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.

Street Children

Shivering they silently stood outside,

ever and always outside of all that

is.   They waited until a voice kindled

the terror they remembered, and fowl

money passed hands dirtying the

innocence of a four year old child.

———

The others encouraged them to 

go in and accept that to survive

is to strive and yield any hope of

childhood. For life on the streets

can only be held together if they

share tortured pain, terror and

depraved adults paying pesetas 

to take evilly designed pleasure.

—–

The child struggles to walk, their

frozen face stained with tears

and eyes that have died rather

than see and a mind tightly shut

to recall of the violence that they

endured for a meal.  While close

——————–

by others sit round tables and eat

throwing spare food to the dogs,

not to kids that kindle evil outside,

sniffing glue and plying prostitution,

poisoning their streets and don’t

they richly deserve all they get?

——————–

Another place has opened and

there they offer a home for those

who want to come off the streets.

a sanctuary, wholesome and safe.

to save a child they struggle against 

pervading

attitudes,  

history, 

police but yet stay

to help children learn to be safe and

enjoy that wonderful gift of childhood.

Thank you to ToyBox.

House Martins in the Heights.

Swerving, circling, swiftly passing,

peeling off, synchronised flying;

feeling their freedom, it so thrills

my soul, sharply they turn and 

soar to great heights, where

spaces are clear, free and kind.

——

Swooping, skating over the grasses

gracing the top of Graig Fan Las

and Bwlch Y Ddwyallt. Rising to the

giddying heights of Cribyn and all

their joyous dance gliding around

giddily; creating magic and delight.

——

Sliding, slipping out of view they

arch their wings and silently grace

the sky, showing white, dark wings,

then creamy rump flying by and I

look with awe as they show us

a house is a home where the heart

——–

is. Maybe on mountain top or hilly

lows, sown under roofs and pipes 

that drain.Stuck fast to walls and 

barns that shelter their young until 

majestically arching their tiny form

soar up to a hearth in the heavens .

Afghanistan’s Wreath

Pontificating blaggards,

blanketing women and

blocking their tear filled

pleas, and bludgeoning

plunging humble hopes. 

Praising their own bravery

building a uniformity so 

bleakly fragile lives under

policing of sexuality, face

punishment lash and death. 

——

Politicising injustice runs through the land,

Like the curling freezing fog of late Autumn, 

Killing the chilling life growing so charmingly,

and starving them out in the wraths of winter.  

—-

People in billions watched

beastly cruel celebrations,

binding calibrations of the

Purposeful intent of men

Proposing evil over mercy.

——

Publicity changed nothing,

blagging behind their masks,

bending backwards for Lapis,

pushing to make pathways,

peddling lives for gems.

Love

Those eyes, I look and see myself as he does,

He stares back with leisurely love,

It never wavers,

Each tiny cell speaking peace,

Each lash and brow saying, “Hush.”

Challenged I watch those eyes that watched the children play,

and Blessed them,

turned to the blind and dumb,

and healed them,

looked into the eyes of the broken,

and gave them back a life,

turned the shame of the rejected 

into the warmth of welcome.

greeted the unloved with kindness

and saw them beloved.

I watch and am warmed again.

It started so well.

Alone, silently, a cell splits on a planet,

cold and bleak, traces of life beginning

fragile, hopeful and a stirring of a sigh.

—-

Then others mutate and movements starts

as the urge to live, to create and to be but 

changes the barren land and sea and sky.

Slowly, creeping, altering organisms are

becoming more complex, and are they

choosing and deciding or has something

—–

moved over the waters, shifting, silently

building a life that wakens and urges to

sounds, and calls, and echoes thrilling

—–

the ocean where the slippery shapes of

finned creatures, loving the watery flow

over their various forms,  swim to and fro.

—–

Standing forms are moving now, taking

over places and building their own place,

ignoring their effects and increasing spoil;

——

for the way they made their core contribution,

and the force that begat the beginnings

is destroyed in favour of might and moil.

——

The hope that drove the tiny, trembling cells

is trampled as carbon chokes each millennia’l

budding, and a planet begins to buck, to bend, 

to 

burn. 

The Grief of Afghanistan

It takes years for the slights and prejudice to forge

a people of deepening hatred for their oppressors,

and they bite back burning away the years that cast

cynical doubt on their cruel power hungry purposes.

—-

It was like blowing oxygen through molten pig iron,

lowering the carbon content to make it stronger and

enabling a revolutionary force to grow a steel shell

that would withstand, wait and harden their hearts. 

—–

They watched as kin were blasted in their homes,

and by purposely poisoning people’s perception,

turned the willingness and casting of a new country

into fractured fragments of flawed steel overheated. 

