Grief a Broken Heart.

The darkness grew in my mind, as

I watched the fragile light recede, in

my distress I saw it swallowing,

me whole.


The grief I felt washed through, as

I remembered the good things, and

there, in a moment, overwhelmed 

I wept.


 You were there and    yet I could 

not reach you. I felt abandoned, 

and there was no comfort in the

time past.


People ebbed and flowed around, I tried

to hold onto words, a touch, and

the weary faces of compassion

and love.


Someone left a card. Words blurred, as

I tried to read and the loneliness, broke

on me and I sat in the darkness, with

no hope.


It wasn’t a word, or card or prayers

but a friend who kept coming, they

sat, stayed with me, listening, if

I talked.


It was not what they said or did, but

that silent witness that I was worth

their time, patience, their kindness

and love.


We walked in the park, or by the sea,

slowly I saw that I was valued, not

while I was an asset but while I was

a drag.


They stayed through the anger, the

frost and the rain, the dark clouds,

the storms, anxiety, even

my hate.


I asked them why, they waited for me

to ask and spoke of a God, who stays

with us when we are foul, and also

when good.

I tried it for myself, I stormed at God,

I screamed at that face on a cross.

They’re forgiven? My punishment

lives on.


I cried, I wept, I swore and I cursed,

I yelled ’til I was sore and worn out

and still God was there, never went,

nor left.


How could a God above everything,

consider me to be worthy, like that?

And love me when I loathed them

so much?


I sat in the dark and a faint light, as

small as pin was there, a little point

of hope and over the years God and

the friend –


They never gave up, never closed a

door. I scoured my home, lit every 

lamp. Then I sat and asked for help

to forgive.

It came so slowly that I hardly dared

to hope. It came so hard that it was

like being in a prison and try bending

the bars.

Time passed and the bent iron bars, 

breaking, the dim light grew around, so

I tentatively tried out living again, 

with God.

I took toddling steps, grew stronger, 

valued myself, and still the blackness

threatens but now I know that I’m not


I learned that I cannot know everything,

that I am not at fault and able to now

stand with others, through their all, and be

their friend.

Sacred Sunrise

The candles burned brightly in the temple,

repaired the curtains and ordered the day,

while down in the fields a body, dead lay.


Relieved they slept through a golden dawn

and missed the signs that God was about,

missed the glory of dying being bested.


The sun burnished creation that morning

and made the tomb full of light, and angels

tell the good news and the temple was dim.


The earth produced its brightest flowers

to welcome him and everywhere creation

sang with joy that life was now the future.


Sweet incense curled its way in the dark,

and psalms intoned and sacrifices made,

as they made God in their own grave image.


Hands stretched and hearts groaned as

the God torn hanging stitched and sown

was hung, separated the empty sanctuary.


They missed the angel and the shaking,

as in poverty and powerless Jesus rose,

naked walked grounding in the green, garden.


They missed the angels and the gardener.

The Christ came to reveal himself to those

they scorned, will scourge and lock away.


God watched them make their obeisance

self congratulatory, seeking in God’s grace

reward for their grievous attempt to silence –

God’s only word to the world with brutality.

God’s word to the world of justice, mercy

of grace and the guardianship of the earth.

While down in the city loins were girded,

people were happy and life was changed,

for death has lost its sting, hope restored.


God would always be there with the poor 

the sick would always find compassion,

and a broken earth always has the truth,


Grief stricken, an empty armed mother

wanders outside the city gates and

meets the family leaving their home,

empty pocketed, no wage to come.

Misshapen people, ostracised sit

in the shade of the tombs and rocks,

longing for a health to enter

the city where they are unclean,

where deprivation, disease, death

and hatred walk hand in hand.


No one cares, she cries, sobbing.

Our children, homeless starving.

No one to help us survive, shouts

the father and the lepers echo

their hurts in voices worn thin

from ill use and groaning;


huddled against the threats,

isolated and desperate 

they hear the growing crowds.

Listening they hear ‘Hosanna’

move closer, curious and

craving hope.


A donkey, palm strewed, weaving

down into a walled off city, where 

only the rich are blessed and glad

only the powerful comfortably clad

in purple and gold, glittering,


with self-importance and sin.


Feeling leprous left out of celebration,

grieving see the crowd’s jubilation.

and a tired man, over big for a mule,

looking towards the merciless,

gates widened like a lion’s gape.


The city of peace swallows him whole,

breaks his skin with brutal flogging,

nails him to wood for hungry crows,

fearing his selfless love of the poor,

unknowingly sows his body and heart,

as he gracefully accepted human pain

showing that heaven’s love is like grain,

down in the grace turned earth,

that essence dies in the darkness,

and extravagantly grows

an hundredfold and more

to shake our conscience,

open our purses, teach us

healing, work for a kingdom

where common good is the



I  took a selfie yesterday.

