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


The Truth is no Truth at All.

It’s not time to ring in the truth because it hurts.

I have been scalded by the truth as it works into

my gut and leaves the guilt lurking nauseously,

clinging to my brain until I am rendered a kindly

repentant soul again and say those words so very

hard but oh so very healing and achingly appealing, 

‘I am so sorry.’ I did wrong.


Yet he clings to his lies and dominating ties to the

powers that abuse and misinform, misremembering

the things that happened, recorded in the press and

filmed for the television, so a mission for omission is

pressed ahead so that he can fib to avoid the gibes

of the journalists, newsreaders and nervous onlookers.


He stares and stumbles and cites, ‘We did not do right,’

But he did wrong, so we long for him to be gone for 

we wrote it in our tweets and it was heard in our claps,

cheering the NHS as people sowed up their curtains to

make PPE and masks while doctors and nurses sickened,

and without the cover caught the dread disease, and died.


Companies offered to make them double quick but he

said his friends would do it better and some would 

arrive from China, but now he says he lied for there

was always enough PPE for everybody. But sound out

the nurses barely breathing on ICU, staff battered as

Covid19 prowled and used the lack of protection to


pollute and pick its victims, and so the fit shouldered

the burden til exhaustion and poor equipment and a pack

of Shylocks, as well deaf ears to the knocking on the door

by the wise, wilfully ignoring and saying they were boring,

failed to save their nation by isolation, and blocking

the locking  which soon was clocking deaths in their


thousands. He gambles and it’s a shambles as he still

rambles on til thousands upon thousands died and now

people stumble through the night of their pain seeking

operations, chemo and the right treatment for other

diseases because they just wanted to ease their minds

and behind close doors grumble and mumble over the


rising tide of anger as they feint and paint their actions

like children who cannot face blame, so they shame 

someone else and fail to tame their own greedy eyes

and those of their mates who got special rates so that

they could come in late and make the state pay money

for funny goings on, no guilt, they say we did no wrong.

The Truth Hurts

Curled in a ball she lay frozen in time as the pain

searched out every corner of her small body, and

her mind shut down as to contemplate all that had

happened was too much.  An inhuman man stared 

at the broken child as he zipped his flies after he 

had ripped the cries out of a child and left her

bloodied and torn.


Nearby a girl hides form the pursuer who took her

into his room and raped her, who now looks to her

for the pleasure of her screams and cries, which he 

muffles with his big hands as he destroys the very

core of her being with his lusts and loose lack of 

self-control, slaking his thirst on a body made for 

play and school.


While one man or woman can take and ruin one such 

child then no children are ever safe from the ugly,

unjust way that the law ignores       their raw calls

so that somewhere an adult is politely protected, 

politicians, police- while vulnerable children are violated,

and no one hears their shouts because they think that

they are above the law.


So, shout children, shout and tell the world over

and over again of the sickening wickedness that

has traumatised you, vandalised you and torn a

future from you. It is time that everyone hears 

from every child and stands with them against

the bullies and bawls to the world that this is

evil and must be blocked and locked for all time 

and in all places.

The Choice and No Choice

The child shook and cried – as his emaciated body fought the knowledge

of a fever that choked the breath of his father and captured his mother‘s 

before oxygen came that can’t be given, because it is held in a place where 

the faces of the well smile as they selfishly return to a normality that is 

their’s but not his.


Not far distant a farmer loads his cart for marketing his hard worked

goods to sell in a place where covid is thriving and so thinking people 

have learned to stay at home. And now his goods will rot and his own

wife and children will die from starvation while somewhere a nation

heals but not his.


At a port there are ships that wait   for a call that will free them to 

travel home to their loved ones, but for now they wait, alone and 

lonely, deprived of human contact that comforts. Their thoughts 

turn to suicide and depression, while not far vaccinated sailors 

sail easily but not them.


The world has a centre which turns with us, and together we are

all held in thrall by its core giving us life and gravity; but human

hearts refuse to hear that we belong as one people, 

one planet,

one earth, 

one hope 

but instead we have those who choose to

take and those who can’t.


Some choose which hat, they choose which putrid water.

Some opt for a take away, they opt for what is thrown away.

Some prefer designer clothes and some wear passed on rags.

Some live in clean and tidy homes and others on the street.

A choice is a voice from opulence and should give others

a chance to have voices and make choices.

