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.

A Sacred Moment

The cloud had darkened, and the lane lengthened,

as my dragging feet walked the dusty way home.

My fears were growing and the worry charging

me with the cost of my acuity. The news was bad.

——

Travelling slowly, saddened and searching, I heard

nearby in a green, thorny thicket a few grams of

feathers, bones and flesh rustled and fluffed, then

interrupted my daydream with a loud, clear call.

—–

A wren, with his hoisted tail, blew my sad and 

gloomy thoughts away as he swelled and music

trebled from his tiny throstle, thrilling me and

retuning me to life in that sacred hopeful place.

—–

Somewhere else a bird sang to his love with

zees and another performed an aria, atop a tree.

They are bastions of creation, holding in their

prayerful songs of praise the glory of their God.

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?

Social Media Hatred

The gif spread slowly across my screen Opinionated, detonated, created, calculated.
Cold and cruel, treating me to someone’s 
unhappy heart turned on me in spite, a bite
Of hate.

——/
Her photo stolen from her life, haunting her
as they passed it along its invisible trip wire.
Seeking fame by defaming, hoping for shares,
and done despairs, violated, cries to be heard.
In vain.

—/
He knew the perpetrator who’d sold their soul to the ancient devil of betrayal for a joke they’d said.
A knowing Dad, noticed his darkened demeanour,
wrestled the walled silence of shame, in the hope.
Of rescue.

——
The suicide note said it succinctly, shouted the ——-
scream, a soul too stretched by media malice,
pushed to the perimeter of a life once played.
New fears of furious parents are charged with 
Their tears. 

——
Media moguls sit in their silks and silver service,
ignoring the strain, the pain, the chains that bind,
And grind down the hope of tomorrow, backs to the misery and missed chances to save lives lost to.
Their Greed.

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.

Earth 2 or 3?

The gleaming metal shone in the sun as it plummeted towards the planet’s verdant surface,

splashing into the bluest of blue seas, it bobbed quietly, rising and falling with the waves.

A gap appears near the top and emerging from the darkness into the light came figures,

each stood shaking on wobbly legs fell into a flimsy inflatable dinghy thrust into the water.

——

The motor throbbed into life and seeking land flew through the soaking water easily until,

riding up a golden beach the engine silenced the humans within sat enchanted, entranced 

by the myriad birds, their songs and the babble of animals calling from the nearby jungle.

Faces hidden behind helmets. Mouths wide in shock. It’s the wrong place, they whispered.

—–

None of them expected the lush, luxuriant growth, only a desert and a plastic filled sea,

for long ago some came and found the inhospitable climate, deserts and poisoned air.

Turning the faces to the green or the blue their eyes lit up with the abundance of food

for furry creatures as well as birds and at last they breathed in the pure, fresh air.

—-

One of them started to send the message that the earth was pristine, a place for people,

then stopped and propping his device his knee, pondered, paused and then panicked.

Humans will again be bringing their pollution and practices and plunder the resources 

til plastic mounts, privilege outweighs sense and the populace dies from overheating.

——

A woman, thoughtful and brilliant in her comprehension of the peril for this paradise.

reached down and picking up the receiver, smashed it with a rock, took her own tech

and solemnly, slowly the others saw her point and looking hard at the joyous bounty

nodded,  joined her and then they walked into the depths of the jungle and courageously

let nature 

take

its

course.

Cancerous Greed.

He held tightly to the statement of his wealth

groaning as he saw the fulsome figures falling,

wondering how he’d keep his balding head up 

as he flounders int he dust of only multi-millions.

—–

She held tightly to the small wad of new notes,

freshly received from the ATM and felt thrilled 

to have earned so much money, enough for rent,

food, that school trip and perhaps for electricity.

—–

He hungrily looked in the window, watched them

serving meals  on clean plates, smelling the eggs,

bacon and feeling in his pocket the cold hard

edges of coins, too small, too few, for their food.

——-

She cast a glance up to heaven, grateful to find 

cheap meat, beyond its date, good enough for

her thinning children to be able to eat tonight,

taking a bag of sprouting potatoes, she’ll eat too.

—–

She calls out for her Gucci bags and perfume,

her Gabanna dress hung in silk folds over her 

perfectly surgically sculptured slim body, no

not worrying about money, the servants do it all.

————

A mother collects goat droppings as gold,

and sets them before her starving children,

others cook leaves, stripping the trees to

stay another day of death stalking their lives.

——-

Billions it cost and all just to own the bird

that talks of matters best left unsaid, there

instead of giving the poor a chance, he’s 

egged on to feed the greed within himself.

