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Why?
Why do some men like guns so easily? women too. Why do terrible bombs fall so easily? drones too. Why does genocide appeal so easily? murder too. Why do my salted tears come so easily? my grief too. Will killers never know that the pain of others is theirs too?
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The Boat of Fools
A tiny craft floated oblivious on the bloodied water; while there, under them, pale, oppressed, sad people, the boat pushes its way through bloated bodies, still ignoring the calls for help, clinging to their future.. — On that boat, warm, fed, clothed and safe they ply their inward thinking, eyes turned towards treasure, making arms,
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Forgiveness Costs
The author of forgiveness saw this blue planet as so, loving the troubled earth with paid for patience though, speaking through the earthquakes, fires and lightnings, was steadfast through shifting of huge teutonic plates breathed living spirit released the power of oxygen, and steadfastly refused to give up on humans hates. —- Millenia passed, filling
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Autumn Grief
There was a time, I remember it well, When Autumn leaves and frosty grass meant warm home welcome and tasty hot food. That was then and this now. Heating’s off, bread is cheaper and hot meals spin the ever greedy meter. — Yet, its the same for them, the oil rich climate changers, coal fired
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Sacred Sunrise
The candles burned brightly in the temple, repaired the curtains and ordered the day, while down in the fields a body, dead lay. ——– Relieved they slept through a golden dawn and missed the signs that God was about, missed the glory of dying being bested. ——- The sun burnished creation that morning and made
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Grace in the Waiting
Dissolving margins take me deeper into the desolation of the soul, with each moment long, I find my life weariness increasing the hole in my thinking. ——– Tears thicken in my eyes where the sight is strained by searching, my heart is like a rock as if the spirit’s flown leaving me lurching on its
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The Barn Owl
Motionless but for a revolving head, waiting palely, a faint outline in the brooding darkness suddenly rends the air with a psycho scream, penetrating, threatening. —— A ghostly flight as it sweeps the ground waiting silently, a sentinel of the dying light, seeking the future through scampering feet, blood for a scavenger’s brood. ——/ White against the
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Prayer on the Front Line.
I pray for Ukraine, that each blade of grass, flowers, bees and beetles, birds and butterflies . —- I pray for their protection against the avalanche of violence and vile destruction. —– I pray for each small child, girl or boy, their school, hospital, park and their climbing tree. ——- I pray for their safety,
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Plastic Warfare
The clouds floated on the face of the water, which flowed silently under branches of trees. Nothing moved nothing stirred but the grey water. ———————- Up above the sun shone cloaking the trees in burning heat and searing the ground; charring the last vestiges of grass that were not burned by the salt laced stream.
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The Blue Tit
The darting cobalt blue, streak of yellow gold swiftly passes snatching tasty seed then – flees to hide, green amongst the laurel leaves which tremble and close in its wake. —– Peeping out eye bright, he fixes upon a nutty gem. The seething bush releasing a wild friend, who like a salmon leaping over a
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Lord, did they hurt you?
Lord, Was their pain in your heart as they told you, “Goodbye!” They didn’t want your way nor wrestle, with things you say. Lord, did they hurt you when they walked away? And the women you helped who followed their men, turning their backs on ways that restored dignity again. Lord, did they hurt you
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Crisis
I waken, crying, for the Middle East eruption, corruption, for the Russian occupation of a sovereign nation for women and children fleeing before raping soldiers, desperately seeking food, shelter, safekeeping. -=-=- I watch the news with sinking feelings, leads to kneeling and crying out they’re stealing the lives of children, breaking promises, torturing prisoners, hostages
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The Healing Poet?
(Inspired by R S Thomas) Dipping his head the poet drank from the depths of his soul, there in his woundedness lay memories of such pain, Remember me they cry, we can wound again, write us out, share our bane. ——– Still, he wrote, and I’ve heard, a despair sore, poems written, stored,
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The Mirror
I looked, she looked back at me, turned old, I said, the lines show pain and loss, grave furrows around the eyes. Compassion always for the poor, prayer through the night to end the war, yet I look and get no empathy. Criticism, in plenty.
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The hauntings
Lord, where is hope? I am haunted by the pictures, of children, broken bodies, stumps where legs have been, — Lord where is hope? I am haunted by the bombs, shootings and drones. How can they aim them at human beings? — Lord where is hope? I am haunted by the parents on Bluesky asking
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