Coercion and Corruption

Holy Monday

It was riddled with corruption and guilt,

that temple in Jerusalem,

No one could come and feel beloved

excepting the moneyed leadership.

—–

The tables were out and wares bought,

in that holy courtyard,

In poverty they came where exploitation

capitalised on the hungry poor.

—–

Pitiful returns on money exchanged,

and the costs of doves were high,

seeking redemption they paid it all,

to appease the law.

—-

He walked in and saw the oppression,

in a place that was holy,

he felt their pain, saw the cheating

and stood for truth that day.

—–

He overset the tables, loosed the doves

in his rage at the injustice.

Breathing hard he spoke the word –

this is a place of prayer.

—–

The temple curtain trembled and shook,

while people flocked to see,

the gentle, healing man, zealous for action

fighting for grace and love.

——

The stones in the courtyard,

besmeared and trodden,

looked up and praised

that awesome judgement.

——

The great blocks of stone, in

the sturdy temple walls,

shouted for equality and opportunity

to be shared for all.

——

The dust settled, shock waves at peace,

he looked up and wept for the many

who always die contributing to 

corruption and coercion.

The Poor paying for the Rich

He looked into his wallet and then into the face of his children.

Oliver looked out from their faces, thinned and paled by hunger,

Their sad eyes looked at  under woolly hats and coat covered arm hugs.

His eyes watered and his empty belly grumbled as he opened

the last dull can of beans, cut the crust of curling bread into two,

watched the food disappear into hungry mouths opened like nesting chicks.

Not far away, plates were full with succulent salmon, rare steak, 

beef, chicken  vegetables, fried potatoes and mashed spuds, followed

by golden custard, french named cakes, apple pies and salted chocolate ices.

—-

Somewhere a mother scraped small crumbs from her sons bowl, sucking

them from the poor plastic spoon. In her head imagining the eggs tomorrow,

when the reduced Universal credit arrived, a meal, heat, then rancid bin search.

Not far away, a kitchen door ajar, while out of date food is thrown away,

in the waste; while far away, the icy hearted are having a party at number 10,

half eaten rich food slipped in a bin. They take from the poor to give to the rich.

—-

Clean, loved children crying themselves to sleep, hunger gnawing at their vitals,

holding onto the hope for tomorrow they’d be in heaven, food galore at the FoodBank,

bringing home food in plenty to be eked slowly to cover the schoolless, foodless weeks.

Miles away lives a callous rich man who can choose to give them enough or kill

them slowly by starvation and a rich woman minister who chooses to treat them as 

alien pariahs, ignores the council of the wise, ignores deadly hunger, abuse and trafficking.

—–

Truth may come, but already the lies hold sway, the government culled the media.

So, how will the hungry children have their voices heard? The starving, the weakened

the oppressed, hidden from sight, are crying out, lost in the lies trumpeted out by Tory press.

======

Yes, minister, the numbers in poverty are atrocious 

but we are doing what we can, watch us.

We’ve paid the rich and they are wealthy too. 

Tis tricky, the trickle down effect?

‘It won’t.’ A lie from long ago. 

The poor are always with us – but they

don’t

donate

to

our

party.

Feed the Rich and starve the Poor.

He looked into his wallet and then into the face of his children.

Oliver looked out from their faces, thinned and paled by hunger,

Their sad eyes looked at him as they hugged each other for warmth.

—-

His eyes watered and his empty belly grumbled as he opened

the last dull can of beans, cut the crust of curling bread into two 

and watched the food disappear into their mouths, every dry crumb.

—–

Not far away, plates were full with succulent salmon, rare steak, 

beef, chicken  vegetables, fried potatoes and mashed spuds, gravy

and there would be golden custard, pies, cakes, salted chocolate ices.

—-

She scraped the lot of the crumbs from her sons bowl and sucked 

them from the plastic spoon. She would eat tomorrow when the meagre,

mean Universal credit arrived, just the once and search rancid bins to survive.

—-

Not far away, a kitchen door ajar, while out of date food is thrown away,

in the waste; while far away, somewhere they’re having a party at number 10,

half eaten food slipped into the trash, where its taken from the poor to give to the rich.

—–

Two cleanly washed children trying to sleep while hunger gnawed at their vitals,

too tired to cry, but holding onto the hope for tomorrow they’d go to the FoodBank,

bringing home food in plenty to be eked slowly to cover the schoolless free food weeks.

—-

A few miles away lives a rich man who can choose to give them enough or kill

them slowly by starvation.  A rich woman minister who chooses to treat them as 

alien pariahs has people shopping for her and ignores the cries. and has food to spare.

—–

Truth may come, but already the lies hold sway, the government culled the media.

So, how will the hungry children have their voices heard? The starving, weakened

oppressed, hidden from sight, are crying out. Their shouts trumpeted out by Tory press.

——

Yes, minister, the numbers in poverty are atrocious but we are doing what we can,

We’ve paid the rich and made them very wealthy and wait for it to trickle its way down,

‘It won’t.’ We made that lie up a long time ago. The poor will always be with us but they

don’t donate

to our

party.

The Secret Power.

They met in secret, stealthily straining at gnats

to be sure that they would never be restraining

their wealth and never permit the poor to speak.

They’re busily retraining multiple ministers so

they would be refraining from supporting needy

people for that was to go against their reigning.