And what did it really say?


My wrinkle grown skin


My skin stretches with age

Not smiles.

Jowls threaten to enhance

This time lined face.


Eyes dimmed see the effects of time,

of hope, misplaced and violent attack,

Searching through the lines, unveiled

a cause for laughter and joyful climes

and just like Mr Happy, the corners

of that kissed mouth that cradle of love,

begin to turn up. Then the set same smile

lights and the whole is the sum of the

parts of seasons, and weathers, family

and work woven

by the loving goodness of God.

Grace in the Waiting

Dissolving margins take me deeper into the desolation of the soul,

with each moment long, I find my life weariness increasing the hole

in my thinking. 


Tears thicken in my eyes where the sight is strained by searching,

my heart is like a rock as if the spirit’s flown leaving me lurching

on its journey.


I wait in silence, for your response and hear only wait, hold, wait,

I can’t I think wishing the tears to fall, the shame and hurt to abate

so I’m staying.


I am like a tree bowed in the wind with no hope of rain or sun,

my leaves fallen, my branches, like sprouting bones web spun

for my company.


The wind blows where it will, and tosses me as I hold so tight

to the ground where I was formed and there my roots will fight

to stay my hope.


There was another, who was torn, his battered arms stretched, 

strangled on a tree, who spoke my name and in my wretched

state he loved me.


As nails bit deep into his healing hands and feet, he screams

and I think of his desolation, his dear tears flowing in streams

through my grief.


His tender eyes searched my unseeing eyes, turned in on myself, 

he quietly listened to my muddled mind, my closed ears listening

only to my grief.


Rising, I stumble through the day and search for fruitless solace.

Like a wounded bird seeking healing for a broken wing in a place

unfound, alone.


Silence slips into a hush, my resistance gone his heart and mine press

and beat together and my grief flows into his, dissolving brittleness

while I weep.


Too soo, a shrill call from the others entangled in the grief ridden pain,

and still burdened I move towards them feeling that he’s gone again

but left his dear





The Barn Owl

Motionless but for a revolving head, waiting 

palely, a faint outline in the brooding darkness suddenly rends the air with a psycho scream, 

penetrating, threatening.  

  A ghostly flight as it sweeps the ground

waiting silently, a sentinel of the dying light,

seeking the future through scampering feet,

blood for a scavenger’s brood. 

White against the starlit sky she prowls,

listening and arguing her rights to voles and creatures scuttling through shifting grass,

leaving her organic waste. 

Perched in the rafters of the blacknight barn,

searching eyes for a mouse,  farm fresh food,

feeling the affinity with hard pressed farmers

she bides, a spirit of grace. 

Harmony of flight and a soul of lost moments,

she lifts her wings in prayer to a quiet God 

and eyes shut, roosts in the crumbling tower of

a once watching church.

Love is:

He takes my hand so lovingly,

curling his fingers around mine,

as if t’were a treasure of great

price, and I hold his in mine

while memories of that first

fragile touch of nervousness.


Love can be worn thin like ice,

a place that snaps easily and

falling far through the fracture

often floundering and failing,

bitterly, unforgiving broken to

never surface in that place again.


Love can grow and be a place

of strength, and yet, struggles 

strain. But, shared as – we work

this out together  -can sprout

wonderlands of sweet moments,

forgiveness and grace grow love.


This is his love.

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



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


of her child

growing without

her loving touch.

A glimpse now and again,

never enough

as someone


charts her child’s

precious years.

Politicians mutter,

What can her family do

against prejudice


and perfidy

like this,

taking a woman from her


from her freedom

and framing her,


destroying the fragile

bond, that holds

body and soul


Lord, that she may be free


Plastic Warfare

The clouds floated on the face of

the water, which flowed

silently under branches of trees.

Nothing moved

nothing stirred

but the grey water.


Up above the sun shone

cloaking the trees in burning heat

and searing the ground;

charring the last

vestiges of grass

that were not burned

by the salt laced stream.


The sun fell below

the far off horizon

kindling a breeze,

which blew through the

now empty hostile heartland


and plastic pieces 

bowled along the broken earth

surviving silently in a scape

devoid of the living.

The Blue Tit

The darting cobalt blue,

streak of yellow gold

swiftly passes

snatching tasty seed then –

flees to hide, green

amongst the laurel leaves

which tremble and

close in its wake.


Peeping out eye bright, he

fixes upon a nutty gem.

The seething bush

releasing a wild friend, who

like a salmon leaping

over a water fall

flies up

and sinks

and is gone

as is the morsel


to feed

a tiny form


the growing cold.

Lord, did they hurt you?


Was their pain in your heart

as they told you, “Goodbye!”

They didn’t want your way

nor wrestle, with things you say.

Lord, did they hurt you

when they walked away?

