The Prisoner

The Prisoner

She looks through the bars,

her intelligence

dulled by repetition

of the daily chores

and cheerlessness.

Tears fall

as tortured


of her child

growing without

her loving touch.

A glimpse now and again,

never enough

as someone


charts her child’s

precious years.

Politicians mutter,

What can her family do

against prejudice


and perfidy

like this,

taking a woman from her


from her freedom

and framing her,


destroying the fragile

bond, that holds

body and soul


Lord, that she may be free


Creation groans.

The bounteous skin of the earth corrupted,

its bones break through, bleaching in the sun-

light, which beats on the dust blown surfaces

taking from it life and burning into it death.


An owl flies through the ruins where the gaunt,

parched desert yields it no life and so it falls,

scattering its atoms into a hungry landscape,

where nothing can stay the terrible tragedy.


Where it meets sea – the salt encrusted rocks

are battered by ravening waters and strewn

with the plastic detritus of human wastefulness,

its anger beats each stroke of crashing waves,


together they cry out for justice and mercy but

many people huddle and mutter, they grumble 

and look at the encroaching briny, the storm

broken homes and the violent viruses, which


their selfishness has released by condemning

the oak and the redwood, hazel and ebony; 

replacing them with concrete, cattle and city

slickers blinded to the call of the creation.


The earth groans and calls, spits flames, and

burns paths through human made jungles ’til

the air is filled with its call – that folk will hear

and relent of their evil and work with nature for 






The brutal bombs pounded the city,

shrapnel flew and pierced each

animal, plant, person and planted 

in each the determined hatred

of the violence of warring sides.


The doom laden bang lit the sky,

fear filled canisters exploding,

threaten lives, homes and hearths

of thousands of throbbing hearts.


The sirens screamed their warning.

People woke in their thousands,

hid in shelters, tube stations and

under the stairs til all clear resounded.


The bomb is now a virus which rains

down its deadly cells. Each invisible

speck spots a human and hosts them,

chokes them, batters their brains, and


liver, kidneys, lungs and pains appear

in every place the bones are placed.

Thousands are killed and thousands 

more until the morgues are bursting.


A place to hide they shout from Oxford,

We have found a shelter for each of you,

A serum, no more, that will help you

face off Covid19 until it is dead, dead, dead.


Lies are as bad as Covid as they take 

lives from the innocent and destroy

mums and dads and lovely kids, while

the vaccine only seals C19’s fate.

They have a dream.

I have a dream, one cried.

to subjugate and sully

the lives of all those 

who are not like me.


I have a dream, two cried.

to bully and bait each and

everyone who cannot be

treated in my equality.


I have a dream, the third said,

to have power and control,

to be like the man at the 

head who takes all he wants.


I have a dream, the fourth said,

to be at the forefront and free

myself from the shackles of

morality and dependancy.


They each tread their dream

on the backs of others and 

ignore the cries of the child

and the downtrodden oppressed.

And they live fearful lives full

of lies and injustice and wars;

bringing unhappiness to their

greedy, opulent, grabbing hearth.


I have a dream, a voice cried,

where no one is less than, and

no one is stepped on and no 

one is abused, no one is bullied,

incited and no one is without.


I have dream, said another,

where each child has a childhood,

they each eat three meals a day,

they are safe and loved and 

become the best they can be.


I have a dream, came quietly,

of a world where no one flees,

no one makes wars or weapons,

everywhere justice and peace 

meet together; and hatred and 

avarice are swallowed by love.


Trodden pathways of hope and

to those seeing the good in all

peace comes to comfort them,

as they seek to listen and learn

then truth will tread their path.

As they join against injustice

mercy will be their measure.

As they reach out hands to

those in trouble – then they will

find that truth, peace and mercy 

will dwell in their hearth.

A Little Child Will Lead Them.

I looked and saw thousands of children, spilling

over the land, their eyes all alight and shining;

bright as the sunlight on the bright blue sea.


They danced and sang as they came, and their

many hued faces laughing with delight – for

these are cheerful children favoured by fortune .


I turned and saw a a multitude of small folk

walking to meet them; their gaunt faces and 

stumbling gait, like flotsam on a grey sea.


Some covered in dust from mines, some worn

thin by slavery, some battered by abuse and still

they come,  looking for kindling for their hope.


They meet in a garden, fruitful and seed bearing;

all things are possible. And, I see the blindness of

the privilege – as the dancing ones dance on, as


if their world is their right. And the grimness of 

loss unreal. Taught so well by their parents and 

the guardians of our governments. Their lashes


hid their peeping eyes as they swerved to avoid,

a hand raised to ward off wretchedness and waste,

I watch it -weeping in my soul and praying. Then


a courageous number stop and take the sad hands of

boys and girls, they look into their eyes and learn 

of the terrors and terrible pains they have endured. 


Then together they turn and walk into a future, where

children lead the way to justice, fair shares are for all,

and build a world where every child matters and, yet


still the others march on, ignoring their oppression,

fearfully, fleeing away from uncomfortable feelings

to a self-centred future where shame has died. 

