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,

in the minds, bodies,

and, cast away from families,

to be safe from harm.

——

I pray for the mothers, who

wait by the phone,

fathers, changing a job

for tanks, missiles and a gun.

——-

I pray for their hearts

that they don’t break,

that the abusive powers

relent – speaking words of peace.

—–

I pray for the medics, 

short of supplies,

for the vets who cannot

save bomb blasted pets.

I pray that they’ve

healing hands, their touch

to be as Christ, – in the absence 

of enough of everything.

—–

I pray for the governments,

choices they are making,

to save a people or

bury them in ash.

——

I pray for them to see with

a frightened child’s eyes,

to hear the cries with a

shattered mother’s heart.

——

I pray for the world powers,

to put aside their quarrels,

to open negotiations,

and work solely for peace.

——

Prayer is a voice in the wilderness,

a light in the darkness

and always on the front line

of any battle for any life.

A Sacred Moment

The cloud had darkened, and the lane lengthened,

as my dragging feet walked the dusty way home.

My fears were growing and the worry charging

me with the cost of my acuity. The news was bad.

——

Travelling slowly, saddened and searching, I heard

nearby in a green, thorny thicket a few grams of

feathers, bones and flesh rustled and fluffed, then

interrupted my daydream with a loud, clear call.

—–

A wren, with his hoisted tail, blew my sad and 

gloomy thoughts away as he swelled and music

trebled from his tiny throstle, thrilling me and

retuning me to life in that sacred hopeful place.

—–

Somewhere else a bird sang to his love with

zees and another performed an aria, atop a tree.

They are bastions of creation, holding in their

prayerful songs of praise the glory of their God.

A Cracked Pot

The pottery wheel brings the writhing clay to life,

its whirring pulses through the hands, moulding 

the sticky gooey mess, growing its potential and

finding its nature through touching, loving and

caressing the dirty lump until it reveals 

its hidden glory.

Steadily the rhythm grows and a shape is formed,

a vessel glad to be created, as the potter boldly

pulls and pursues the pleasure of sensing their

own power flowing into the clay, carefully seeing

beauty materialising with a sense of pride in 

its inner glory.

Decorated and fired the fluted vase stands, and

accepts admiration and the echoes of desire

to fulfil its purpose. But, the proud purchaser will 

decide.  Will it live out its lifeless life overflowing 

with tulips, lilies, lupins or empty as Art revealing

its outer glory?

What am I? 

The vase on show?

The cup to carry water to the thirsty?

The vase overflowing with beautiful flowers?

The squat pot full of plants that poison or pollute?

I know I am cracked broken by the pitfalls of living?

Did I resist the creator as divine love shaped my calling?

Or, will that passion of re-generation in the welcomed Spirit 

reveal through my cracks love’s amazing light, glory and grace?

Social Media Hatred

The gif spread slowly across my screen Opinionated, detonated, created, calculated.
Cold and cruel, treating me to someone’s 
unhappy heart turned on me in spite, a bite
Of hate.

——/
Her photo stolen from her life, haunting her
as they passed it along its invisible trip wire.
Seeking fame by defaming, hoping for shares,
and done despairs, violated, cries to be heard.
In vain.

—/
He knew the perpetrator who’d sold their soul to the ancient devil of betrayal for a joke they’d said.
A knowing Dad, noticed his darkened demeanour,
wrestled the walled silence of shame, in the hope.
Of rescue.

——
The suicide note said it succinctly, shouted the ——-
scream, a soul too stretched by media malice,
pushed to the perimeter of a life once played.
New fears of furious parents are charged with 
Their tears. 

——
Media moguls sit in their silks and silver service,
ignoring the strain, the pain, the chains that bind,
And grind down the hope of tomorrow, backs to the misery and missed chances to save lives lost to.
Their Greed.

The walls of Hate.

It was lost before it started,

as the sun rose over the horizon

and the cloud of the dust of centuries

of believing that this is right and that

is so very, very wrong.

==========================

No-one saw the stain in the beginning

but stood and broadcast their right, to

murder, malign, maim over a message

that you, my friend, my neighbour I hate.

====================================

Years roll past and the violence and vehemence

gather strength to make walls and wounds that 

fester making all the yesterdays crucified to

a cause that has no foundation, but falsehood.

=====================================

History repeats and murders by memory,

while children whisper learned hatred,

and bully the difference in themselves

and others, making life a deliberate

nightmare of separatists and strident

speaking of truth – that is no truth at all.

===============================

Our roots are bound to others, but brokenly

we refuse to build our lives to root in goodness,

reconciliation and tolerance, still we 

suffer in large numbers and reject

the words of the murdered one, for saying

Love your neighbour as your selves.

The Prisoner

The Prisoner

She looks through the bars,

her intelligence

dulled by repetition

of the daily chores

and cheerlessness.

Tears fall

as tortured

thoughts

of her child

growing without

her loving touch.