My Winter in Summer

I heard the crunch of tyres on the stony ground still,

as it stopped on the grassy verge and outpoured

chattering children and gathering grownups. Nearby 

the yapping of a small dog, running freely amongst 

the cars disturbing someones quiet moments, and

threatening to knock over the frail taking a walk

in the afternoon sunshine – after a long year sitting.

I felt the sting of tears as I stood alone, cherishing

the sights and sounds despite my sorrowing soul.


I look over the cliffs and see the the lumbering

shapes of cows stopping to munch at the green

grass, kept fresh by the rainy days, they chew 

slowly dripping saliva as they relish the juiciness,

and then they slowly subside onto a fresh patch

and resolutely chew their sweet cud while small

patterned calves run between them on their too

long wobbly legs, eating the grass and drinking

the much needed sustenance from the udders.


I saw overhead and heard the call of Choughs

as they jounce through the air showing off their

joy at the world. A greenfinch zee zees in the

blackthorn and a charm of goldfinches swarm

around the dandelion clocks chirping. High

on a tree a blackbird calls and then a thrush 

puffs out his breast and sings a song to warn

of coming storms and yet the joy in his heart

tumbles from his beak into a my bleak living.


I walk on and hear a child cry with delight at the

sight of the choices of ices and eyes wide they

look at labels of chocolate, honey, blueberry til

a decision with precision, a waiting smile, hands, 

ready to receive the precious taste of holidays 

and special events that have long since been 

a rarity in their vicinity and well merited now,

melting into small mouths and reviving them

with sugars and colours and tastes and smells.


Everywhere there are daisies and buttercups

brightening the brown earth where nature 

produces orchids early and harebells late,

bluebells to mirror a sky of blue on earth,

garlic to fill the air with a pungent delight

and blackberries flowering, preparing the

fruit of jams, jellies, crumbles and pies.

All through them the gorse spikes shine 

gold, spreading their honey scent wide.


I walk on with winter in my wretched heart, and 

return towards my home poignantly pondering,

wondering, and wanting to applaud the joy

and hope in all those happy sticky faces, 

and gritty shoes and wished again that my

little ones were here amongst them – and not

locked away by a vile virus that blocks them. 

mocks my aching empty arms and I look at

at the summer through a veil of trickling tears.

The Virus and World Domination

A fiercesome thing is lockdown,

it growls around us like a roaring

wind, that tears the fabric of lives

apart and turns the hope of Spring

into a winter of depression, and a

lesson that sows seeds in a nation

that seeks to avoid exhalation of

drops of a virus; that violently takes

from us our hopes, and fears, and 

numbs the emotions with the tears,

of disempowerment and the lament

will be heard for years when still it

will bite the crust from hard earned 

folks and their childrens’ hands.


Each person of power walked a 

road of holding might, and a fight

to show they meant to stop its

dividing and riding on the backs

of the innocent, who lack the test,

to show it has them in their grip

and will use them to slip through

to kill, to maim and harm as many

as it can, and monster mutations 

ensure that antibodies are over-

come to win world domination. 


But the divisions and revisions;

the deciders allow doubt to slide

in, trying to slow its pace are in

every way arrogant and hesitant

and ignorant of the resistance

that an unseen enemy has been

able to choose in the absence

of the will to close our borders,

as New Zealand has done and

there the virus has no home, a

whisper and it will be shut down

because there they knew their

enemy and faced reality in time,

choosing the common good first.

A childhood lost.

Their little hands reached out and touched the sensitive screen,

no longer ably remembering the last time that they had been

on that squishy sofa. or sat on her knee, all warm and snuggled 

while adults struggled with sleepy eyes, after a hilarious time

running and laughing, hugging, catching until the loud chime

of the clock tells its tale of supper and bubbles in baths, and

eye closing, feeling cosy drifting to cherished dreams in a land

where Grannies and Grandads, cousins and friends are near,

right by them and they reach out small hands and they’re there.


that is far off ,

and away beyond the harsh realities of Covid 

where Grannies and Grandads are no longer strangers that 

exist inside a screen but are real people who laugh and hug,

where there is a warm welcoming home to rush into, arms

held out, long loving cuddles, and snacks, and adventures 

and not the nightmare of isolation from friends, and the loss

of a childhood, where children make chums and champions.


Arbitrarily drawn, each brace is something else’s

place and loss as fences are built and concrete 

is laid for solutions to stop intrusions, incursions

and contusions for those who try. There is a

body who believes in their right and might for

their own bipartisan brain to build visible walls.


