The socialist and the socialite
sat themselves down for supper.
Arthur wore a blood red rose
while Sophie went for feathers.

The socialist and the socialite
had only a little in common
and neither said much at all
about the paths they'd trodden.

The socialist and the socialite
ate with polite conversation.
He had the slow cooked brisket,
while she had the salad with chicken.

The socialist and the socialite
left quietly with an old studied calm,
but once their door was firmly closed
fast fell into each other's arms.

I have to go round the back
to arrive, to drive, cupboard,
* find
what I want to talk, to shout, push,
* express
because I, it's a big map,
I can't get, can't reach,
* forget
my teeth, the things out of my mouth,
the pages in my head, the long taste,
* words
that I want to hammer, hold, grip, throw,
* use.
It's like a different train, boat,
* country.
It's uphill.
I'm at bedtime.

The shorter the time
The more personal the view
Between the heads of those in front of you

The shorter the time
The stronger the lingering taste
The more intense the take away experience

The shorter the time
The easier to scoot and duck under
The inconveniently well placed barrier

The shorter the time
The more focused the afternoon stretch
On the sofa of your oh so limited rest

The shorter the time
The quicker, the swifter, the tighter
You'll find the undaunted feature writer

The shorter the time
To that unreasonable deadline imposition
The sweeter the release of the completed submission

The shorter the time
The better

The nice Samaritan meant well
but tended to wait
to hesitate
just long enough
to be too late to make
a real difference
and instead stood
and watched struck dumb
as the world went to hell
in a handcart

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.

Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

All he was was cold
And all he held was gone
Every flake fell flat
And every step dragged on

All he said stayed silent
And all he felt was numb
Every tear was frozen
And every seal undone

All he'd dreamed had faded
And all he'd saved was spent
Every hope stayed distant
On this his last descent

All he was was cold...

I grin my stupid grin, noting the green flecks and the hard to get at strands of meat, relishing the deep booth, the just loud enough too loud music, the familiar smile dishing out the platters, the laughter of being the first to the shake and squeeze of the red not quite ketchup between my hands, the almost fit of the dripping burger in my mouth, leaving a lick of a stain on my lower lip and a longer lasting comfort blanket layered in my stomach from that meal and a half, once in a while treat of my family, sandwiched together and perfectly reflected in the wall mirror.

theoneintwelve
longstobecloser
achestobenearer
tothosewho matter
but instead
s   i   t   s    
a    n    a  r   m   s    
l   e   n    g    t    h
l   o    n    g    e    r
f    r    o   m     a   n     y
h    o    p    e     o     f
e    m    b    r    a    c    e.

Fathercraft
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.

This is my food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.

Will the hurdles be high?
Are the footpaths steep?
Will the days be long?
and cause me to weep?

Will you be there too?
Will you have time for me?
Will you let me down
and return by degrees?

Will I fill my shoes?
Can I act my age?
Will I brave the crowds?
Can I seize the day?

The answer is Yes
it has always been so
so get off your ****
it's now time to go.

Poets love metaphor and simile.
We love the extra dimension they bring to a conversation.

Hard brexit or soft brexit.
War of words.
Snail's pace.
Quiet as a mouse.
Embracing change.

But be warned, next time you use a metaphor ask yourself: Is the tail waging the dog? (See what I did there?)

Metaphors are powerful. For example:

When you join an argument - do you join a side?
Do you build your argument to withstand the opposition's attacks?
Do you fight to win the arguement, to defeat the opponent's arguement?

Or do you establish common ground? Will you join a journey to reach an agreement together?

Will you end up enemies with a peace treaty that is dependent on peace keepers?
Or will you be fellow travellers, journey companions with a shared objective?
Will you ultimately come to a shared view at the summit that you have reached together?

Metaphors are powerful. For example:

Is your day made up of stolen time?
Do you lose time?
Do you race against time?
Do you try to gain time?
Is time something you seek to possess more of - a finite resource that's to be preserved, stretched and saved as much as possible?

Or is time a stream, a river traveled that brings us to new experience?
Is it a force of nature to be respected and enjoyed?
Are you comfortable simply going with the river's flow? Can you enjoy the ride?
Can you accept the limits of what you control (a small rudder) and what you don't (the long established river and it's ultimate destination)?

Chose your metaphor with care, it may come back to bite you. There, I did it again.

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.