——-

He works in government and knows only

the hard working wealthy folk around him,

cannot imagine eating bad food, searching

hotel waste and never having their choices.

——

A cancer is working through the weary world,

causing lasting pain, loss, hatred and fear,

teaching a few how to take more and more of

their unfair share and hide the starving in

plain

sight.

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.

The Early Purple Orchid

A robin puffed its red breast

and sang for the joy of the day, while

down below a glorious sight.

—-

It stood tall, admiring the view,

sparkling waters and sun caressed

bluebells.

—-

Its flowers opening to the ever-present bees,

and deep in the earth the bulb, which died

to give it birth is renewed.

Slender stemmed it sways in the breeze,

cheered by the sight of the many more

cerise orchid blooms.

—–

Pyramids of  beauteous petals,

shine amidst fading violets and growing grass,

watched over by a song in the golden gorse.

Resurrection and Reconciliation 

——

Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my lambs.

do you love me, Peter?

Lead my sheep.

Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my sheep.

—–

He lifted up his hands and the nail holes showed clear,

the scars on his forehead from the scorn of thorns,

and he blessed the denial and dread in Peter,

and will bless ours too.

—–

We need never fear the judgment of Christ,

He gave his all,

We need never fear our own sins,

We are worth his life.

——

As we stand in the shadow of the cross,

where love chose goodness,

we are reconciled, forgiven and free to become

beloved.

Fraught Fishing

Jesus is Resurrected and appears to the fishermen.

——–

The net stretched deep into the lake,

the stars glistened and somewhere an owl hooted,

still they worked and searched,

no fish came.

——

The net still hung in the water, 

as it tinted pink with the waking world,

a fire on the beach, nothing strange,

no fish to grill.

—-

They mistook the stranger 

with wood in his hands, a wave and suggestion to try

on the right side of the boat.

Only a man?

——

Scents of bread and grilled fish,

a welcome and so he serves them again, kneeling, 

red from the heat of the fire,

love smiling.

The Hiddenness of Christ

The Road to Emmaus

—-

Talking makes it real,

words inadequately describing,

while walking.

No one would guess seeing the two,

that one unseen, a companion

who bent his head and heard,

hidden for a moment to give space,

hidden from their grief.

——

The moment came and he shared their grief,

a friend for the walk who understood,

and gave insight to their weary steps,

broke the bread of his body,

and hid.

Doubts and Fulfilment

Easter Monday 

Wandering the streets did little to calm,

his mind’s wanting to smash each Pharisee,

excepting Nic, 

—-

to go up to the Roman Soldiers who divided his spoil,

and tell them just who they had killed.

Thomas, tears ever present in his eyes, 

found solace in the garden,

and weeping he knelt in the very place

where Jesus had been,

groaning, angry beyond words with

God who’d deserted them.

—–

He walked back through the busy streets

and into their space and his rage

showed in his fury at the pretence of them

his beloved Jesus had returned.

Nonsense his mind cried. Believe them beat his heart.

and he wanted so much to throw something,

swear and curse.

He turned and saw what they had seen before,

a man brutally beaten and battered, crucified.

He mouthed a thought but could say not a word.

—–

Jesus seeing his pain showed him the side,

where the sword has passed through and

invited his touch and in the very nail holes too.

Shocked, guilt spread through his soul,

and kneeling he could only say, “My

Lord and my God.’

And after, his heart pulsed with pleasure,

He was chosen after all.

The Hidden Christ.

Easter Sunday

He wound his hands around the tree

and watched Mary come by,

He saw the others and waited.

His heart broke with the tears she shed,

and he stepped forward to help.

She sees a gardener and he his child,

and says her name. Mair. 

—–

As a child hears the love in her parents’ voice,

she opened like a flower. Changed by love.

—–

He gave her the message that lasts thousands of years,

Love dies for love of you.

Love has overcome death.

Love is now eternal.

The Waiting

Holy Saturday

Hushed was the garden where he lay,

birds silently watched and soft wings

of many hued butterflies flit to and fro

alight on the stone as if they could 

prise it open and find their Lord within.

—–

In Bethany tears flowed, work stopped,

food untouched, and shocked bodies

slumped,, and talking tried to find a way,

to think of life without his being there

and the failure of all that he promised.

—-

The eye of the storm lay over Jerusalem,

as the leaders rejoiced in their victory

and enjoyed their power and Passover,

feasting and worshipping their man made

God of power, abuse and bloody sacrifice.

Within the tomb Jesus lay,

God holding his broken body close,

together they caused an abundance of love

that would heal a broken world and seal

the promise of hope again.