Teaching then to be disdaining of the protesters

and binding them in law, in statutes to silence,

and stop them staining an ordered fascist land.

They sit in power, chaining the hands of those

who dare and draining the hope of the refugee,

and sending them home to violence and death.

—–

Who gives them the power that they take?

Who allows them to be always on the make?

Governments and leaders feigning innocence.


He sits and smirks as they pat his obedience for 

caning a waning economy; like a smiling nanny 

seeing a pretty child, posing for their parents.

Christmas, what’s the point?

The lonely are lonelier,

the poor – even poorer,

the weak are slowly weaker,

the spoiled are so spoiled.

And there is a place

where you are either

outside or in. And no-

one asks you to enter.

—–

The sad are even sadder,

the glad somewhat gladder,

the fearful – more fearing.

The workers – hard working

and there is a place

where feet are on the rest,

food is served to the best,

And joy is an Offshore Bank account.

——-

Bastard! they called him,

born in squalor they said,

cuckolded his father she did,

and then he ditched them and

rebelled against their traditions,

Legalism and tyranny.     Instead,

He loved the sick into health,

gave sight to the blind,

restored the dead to life,

and hatred heartened them.

——–

Captured him, killed him quick,

denied him a future. Just to stop

the rot.   Tortured by lash.

Crucified,  Christ on a tree,

They tried to rub him from 

history but love rebounds,

restores and reconciles.

——-

Love gives the weak strength,

Love will feed the hungry,

Love befriends the lonely.

Love cares with the fearful,

Weeps with the tearful, and

Somewhere He is celebrated

still.  His sacrificial love 

flows and received heartens

and always a reason for joy.

——————————————-

Nadolig Llawen, Happy Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel Frohe Weihnachten, 圣诞快乐, חג מולד שמח, Gëzuar Krishtlindjet, Ikrisimusi emyoli, ハッピークリスマス, Счастливого Рождества, Καλά Χριστούγεννα

Breaking the poor to pay the rich.

There, in the place of privilege and parliament,

she held the flame high. And showed clearly the

darkness that assaults the poor and divided David 

Cameron’s almost managing ’til their larders are 

emptied of succour and their frightful futures fixed

with a hasty handful of wealth cultivated wishes. 

——-

Although this time the poor are paying for the rich,

their fingers in frayed pockets for rich folks’ care,

their homes will go while bloated pockets only pay

for their own pleasures and privileges, homes in

exotic islands, money in expat banks. All are

taking the bread out of the mouths of little babes.

———-

The light will always shine in the darkness and 

the truth will always out.  Turning the lives of the

wealthy patrons and persons of high living into

questions;

and levelling up will become a torrid

affair where polls are lost and a new party born.

Tears

I bit into my chocolate, and the thoughts began to percolate.

I tasted the milkiness and bittersweetness and sighed and

cried inside my body – where the need’s nourishment not this

punishment as the weak, hungry child in my mind’s eye dies.

—–

I do not mean to deride the pride we have in our great nation,

as we cut back the giving so that our living can survive the

incessant drive of disease and wasted chances in warped

circumstances yet still the wasting child in my mind’s eye dies.  

——-

I once spoke with someone who had no bread, his children

not fed, and, “I’’m outside the human race, my family thin of 

face. The swollen bellies that you see on your tellies are 

emotional damaging, physically challenging and I have no

——

way to feed, I cannot sow seed that greed has taken on land

that is stolen.” It is a mystery that in our history we repeat it

over and over again. The poor are pushed aside while lying

governments hide their routes to wealth which scour out

the pots of poverty. 

Tyranny

He yawns

and suborns.

He snores

breaks the laws.

Watching the world waits and wonders,

will it ever end or will he make them bend

again and again to suit his rules, and calls

them fools, as he laughs and sneers behind

their listening ears. The homeless are in the

gutter because that is his bread and butter. 

The poor queue for philanthropist’s good food 

and that is understood. For, it is up down and

even top down that only works if friends are

paid and money made first, he has such an

unimaginable thirst for power, control and 

aces the questions by absence and controls

the press by pretences and faces no 

consequences. 

COP26 and the voice of the poor!

Their home was bleak and emptied of all the webs of life that hold us together,

seated on the dirt floor they drifted in their thoughts while holding hands,

their bulging bellies swollen with starvation were moving beyond the human

need of hunger and care,   to a place where they lay down and let the life

ebb from them, hoping they would be lifted to a place of peace and plenty.

===

A few folk were trying to raise the remaining childer but they themselves,

were failing now as the sickness spread and stuck to their fevered frames;

leaving more of the little ones to fend for themselves, in a world that has

forgotten how to care, choosing eyes closed to the crumbling children’s lives

as they opt to stop their financial aid but not the brutal interest on deadly debts.

===

The weakened economies of world race to forge new pathways, and every

one misses those who live on the edge of a precipice of pain and hunger.

The small sons and daughters orphaned by the pandemic do not have 

any choices and their frail bodies, wearied by working long hours for a

pittance, would cry if they have a voice, ‘Help us with your billions and

—-

instead of flying into space give us enough for a meal, clean water

and a place to sleep safely.  Help us you who fund political parties

whose propaganda enables an agenda of propagating poisonous lies,

that wealth is to be garnered instead of food and money to be grown

in burgeoning bank balances in place of medicines for those without.

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.