—-

Piled into trucks, prowling the streets they marched,

greeted by friends who have longed for power, still

they dance and wave their mighty machines of war,

and violate the women like vile cowards afraid of

—-

      their beauty and see the female as corrupting

and themselves unable to control their own urges,

denying the gift of God who gave love, equality 

and joy, instead of the male dominance that will

——

take and destroy the lives of girls to slake their

own lust, and coerce them into sexual slavery, and

in fear,  wrestle daily for justice while chained to an

evil avalanche of masculine perpetrated misogyny.

Cambo and others

The candle flamed and then the dark enfolded it,

taking the space from the rank room and filling

it with the sins of the rich nations who take each

glimmer of light and feed on it leaving the rest to

wrestle with the deepening dread of night and

—–

nearby in valley of shadows someone’s sharing

a story of long ago tales, of times where treats

were not rare, and meals were met with thanks

and shared with the stumbling poor. Not one

now knows a joy of justice or the fun of fullness.

—–

The gloom grows with grim satisfaction as the

world closes in – while keeping its largesse for

itself and still they feed the fires of greed as

once wealth takes root it feasts on flights of

fancy that it is never, ever going to be enough.

——

The historian looked and struggled with tears

that threatened to make pathways down her

frowning features, she read again of the 

terrible tragedy of humans who hesitated,

gave life to oil fields, who oiled their palms

and

crippled

creation.

Money Paces the Action.

The turbid water struggled down the sluggish stream,

filling my mind with the conflicting consequences of

completed actions repugnant to life, like the stagnant 

putrid puddles steamy with slimy sewage by the bank.

—–

The once clear waters had flowed, tumbling over the

rocks and stones, sparkling in the sunlight as it wove

its way past gay, green meadows and tall stalked fields

of wind blown wheat, waving like golden ocean waves.

——

Now I see only the wasted time of delayed deliberations, 

spoiling the landscape, destroying the already dying

lives of once naturally resilient flora and fauna for ever,

decisions made by filthy lucre, ignoring the science.

—-

Like the stream we muddied and meandered on 

doing things that meddled and made things worse, 

to line the pockets of politicians and  friends, to suit 

those with egoistic eyes amassing millions in a bank.

Terror

I wake, in early hours with gloomy meanderings.

A spiky virus wanders through and I watch it 

despairing that it will ever quieten and agree.

Then a forest aflame floats searing my vision,

cresting the wave of self destruction as each

carboniferous death of a carbon absorber. 

—-

I slip sleepily into the comforting sounds of

a sea shore somewhere where the flow and

fall of tides rocks me ’til I surface fearful.

—–

I lie there, tight muscles, a starter headache,

staring into an airless abyss where towering

trees crash to the gulping ground, and small

frightened folk disappear into smoke filled

zones, where the hottest hell ate their home.

—-

Somewhere in a laboratory, an obligatory 

effort is going on to find ways to quell those

spreading tongues and restore the fragrant

forests, or opening the way for a dying world

to yield heating carbon into holding containers.

——–

I slide fitfully into a place of nightmare dreams

and try to recall the calm and peace of the blue

lulling sea calling me. And then I hear the screams

———

of women caught by fighting men and forced

from their freedom into slavery as extremist

Moslem wives. I hear their calls for help and

weep bitter tears of shame as I will arise and

live my day fearlessly and framed in love.

——-

I restlessly try to form their cries into prayers

asking a God who they say is love to go there

and show the men that it is their shame to 

treat God’s created beings by cutting back their

lives to be trampled on, their lives terrorised.

——-

And still I cry, for why do men think they have

the power and control to cruelly treat women,

as worthless. I lay awake praying their pain.

Save the Life of a Child

You look at the pictures of that abused child,

you ain’t no better than the one that did the vile

thing to that sweet innocent little bundle, that 

should be full of joy and you filled her with 

filth and degraded her little form, that ain’t norm.

===

You got them on dat computer of yours and turn

it on,

while those caught kiddies they done nothing

to deserve being brutalled and sometimes totalled, 

for you on your tech to insanely, sickenly burn.

====

Them judges don’t seem to realise, they summarise

your behaviour as less than that one what did the

terrible, horrible, vile violations to a dear little one.

You looked at them and paid, you did that thing to

===

that little face that cries and hurts, sick at heart,

just so that some sick pervert scans their photo.

So, if you be a judge, they be deserving the same

as those that stole that little child’s spirit and life.

—-

Those children are suffering, used for buffering

a bank account, that’s the amount they matter,

Look at their eyes, see the reflection and note,

You should be the one in correction and fighting

and righting the porn and scorn of helpless kids.