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. 

War on Refugees

Huddling close for warmth they gripped each other’s hands,

the ragged clothes hardly covering their shrunken flesh,

their sore covered faces closed eyes that had lost their light,

no one would come but those displaced, empty handed,

starving families, children like theirs dying slowly into

the corrupt earth.

—–

Governments rage against refugees, refusing to grant

them a chance to be free and a shaft of hope of life.

They go to their worship where they hear of a God

who cares about humans and the ravaged planet,

and turn blind backs on the horror of displacement

and dine richly.

—-

Charities working give them hope in clothes and food,

but no-one can help them while terrible traffickers 

take their coins for frightening travel, cons and lies,

promising heaven and giving them hell, while those 

who could stand for justice and mercy choose hatred

punish the innocent.

Now politicians think up wicked schemes and plot

to send them to countries violating human rights,

spending our money to perpetrate crimes against

humanity, binding them in chains and sending them

away to suffer more, be killed and so Pilate Patel

washes her hands.

Palms or Arms

He boldly went on a bewildered donkey,

batting the flies as they settled to feed on 

both their faces. The long ears of the ass

twitching and both hearts fast beating 

as the crowds around cried,”Hosanna!”

The strewed garments grimy and torn

by flocks of people waving branches,

claiming the humble man as their king,

hoping that he would take up arms,

fight their cause, banish the Romans.

—–

He tried to unclench his teeth and let go,

smelled the fresh scent of broken palms,

and touched the dark, rough haired, long

eared head. They began to walk slowly,

plodding down the long, grave strewn hill.

—-

He felt the eyes from the armed ramparts,

He lifted his dark brown eyes and looked,

The famed golden gates open, beckoning,

his gentle mouth fixed, his bowels churning,

Judas turns, smiling, his shouts the loudest,

—–

The cool streets embraced the eager crowds.

He dismounted and sent the donkey away,

forever marked as a sign of suffering love.

Walking up the hill, the temple beckons

and they’re waiting on his every word.

—-

‘Silence the citizens,’ called the objectors,

‘ Hush them? Remember the seeing stones 

violence, lechery, cheating, killing they know.

For the stones will cry out from the wall, 

calling God’s Kingdom of mercy and grace.

—-

Thirsty he drank thankfully, Mary saw his need,

clearing his head, he reached out to heal,

to answer their questions, tell short stories,

think creatively when they try to box him in,

and then to Bethany, solace, peace and rest.

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.

Ukraine and Evil

She stepped over the grim reminder that somewhere, someone wants her dead,

harried, frightened, threatened, fastened to her people by a thread of vile, red

evil that looks to reject what was not perfect – but was the way they lived, and

gave of their best for their nation and now they ration their food and water.

—-

He took their peace, he took his lying ease, saying that their race would cease,

for no reason,  only the season was right for his arrogant, derogatory rant.

They suffer his noise, their boys, from uni, in front lines with guns to try and

drive the poisonous actions of a deranged faction, a reaction of the paranoid.

No-one can ever win at war, there are only losers but evil succeeds in its

purpose to subvert, deny, destroy young lives, creating deserts in land and heart.

She hides behind the broken wall, hears the call of carrion crows and weeps,

her heart is broken and still his heart is cold, calculating and cruelty escalates.

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?

War on Pregnant Women

It was the pregnant woman cradling her hope

that shook me, a brave baby born to turmoil, 

no real future, freedom of speech and the liberty

to choose a path where hissing missiles and 

guzzling guns will not overwhelm the fragile

life that sparks behind closed contented eyes.

A year ago a couple’s loving embraces creates

a foetus, cells growing and separating in her

wonderful womb – in a time of political peace

and their precious neighbours were not vilified

by Putin’s army of trolls, and a settled peoples 

scared for their very lives as weapons wrench

the ridged roofs from their heads and harry the

poor and cancer sick lying in their winter beds.

They’re now starving, shivering, staying stalwart

in the face of agonising choices and harm,

weary women again running to find safety and 

a moment of grace for their horrified children.

—-

The human love that receives us at birth has

been warped and twisted, re-modelled until

it is a hatred, which like a volcano spills its

boiling lava over a verdant land burning,

steaming death in its severing of the living

in a holocaust of terror and no one ever

wins

in

war

and

as the mother

and her

baby

dies.