The Wisdom of Trees

Branches brush their velvety, mossy fingers

evoking a rhythm of the beat of nature’s heart,

a breeze blows and a gentler pace breathes.


A storm grows and they scratch and drum, 

with fearful passions striving forward to peace.


They chant the songs of the seasons, and

break out new living leaves, that birth in 

bright greens falling to die in gold and yellow,


delighting the eyes of those who look, and

filling the ready minds with the knowledge

of their own destination with the deep peace

of knowing, that we share a soul cycle of

life that begets life; and the sensible stop



listen to the centuries of wisdom gathered

in their roots, where gentle voices are always

speaking, in low murmurs that only those

listening may hear above the susurrous

of daily living; crowding our cluttered minds.

Save the Jungle

I moved through the towering trees,

with their mellifluous melody and

various greens and browns, reds and 

yellows painting a kaleidoscope, and


a perfect canvas for the glory of nature 

there. Awed, as in a holy place I saw,

the joyous sound of water over stone.

I sat and watched its furious rushing

forcing its way to a distant          ocean.


Butterflies lighted on my hands fearlessly,

ants strolled by and monkeys chanted,

while birds of every colour flew, making

a whirlwind, a multi-hued iridescence.


I watched water crashing and falling,

rainbows marching through the spray.

giving grace to the multitude that 

played with Iris, the mother of

their dancing, light-splitting joy. 


Around me damsels flitted, and all 

around brilliance burst like fireworks.

I marvelled at the spectrum dancing 

amongst the foliage in pure delight.


Silence and awe filled my senses,

but as I turned to take my leave I saw

in the distance, not the sun and skies 

of blue, but menacing darkness, which


smashed, and slashed out that life; that 

gave this spectacle its smorgasbord 

of iridescence and hues. Marching 

mercilessly the army of humans 

trashed their homes

replacing the hallowed

with stumps

and a graveyard


My mother was the knife

that took it from me.

She wielded it as it had been

     for her and the others. Held


me down as I screamed.

‘Don’t let them do it, Mummy!

Please! Please! Don’t.

Stop it! Mummy! Til 


they stuffed my mouth and 

then my eyes bulging in terror,

continued to torture me.


I screamed at the gags,

at the excruciating pain.

They, ignored my struggles,

knowing full well what they were taking.

They cut and sewed, 

sealing a future for me

where I’d spend my

whole life 






to satisfy men.

Deaf to the oppressed.

Are you listening? A lonely voice

echoes off the cliffs of fixed ears

that will only hear if its tune fits.

They called over and over, hoping

in vain for the murmuring of many

distant voices that crowded around,

to tune out nuisance noise; to make 

a dent in the deepening declivity

of intentions over obsessions, 

which crowd out the loudest of

SOS’s and turns them into the

long ago cries that went nowhere.


A shoulder was tapped, and eyes

were turned, to see past the person

and used machinations to avoid

attentions, and where solidly their  

intention was to shield their eyes, and 

close their minds from changing.

Forcing the silenced to grieve. Their 

loss of a voice voiding their existence.

Where Land is Rare

I stood on the cliffs and looked out to blue, blue sea,

the bobbing boats with lines and nets in the bounty.


An innocence spread out on the tortured ruins below

the rippling waves where we came too    late, too       slow. 

Heard the bells of the churches and cathedrals calling

‘neath the waves in sadness and sorrow and raw regret.

I heard the bells of bicycles and front doors and a sound

of the clocks, that ticked away the rising waters of ice

melt, as the sun’s strength grew, and indecisive leaders

tried, and Canute like, failed to turn the trespassing tide.

I watched folk, weighed down with a silvery, fish catch,

as they carried their boxes up the fresh cut, cliff steps.

I laid a hand on my swelling tide of my own and felt

the hoped for baby tumbling beneath my trembling hands.

The heat of the sun bore down on us both and I turned

to return to the city, with its ancient walls, where windows

looked once on rolling fields; now upon rising tumbling waves.

An ancient settlement. Where fish are plenty but land is rare.

Goodness Sown

Politics is the name but man

-ipulation the game as they 

have learned to use our 

prejudices against us,

leaning on us like toppling

trees to sway our thinking and

blow away our morality.

Murdoch has tumbled the


numbers to open he safe, of

sanity and pushed the news

into his own road. And it rises

to meet the crowds listening.

Like a torrent it washes their

minds with the sewage of

racism, misogyny and the

exploitation of small children.


Television has fallen to their

wolflike wiles; and promotes

government biased propaganda,

while those in charge pour 

our economy into the drain

of their utter incompetence.

The evil that they do lives

long after them and the good

is oft crushed to build an empire.


Are we a thin voice in a 


or do we work alongside others?

Avaaz, Amnesty, Tear Fund, 

Faith groups , Greta and great,

egregious heroes that shame 

their lies, build bulwarks against 

a base enemy as they battle

to break bonds and broker change. 


There is 

mighty good my friends, and

we reap what we sow.