A glimpse now and again,

never enough

as someone

else

charts her child’s

precious years.

Politicians mutter,

What can her family do

against prejudice

injustice

and perfidy

like this,

taking a woman from her

family,

from her freedom

and framing her,

mercilessly

destroying the fragile

bond, that holds

body and soul

together.

Lord, that she may be free

Amen.

The Seeking Pilgrim

Was ever thus, 

when the pilgrim came from

the sea,

fearing the return.

—-

They stayed in a 

still small island

listening for the

thin place and

finding only birds

and the rolling waves,

filling the air

with music,

when they looked for 

God. In the waiting 

they smile at flowers

nodding in the bee breezes

and glower at the dark clouded horizon.

——

Slowly time slipped by and the shore

filled and emptied to a rhythm 

set by the Spirit,

and the pilgrim 

picks driftwood  

as a memory.

Waiting in the Night

Twas evening, when the fishermen sail,

the sun shifting to shine on other seas,

Faintly glowing the far off stars

herald the approaching night.

——

the light slowly recedes from the shore,

as somewhere a wise owl calls from 

a wooded glade, where rested roosting 

birds ready to wake the dawn.

——–

The silken skin of the placid sea

moves in time to a hidden melody

while slowly a sliver of gold rises

silvering the darkling sky.

———–

Nearby human quieten, homes darken

and the moon bright sea shimmers.

and within the ripples dancing is

blue phosphorus blooming.

——–

A sole person communes from the shore,

lost in Neptune’s glorious palette,

he meditates on the swell’s rise

and fall, the salt in his tears.

——–

and the sea watching the lone figure,

hears his eternal heart’s brokenness, 

and in its wisdom contemplates the

mystery of human mortality.

The empty House

The For Sale sign hung expectantly for weeks,

til the joyful hurrying agent slapped ‘Sold’ on

and had ages of paperwork work through while

a loving couple who lived there were truly gone.

—-

It was their cosy home and garden, built in peace

around their chattering children now moved on,

loving hands that cleaned and weeded, partied

and carefully fashioned a flower bestrewed oasis.

—-

Now their spirits have left and its place will 

know them more. Caring neighbours teared up,

and far off family felt the pain of new loss; 

as their growing up place will become another’s – 

—–

and so our lifecycle goes around over the lands 

for rich and poor alike. But grace reveals that we

feel the bitter change, are sorry for it and grieve

the loss of friends who shared in our community.

Guantanamo Fear or Victims

——

He hides face in his arms as they grabbed him,

twisting, hurting his already rope burned skin,

innocently he had travelled to aged Afghanistan,

guilty by colour and creed he was violently taken,

not arrested, nor accused like hundreds of others.

——

Guantanamo Bay, a cruel place of tried and tested

torture criminalising good men,

treating them with contempt 

and evil won the day.

——

Lives broken, loving men lost to their families

forced to live now in isolation,

their punishment continues,

plagued by secrecy and doubt.

——

Evil’s at its best when rabid racism enters

the eyes of the kind hearted,

and fearfully trains hearts to a fear

based on the thought police.

——-

Men who would be our friends have been lost,

peaceable lives tragically torn,

and now will justice come? Or,

like the dew or go early away?

The Gower Pilgrim

The steps of ancients have walked this way,

searching out for easement of earthly sorrows,

seeking souls to bring to an earthy paradise

or expiating their sins with hunger and sorrow,

opening a way for newer treads of modern soles

to journey through the patient places of Gower.

——

Weary living brings the purposeful pilgrim,

eyes  tired of seeing a tense troubled world,

intent on travelling in the holy, loving heart

of a being who reaches through thin places,

where angels hover to assist the seekers and

wounded hands long to hold their burdens.

——

The trail winds though the coastal paths,

down lanes, passing lichen covered trees,

toiling farmers’ friendly waves, tumbling 

water alongside frantically buzzing bees 

searching the wayside sweet flowers, 

and villages of folk, tend loved gardens.

——-

Each step brings new things, a wren calls

and overhead a buzzard hungrily stares.

Waterproofs are stowed against the moods

of the wide sky crafting its treasures hourly;

where the sojourner on the sacred way, 

soul rumbling, is hungry for a holy touch.

——

And so, the pilgrimage takes our hands,

feeding us with grace in the incompleteness

of existence and fuelling us for an unsteady

future; and invites us to take kindly comfort 

to sustain our strength, hearten our prayers

and be broken bread to all our neighbours.

Fascism

Generations crippled and controlled,

controversially, cruel governments 

count the dead and silence the poor;

while the elite count their moneys

and parade themselves fortuitously

in roles designating fearful fascism.

Comprehensibly overtaking press and

media manipulating and monitoring

until the oppressed seek redress.

——

Painfully the demonstrating populace,

face the potential ruinous choice of

punishment, 

to uphold hope in a vote,

to definitely restore a determined 

democracy, replacing the right wing

ruling by a good people; prevailing

and working for the common good.