The Trumpet Call of Spring.

( or Hope Denied)

The saffron centred crocus shone against the dark earth,

petals gently unfolding inviting the invasion of light

and insects tending their pollen, enabling production

of tapestry in grass; and secretly new bulbs grow ready

to bring joy and luminescence to the troubled world.

———-

Floating on the breeze bees hover, seeking the sweet

peppery smell of defiant daffodils, with urgent spears 

they break open frozen soil and as buds burst, golden

flowers wave in the wind, bending, heralding the good 

news of heads heavy with the promise of fruitfulness.

—–

The weeping willow hangs its head, as if shamed, down

on the scattering of purple, white, yellow  and orange 

that look on the swaying slender branches with awe til

the tiny buds of fresh green begin the task of creation,

in a quickening garden, a sweet shadowed lovers bower. 

——

So soft, so gentle are the woodlands growing and where

green buds burst below carpets of blue and white, as the

campanula carpet battles for ground with the humble garlic,

and mother’s violets cover the banks, peeping at the sun

which is slowly dappled and darkened under the canopy.

——-

Small birds flit and fuss as they collect damp green moss,

and the woodpeckers knock out their staccato rhythm,

or cackle with laughter as they fly through the branches

that wave and greet the coming Spring, jubilantly they

clutch the new nests and cheer on the coupling hawks.

——–

Suddenly life looks good and growing would be better, 

and fulsomely lovely were it not for the bitter twist, of

wars and weather which wrest from the world the many

majestic splendours of its blossoming and blooming,

killing indiscriminately the proliferating gloriousness.

————-

So, rest in bower, beloved, and feel the swift rising of

the sap in the gloom of a grey winter’s dying throes,

feel the gratitude of the butterfly winged flight, holding

the heat of Spring’s happiness in your heart against-

the cold of the hungry engine of division and hatred.



The Murder of the Innocents.

Its shocking, the shifting sands of conflict;

as brutalised bodies are buried in shallow 

graves while the wolves of war bare their

teeth and and snap and snarl mercilessly.

It is like a cloud of insanity descends and

sense and rationale are sold as ransoms

for seeding the ground with blood. We

watch as if watching a murderous movies.

—-

Do we feel the loss, can we bear to weep,

and wail, for the gross injustice of this 

assault on the human rights of children

murdered by icy cold hearted leaders?

The child’s eyes are closed

                and her heart stops beating.

War showing again its yellowed 

face of cowardice and words

bandied around are lies and 

propaganda because they 

cannot 

face the truth 

that it is 

Murder of

the Innocents.

War in Winter

Grief digs deeper when the winter months mutter war,

the loss of place, of purposeful peace and the gross

destruction of homes, humans and even habitats of tiny 

beings that have sought warmth under the frozen crust.

——-

It’s a bloody burden that they carry on breaking backs,

as they see bursting bombs of greed and intolerance

smashing into smithereens years of toil and travail,

silencing the calls of battered birds and coy children.

——

We watch and groan and tearfully pray for mitigation,

to live again and not counting the cost of glorified guns,

weaponry unleashed on the fragile world already over

heated as war fuels harm to frail, failing ecosystems;

——-

as they struggle against rising seas, warming of water

and of land, creating a damaging tide that cannot be

turned. Wearily we watch our toothless, Russian aided,

corrupt leaders sanction in word but not in action.

——-

Avaricious armies advance taking away more acreage,

and Hitler hungry thinks to have all Europe in their

sights as they wave and wield weapons in the faces

of  the weak and wounded. A coward starts a war.

——-

To take words and hear them is a core act of courage,

The brave are willing to alter their minds if certain;

but the craven will resort to violence to cover their

own frailty and persist against sense and humanity.

——

They’re usually far from the battle lines and lie low,

guarded and victualled well. Too, I want to crawl

away into a niche from the news and the blaming 

game but we shall stay struggling at the margins.

——

Let us stand together and link our arms for peace,

to raise our voices, tweet and write and sign every

petition that a lonely suffering nation might know 

their traumatic terrors are not yours or mine but ours.