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.

A Boy’s Life – For Taj who is now attending school as well as working!

Born in difficulty from his torn mother,

pride shines on his toddling steps, while

a faithless father leaves the separating

son to walk in his hard work shoes.  No

education. He’ll work for a lazy landowner

or down a mineral mine. Home is piling 

on his puny shoulders, the growing weight 

of his worries. Forced by circumstances,

they wave him off each day into the 

whispering of the dawn, til the darkness

brings him hobbling and hungry, sleepy

but with coins that will buy his siblings

food. Exhausted by his daily grind he 

grows into a man wishing his needs

to be met, but he has given all to his

family, who singing his praises lose

him to a wife, but will he too, be sifted 

after years of slave labour, craving a

different life or will his body give up

and we find him laid in a fallow field 

somewhere: a faithful soul at rest,

old before he was young and used

before

unique.

A Girl Child’s life

Tiny hands beat the air as she was pushed from her 

mother’s body and gasped for breath emitting a sharp 

healthy cry of hope, fear, pain and hunger. A crumpled,

dimpled face blinked at the light. So she started her long

interminable fight for safety, fair treatment, to thrive,

 to shine as that light in a world that has already 

passed judgement on her because of her gender.

She opened like a blossom of Spring whose petals

floated like pink sails to the earth leaving the precious

beginnings of fruitfulness. The frosts of misogyny 

burned the burgeoning fruit and cast it to the ground

where it lay unfulfilled, 

dying 

and 

promise 

lost.

Demons of Trafficking and Immigration.

The chubby cheeked child pressed his teary 

face against the cold metal box, then deeply

burrowed to find the breast, that nurtured 

him, empty as his mother’s body struggled 

with starvation instead of promised salvation.

————–

The pieces of silver exchanged brought her

hope of a golden place; where work was to

be in plenty, where people lived in safety

and her beautiful child educated, a rated,

respected man of hard work and honour.

——-

Crushed together someone called on their

God to help, but no avenging angel winging

to their aid. Someone tried beating through

steely sides, but they had no tools only tired 

debilitated bodies and no space to move.

——–

Someone found voice and cried for help,

but no one heard, they feared none cared.

she heard someone gasp and fall and knew

another body lay like an Autumn leaf and

each of them will fall to rot in this hole of hell.

————-

Listening they heard a vehicle pass by and

cursed the car’s ignorance of their plight.

Fighting for breath in the foetid, fear filled

air, they hear again and cry out in reaction

that this will lead to ending incarceration.

———

Sounds and more sounds and the mother

shifted the mewling infant in her sweating

arms and prayed for the help to be true.

With opening doors came hope, water,

food, medics alongside cruel diplomats who

——

send them back to whence they came, and

the betrayal of money spent for freedom,

leaves her empty pockets to protect the son,

of her womb, fatally wounded by poverty

and immigration’s actions they lie in a

grief

filled

grave.

Boats at anchor

A few boats, seaworthy, fish empty,

rock at their anchors, harbour hungry 

for the churning waters and open sea,

feeling the scaly bodies squirming on

the deck gasping for dying breaths.

——–

The tide raises eager expectations

and politely, bobbing slowly pulling 

at the bondage, she lifts her prow to

proudly show she is prettily prepared,

to go and joyously seek to serve.

——

A prod at the stiff stern and a sound

of heavy boots pounding the creaky

worked, wood frame stretching corking

til timbers quiver, solemnly shaking.

The engine spluttering then stuttering

——-

Guttering, as its motor coughs and 

sneezes, billowing black smoke

and then steadily it chunters and

moves the butting boat into the 

seething channel, as tides fight

currents as they charge up the 

salty beach turn and surge up to

her gunnels, while angry hungry

gulls squawk and scream in the

wind whipped waves, hurling their

—-

invective at the small vessel as it

faces the press of ghostly wrecks

and calls. She stumbles and settles,

jostled by the churning waters as

greedy nets fill with sun sparkling

—–

scales and flipping fins, raising a

sea salt smell as they flap and flip

in the drying airless air. The wood

creaks and groans as the tiller tilts,

turns for home. The anchor weighed,

—-

she is silent now, and as the sea

shallows its waters, feeling the tug

of the brightening moon, emptying

the bay of billows, leaving muddy

puddles and the boat tips to the

side,

stranded,

willing,

waiting.

Cold Hearts

They know it is wrong, the science is clear, but

prefer high profile jobs to turning the tide?

They hang on their hearts, the voices of children,

but hungry oil and coal eats its way into their

homes, hopes, failed harvests and he denies

with sown seeds of power. So, head’s together 

they ignore truth and make vague promises

that are sound bites to eat away more of the

land, the farms, the crops, melting glaciers

but not the ice around their hearts.

Christmas Threatened- Bah Humbug ?

She reached for the plain bread to lay it out.

One slice each with beans off a far Foodbank.

The disappointed children eat without pleasure,

and look with eyes that show meagre years 

of Tory rule. 

====

The face of plenty stares at them from the news-

paper stand – jolly eyes like Santa with a twist 

that is more like Satan. The little ones go to 

bed and hunger for tomorrow to be school, 

free meal fed. 

====

Crumpled faces of adults who see their kids

starving are fury whipped as they hear the

politicians think Christmas will make it well

while each day destroys their little ones

health and hope.

======

Bold figures with blind eyes, and deaf ears

to the cry of the poor, talk of turkeys and

the poor cry for bread and this time there

will be no knitting because they cannot 

afford the wool.

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.