one day I almost died

It was a strange reminder,
a sudden recollection of the past.

For so long, I had lived under the shadow of death,
at that crucial time,
the confrontation of mortality was
face to face
scan to scan
day to day
breath to breath.

It shaped my whole being for a while.

I tossed it off glibly,
gladly,
in a way,
as soon as that hypothetical threat passed.

But it haunted me,
colouring my view a little darker,
a little greyer,
like the twilight when a storm's approaching.

Somehow,
somewhere,
sometime,
that tension wore off.

I haven't thought for some time now
how close I was to death,
how far I was from death,
how ever second,
every minute,
we all draw closer and closer
and yet remain exactly as far away as before.

Other cares have crowded in,
smaller in a way,
why should any of them matter
in comparison to the final embrace
of black isolation,
howling rooms,
never-ending silence.

But it's not simply the fact
that my firm conviction
(at least on Tuesdays, some Friday afternoons, and maybe one or two other times every week)
in the resurrection of the dead,
and the life everlasting,
amen,
has grown in stature and solidity
since those days.

But that my natural, human forgetfulness,
ability to be distracted,
failure to remember every day,
drags me further and further away
from old scabs I've stopped picking at,
until one day,
I brush against the old place
and realise

the scar is gone. 

ode to winter

Shadows lengthen - winter is here!

Frost breathes sparkling spirals,
transforming banality with fine, filmy fairy floss.

Winter is here!

Time is suddenly found for the long, lingering dinners
frantic summer's pace excludes.
Conversation winds and wends
conquering boundaries, dividing lines;
slow-cooked meals allowing slow, thoughtful answers.

Winter is here.

Summer sun mellows to winter, water-bottle friend,
warm rays become a couch to lean on,
arm to embrace.

Summer heat freezes, stifling no more.
Scarves, rather than suffocate,
caress, encircle, celebrate;
cacophony of colours,
trumpeting life in defiance of somnolent snow.

Winter is here.

I know world over,
winter means death:
frozen ground,
frozen bodies,
for evermore shrouded by the heartless snow,
concealed from summer's verdant glow.

Cold comfort's found
by empty fireplace,
winter slowly asphyxiating,
blue-tinged lips, fingers, face.

In extremity, winter frightens,
clarion call of death,
warning of unflinching finitude.

And yet,

winter calls forth resolute resistance,
brave battle against all-conquering elements!

What can be more triumphant
than the explosion of daffodils
after unrelenting frost?
The burst of bluebells from frost-bitten bulbs,
tingling their colourful victory
over death's pale shadow?

Winter is here.

But it shall not stay.

best blogs

Have just been flicking back through some old entries, looking for inspiration in a new project. Came across this one, Tabernacle Series #2 - Rahab's House, and thought, gee, who wrote that?! It's pretty good really! I barely recognise myself... 

So, anyway, my only actual update for you today is this... 

That's right, we've reached that time of year again where I measure your love for me in volume of votes ;-) Vote early, vote often, and vote for my friend Josh too, because his blog is HILARIOUS!! 

Love love.

www.surveymonkey.com/s/BAB2013

example

I wrote this yesterday as an example of a group poem. It's a writing exercise I stole from the magnificent Adrian Plass - each member of the group finishes a sentence such as "our God is..." or "the righteous are" and the results are read out together. I've done this in a few sizes of groups, and it's magnificent every time to see the variety of emotional expression in our individual relationships with God. It's also quite thrilling for people who'd never attempt poetry to see what is possible, and, I think, brings a new depth of appreciation. 

I'll be sharing this exercise in my bible study group next week - maybe you could try it in a group you're in? It doesn't have to be on a 'religious' theme!

Our God is...

Our God is a breath of pure oxygen after a day of smog.

Our God is awesome, mighty and powerful. 

Our God is the reason I get up in the morning. 

Our God is a far off Father who always seems angry.

Our world is a desperate place, full of striving and wasted energy.

Our world is startling in its beauty, terrifying in its terrors.
Our world is full of people who need God.

Our world is a place that makes me tired.

The wicked are many, and seem to get away with everything.
The wicked are probably misunderstood. 

The wicked are as in need of grace as I am.
The wicked are people that think only of themselves.

The righteous are ridiculously lucky, they don't deserve what they're getting.

The righteous are failures saved by grace.
The righteous are really annoying sometimes, because they think they know it all. 

The righteous are people transformed by God.

quote mis-quote quote

Be still and know that I am God
you said.

More like,
shut up! And keep your place!

A terrifying command at first.
The kind that sends little kids scurrying to the bathroom,
minuscule bladders trembling with fear.

Shut up! Stop your chatter and clatter!

A bruising command at first.
I don't really need to be told yet again to silence my self-expression.
My whingeing response?
Or the heartfelt cry of one who's been silenced too often?

Keep your place!

At the dinner table.
At the kitchen sink.
In the back row.
In the uncomfortable pose while I fiddle with my lens.

A frustrating command at first.
Pure restriction,
when the spirit wants to soar and spring,
shout and bellow.

Be still, and know that I am God.

On second glance,
a calming statement,
even though shouted.

It's the silencing of all those busy body noises,
the sniping, griping, swiping. slandering,
muttering, grumbling, nattering, chattering
of voices that need to be quieted.

It's the settling and subsiding
of the nervous twitches,
needless, ceaseless, tiring travelling,
relentless wandering and chasing of the world.

It's the subduing of the angry fist,
the brutal boot.
The pacifying of the raging and roaring.

It's the order from chaos
of a minute of silence
in the heat of battle.

Shut up! And know you're not the boss.
Shut up! And listen to what you've been doing.

Be quiet, and rest in His arms. 

wounded

bruised
battered
beaten
worn

Can I get a sling for my whole body?

A bandage for my soul?

When you poke me, it hurts,
whether in jest or no.

When you slap me, it stings,
old wounds re-open.

I can't cope with much more at the moment,
please soothe my sores,
bind up my broken heart
and re-make me whole. 

Competition

Hey friends, 

Just letting you know I've entered the Australian Writer's Centre Best Australian Blogs 2013. 

There'll be a People's Choice Award which I'd love you all to vote in, and I'll let you know when that kicks off.

Thanks for reading!

xx