A golden butterfly gentled hangs on barbs

and flowers and plants, animals and insects

pass through the barrier as the blithely grow

and go, procreate and sow their genes not

knowing lines drawn on maps, nor barbed 

wire, concrete nor gates and gullies and gun –

placements; dreamed into being by the very

greedy, money hugglng, gold hungry rich.


While the poor hold onto their integrity and

hospitality is something of particularity and

honourably they welcome the governments’

aliens -as neighbours, giving them harbours,

felling the blocks of fear and injustice, not

lives defined by racism, enclosed, ice frozen

but wise to the lies and aware of the rare truth.

Death to the Precious Earthworm

Like a centipede without legs it pushes it’s way

through the thick earth, unseeing, opting to avoid

stones and wood that silently strew its darkling trail,

chewing on Autumnal leaves, debris of long ago.

Finding new ways and rising to drink from sweet

spring rains, it noses its way through he roots 

of wonders that enjoy its bounteous secretors.


A bird waits, head tipped listening, beak tapping

and the innocent worm hangs in the beak ready

feed the gaping abyss of nestlings, ever hungry

and so the worm builds their bodies and gives

them flight over the verdant earth as cultured,

changed by its turgid turning of the hidden ’til

composted it sustains a complexion of creation.


Every second it is digesting and reinventing the

sustenance that builds until humans sprayed on

chemicals that kill, chemicals to will the plants

into a life that man chooses;  the worm slowly

absorbs poisons and artifices of the populace

and dying takes with it the gift it brought, life,

If only we’d eyes to see and the wisdom of worms









There is no just war.

Wearing a dirty face mask she peeped over the top of the rancid rubble,

her dark eyes smudged with sleeplessness and the filth of her poverty,

The fear in her eyes searched the landscape filling in the gaps where 

friends and family had lived and now sought another sojourner in war.


Like a trembling timid rabbit she looked longingly, listening for her

hearing to return to her – from their ringing a peal, stinging a steal, 

shocking and shaking the shattering earth. She hears a buzz like

an angry bee and seeking the source sees now the returning demons


set on ensuring that no one would survive alive to narrate their evil

heinous event.  She plodded down to the bludgeoned basements,

seeking a hole amidst the reeking wreckage with her growing child, 

she held in her womb. She found a shielded place and shuffled in.


The next wave of bombs came crashing around the smoking ruins.

She covered her ears and hugged the ground and prayed to a 

being, that cowered there with her, who wept with tears of anger

as the mother bleeds and the seed of hope within leaves and still

they fly, bombers who bind and blind themselves by the blatant 


discordant words of discontent; and deafen themselves to cries

of women and children, whose lives are ruined and homes razed,

amidst a world that could be at peace if it chooses, but no it accuses.

Despicable, irredeemable and abominable war is, but they’ll believe


that their cause is the way – to build a nation on their own views and

ideologies, theologies and illogicalities. That to wave an evil wand, to

send the innocent to their grave and consider they are brave in their

wanton destruction, deconstruction of a nation of the vulnerable ones,


weaponless ones, innocent ones. So, they come with fabled phallic-

like guns and shoot their furious metal sperm at a world, and wielding

their weapons charge an enemy of school children, bugs and lizards,

birds and bees as if they’re terrifying tanks and torpedoes instead.


Wearily the creator regards their senseless, defenceless destruction

and weeps the tears, as cradling the lifeless bodies of a burgeoning

creation, that was a loving notion til the shrill will of a few took their

fill of wars and called it God’s cause and wrote laws to hide the truth.

The Graveyard of Climate Change

The earth shifted and a fitful groan echoed through the desertified landscape,

A sheet of plastic wrapped itself languidly around a tortured thorny tree,

across the sanded earth small creatures slipped between the drifting dunes

and on the horizon rose a cloud, hurrying them to huddle beneath the golden


grains. Growing it then blotted out the sky and the sun strained to see the 

world that humans had created through their pleasure seeking parties;

that told the world that they were supreme idiots and ignorant idlers. 

The swift storm passed, taking the polluting plastic to another place


where it hung on a post pointing to nowhere anymore because people

who built roads and homes and hosts of beautiful buildings were no

longer there having destroyed the globe with their glittering greed. They

live now under monuments to avarice and apathy in a forgotten graveyard.