The Pilgrim

Her long legs reached to the farthest shore of her being,

shoving and pushing through the muddiness of rejection,

and the sucking swampiness of her certified sickness,

each step a challenge of her spirituality of distinctiveness,

of her direct thinking to wonder at the great unknown, and

still she moves, ever her blue eyes looking for the briefest

of arrivals and departures, each harried horizon differing 

and developing in her persistence to a protected peace,

a hushed silence in the noise of extant voices, seeking

rest for her soul and a hidden haven of hopefulness.


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.

A Rainbow of Grace

Deep in sorrow I walked the walk of grief,

Feeling in my hurting heart the pain of loss.

Each beat a reminder of them and their sweet

faces now facing an enemy grown by greed.


The rainbows arched across the sky, spilling

their palette of colours as it stretched until

it sank into the seething sea, and shared its 

delight in the writhing waves of the sea water.


I reached for a brush and paper wanting to

replicate the delicate hues, and share my own

pleasure in a prism given to us signifying that

God’s creation is a gift that cannot be compared.


I lay and watched and thoughts flowed through a

third eye to another place. There, there is water

and a dome of coloured rocks and everywhere

dancing painted arcs that ripple and flow with


every combination and complication forming

and reforming red, gold, fern green, palest pink,

prime colours and even those we cannot see,

as if a paint chart is playing its own concerto.


I opened my eyes and the sky was going grey,

the loss of the grace of that moment grieved

by the heart, yet still in my mind’s eye it lived,

and over the horizon a growing darkness filled


the skies and brought me back to the gloom

of dying children and forest fires breaking

the chain of life and deepening the crush of 

a changing climate that will cause a cataclysm. 


From a grateful gift of grace I walked on 

with a rainbow of hope pulsing with the

rays of refracted sunlight, a lighthouse 

of hope in a dark and troubled moment.

The Crucifixion

Jesus gasped for a breath, 

the pain reached everywhere,

the burning in is hands and feet,

his skin burnt in the strong sun,

the flies and ants and birds all

preying on his precious blood.


And I saw people from every nation,

every creed, every age, every tribe,

and they knelt before him and bowing

their heads worshipped him, and rising

cheered for the wonder of a God who

accepted horror, mutilation and death

rather than succumb to power and 

domination. A God who is ever thus.


Jesus looked out and saw the crowd,

He saw the proud, the oppressor, the

rapist, sadist, warmongers and those

who had mete out injustice, abusers

of children and bore the torture with

hope in his heart that they will hear,

they will repent, and become like

cherished children and his beloved.


The pain tore into his mind,

It burned in his soul and searched

out each weakness. In agony he so

longed for his father and found him

gone. “Eloi, Eloi. Why have you

forsaken me?” he cried; and found it

echoed in the emptiness of a lie. For

Yahweh was there, lashed, nailed, 

bleeding and dying on the cross.

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 Shepherds

Did the star, so bright, kill the night?

The baby silent in submission to the

hands of unloved men and women?

Did angels hover and sing so sweetly?

Filling the sky with their susurration,

articulating the glory of an organic God?


Did Mary know that the sweat, pain

and agony of giving birth; was just the

beginning of his? Pain filled parturition 

of an embryo space where no-one need

protest, or claim difference or worthiness?

A love-in that shelters, equals and seeks

to redeem the bound world’s corruption.


The Shepherds knew. His life was like

their sheep, full of potential and then

the slaughter, the bloom of red 

spreading out to cover the blindness

of those; who saw their own images

and sought a sacrifice to cover their greed.

Hope in the Darkness

Darkness invites the weary,

and brightens their time,

with candles and fires, 

with glimpses of moons,

and sparkling stars. And 

through the darkening

sky peeps  the pallid sun, 

its silent strength grown 

weaker; and wearily now it

warmly shines in the myriad

eyes of the parcelled populace, 

squinting and smiling, to

see and feel the hope of 

wistful winter, lit by a

baby born at a time of 

plagues, fear and poverty.

Then, she will garnish the 

land with seed fresh shoots, 

snowdrops, and daffodils,

to hearten the weary, wintry

traveller with treasures 




Stealing a Life for Profit

It hurts to see the world as it is,

where the oppressed are bound

and the power abusers succeed.

To feel their hatred for a child

because of birth and colour and

creed, and the dreadful damage

being done to violently vanquish  

good through evil.


The child begs on the street, and

for centuries pleads for coin and

she sells her body for grubby 

notes and loses her sharp sense 

of self, and the ghosts of the past

mingle with the spirits of the

present; showing them the

sheer hopelessness of ever

being better.


The man stoops, old bones

in a young mind. His back

bears the brunt of racism

and hatred gouged into his 

flesh. His once family, now

gone, and he grieves for

the countless children lost; to

vile ideals.


She snatches sleep, while the

proud company sells her life

in garments, made while she

sleepwalks into stick thin 

limbs, that crumble and break

like her spirit, under the weight

of western greed for cheap cat-

walk prosperity.


A once prophetic song, ‘When,

will they ever learn?’ And still

we go around and around with, 

grasping greedy bodies,           reaching

to enslave- to expand their profits,

and subdue dissenting voices,

until their own hearts harden and

souls shrivel.


And is God good? A face, 

diminished by the slaves lash 

and the wrongly accused cross.

He cries out for the oppressed

and the free and – Like a dove, 

hope flies on, and on and one

day, our restless wings and the

white dove, will surely rest

 in the sand.