Children matter more than guns.

The once kissed face unrecognisably their chlld,

tiny hands, they touched, covered in drying blood,

their little lungs filled with blood, their future stolen

and their once loving hearts, overwhelmed died, 

sacrificed at the altar of the  ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

—-

Mothers broken by the news weep inconsolably,

fathers fury chokes the tears back in their throats,

Grandparents shocked and stunned cry, brothers

and sisters seek comfort from frozen parents; all

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

——

Police mumble apologies to the stink of cordite,

counsellors offer their capable services for free,

while hastily assembled candle lit vigils haunt us,

with the souls of the carnage, of yet another school

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

—–

Fear lives inside each school as children are drilled,

parents, in terror wait for their weapon driven call,

and children are taught that the student body count,

increasing each week is worth the terrible sacrifice  

on that altar, where they will  be burned while bound 

by the 

gun 

lobby 

ropes.

The once kissed face unrecognisably their chlld,

tiny hands, they touched, covered in drying blood,

their little lungs filled with blood, their future stolen

and their once loving hearts, overwhelmed died, 

sacrificed at the altar of the  ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

Mothers broken by the news weep inconsolably,

fathers fury chokes the tears back in their throats,

Grandparents shocked and stunned cry, brothers

and sisters seek comfort from frozen parents; all

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

Police mumble apologies to the stink of cordite,

counsellors offer their capable services for free,

while hastily assembled candle lit vigils haunt us,

with the souls of the carnage, of yet another school

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’

Fear lives inside each school as children are drilled,

parents, in terror wait for their weapon driven call,

and children are taught that the student body count,

increasing each week is worth the terrible sacrifice  

on that altar, where they will  be burned while bound 

by the 

gun 

lobby 

ropes.

The Partygate Dance

He danced for the scribes and the hypocrites,

He danced for a tune taught by the oil rich,

he danced for the women and danced for lust,

he danced for the wealthy and danced for glee.

===

He danced against the laws and the protocols,

he danced against the poor and the vulnerable,

He danced for his mates and danced for cash,

He danced through criticism, danced laughing.

===

He danced against the police and danced for joy

as he danced from the fines and danced off free.

He danced in his dalliances, danced like a fool,

He dances and folk died, danced on their grave.

===

He dances to a tinny tune that we cannot hear,

He dances and flings reports to an eightsome reel,

He dances and exhausts the critics and critical,

and if justice is met he’ll be arrested, and then

dance 

in 

our 

courts.

A voice in the Wilderness of War

One tiny bird, atop the blasted tree,

fluffed its downy golden breast,

opened its shining beak and sang 

a new song, from

its heart, over the dying.

—-

Oppression, violence, vice, violation

of my land, killed chirruping chicks,

blasted my family while I flew afar.

These are my lyrics,

breaking me as they died.

——

They came in filthy smoking tanks,

despoiling, destroying, draining

the joy that lived here and cherished

every gift from God,

now ground from life to death.

——

I sing over the bodies of children,

their future ripped from their hands

by cowardly men dressed as heroes.

Their souls gone, can never be replaced

their hearts gone for aye.

—–

Fluttering down to the ruined earth,

he saw that hope had been annihilated,

each ruinous act of hate deactivated

the spark of life

generated in love.

—–

Still he opened his throstle, and chanted

his prayer, that despair will die and each

root of hopefulness will bring grace

and the shattered land

shelter life again. 

Earth 2 or 3?

The gleaming metal shone in the sun as it plummeted towards the planet’s verdant surface,

splashing into the bluest of blue seas, it bobbed quietly, rising and falling with the waves.

A gap appears near the top and emerging from the darkness into the light came figures,

each stood shaking on wobbly legs fell into a flimsy inflatable dinghy thrust into the water.

——

The motor throbbed into life and seeking land flew through the soaking water easily until,

riding up a golden beach the engine silenced the humans within sat enchanted, entranced 

by the myriad birds, their songs and the babble of animals calling from the nearby jungle.

Faces hidden behind helmets. Mouths wide in shock. It’s the wrong place, they whispered.

—–

None of them expected the lush, luxuriant growth, only a desert and a plastic filled sea,

for long ago some came and found the inhospitable climate, deserts and poisoned air.

Turning the faces to the green or the blue their eyes lit up with the abundance of food

for furry creatures as well as birds and at last they breathed in the pure, fresh air.

—-

One of them started to send the message that the earth was pristine, a place for people,

then stopped and propping his device his knee, pondered, paused and then panicked.

Humans will again be bringing their pollution and practices and plunder the resources 

til plastic mounts, privilege outweighs sense and the populace dies from overheating.

——

A woman, thoughtful and brilliant in her comprehension of the peril for this paradise.

reached down and picking up the receiver, smashed it with a rock, took her own tech

and solemnly, slowly the others saw her point and looking hard at the joyous bounty

nodded,  joined her and then they walked into the depths of the jungle and courageously

let nature 

take

its

course.