And the women you helped

who followed their men,

turning their backs on ways

that restored dignity again.

Lord, did they hurt you

when they walked away?

The lawyers who taunted you

and tested you with trials

and Pharisees prodding and

employing their wiles

Lord, did they hurt you

‘cause they walked that way.


When they spat and slapped

and scored you with whips

and pinned you to a tree,

priding on a punishment,

for a thirty silver fee,

as they walked away free.

That must have hurt

ground your guts

battered your brain

and shattered your spirit

yet blooded and broken

you spoke of




O Lord, do we hurt you

when we walk away?

Butterfly Memory

It brushed my arm, lightly caressing

as it winged lazily flapping by me,

bright blue amongst the long green

grasses of the overgrown verges.

My eyes followed its gentle passage,

none but me to see its fair fluttering,

resting so sensitively on each sweet,

nectar filled flower in the hedgerow.


Camera at the ready as it slowly lay

on the summery petals, sun warmed,

a slight flicker and I had its likeness

as it slipped, flowing with grace away.

The picture looked solid and heavy

with grief I looked in vain for the

fragility of that delicate china blue,

beauteous in its velvety softness.

I waited quietly and a watched as

other white tipped yellow, red and

gold came, flapping dainty wings

and drank in their lives instead.

The Shy Bluetit

The darting cobalt blue,

streak of yellow gold

swiftly passes

snatching tasty seed then –

flees to hide, green

amongst the laurel leaves

which tremble and

close in its wake.


Peeping out eye bright, he

fixes upon a nutty gem.

The seething bush

releasing a wild friend, who

like a salmon leaping

over a water fall

flies up

and sinks

and is gone

as is the morsel


to feed

a tiny form


the growing cold.

Fraud hurts.

It seemed innocent in my in box,

from a friend, someone I knew,

some photos, or a link to them

and I stupidly thought, ‘How Kind!’


I pressed the link and felt so bad

as others told me I had been had,

a virus poisoning my little iPad

and others around that I loved too.


I thought I’d learned my lesson,

but it really was not the same, it

came from my Amazon account,

troubles over paying the  amounts.


I thought I’d check and pressed

the link and a nice email came

back asking clearly for my bank

card details, the slimy individuals.


Now my card is cancelled, the

fraud team so kind as they 

explained that scams are 

widespread, a plague that kills.


My misery was compounded when

the fraud team called me back,

and I gave them bank account

numbers and waited, worried until –


I wept with grief at my statement

showing that all my stash had gone;

and the bank was kind but very firm.

So, now if I see a request for details

or a link that arrow clicks elsewhere, 

a delayed delivery that needs payment,

a desperate person disastrously stuck 

and in need of my personal help.

Because they are thieves and they’ve

stolen away my pride, for I like to

help. I like to be right in things,

but now it feels so shallow, but

I will refuse.

Put the phone down.

Check it on the internet.

And most

of all I will cry,

for the loss of my


and for

fraud loving


Echoes in Faith

It is in the silence that he is usually there,

in the angel music he will ordinarily speak,

but like many who wander and wonder

there is an emptiness and disconnection.


Shadows of shapes where he used to be

and a faint echo that which led to stability,

a heavy heart hangs low, he held it once

and led me by my own frail hand.


A desertification of my spiritual journey,

sand dunes and landscapes of coloured

hues of a sun set, strange birds and sighs

as the wonder that is around me -waits


by my side and some times I can feel

that he’s been there, walked this way

and in my dreams I am trying to run

and reach him before he is truly gone.


Then the crying of tortured people,

the homeless refugees, raped women,

and hungry children call me to pray

and in praying I kneel and beseech


and ever doing it in a vacuum I trust.

I will not stop even though he is silent.

I will not put down the calls for prayer.

I will never stop saying God is Love.


For Jesus walked this world and wept,

and so I will continue to cry in hope,

and proclaim that God is good ’til –

my wounds and his are bound together,


The silence echoed in the crowded room,

each person bent on praying, living, hoping,

and grieving his loss, his touch, his smile,

the room too small for his shortened life.

The air outside warming as the day begins,

their celebrations quietened, occluded by 

a cross,

an empty grave,

a hill top, angels and heavy hearts.


Shrinking from celebrations of Pentecost

the day God changed their history, 

gave Moses the Torah,

heralding a new isolated Israel,

they close ranks, support and pray.

Unexpectedly, a noisy, storm arises, 

violent winds tossing their lives about,

and lightning flames alighting on every head.

Non-consuming like the desert bush and

holy as the ground Moses, bare foot trod.


Wonder and awe, anxiety and fear, tumbled

through them igniting in their hearts, souls

and minds,

the love of God, Christ’s very Spirit poured

in and through and for our broken world.


Each tried to speak, each eyes saucer round,

and the flower of the Messiah’s mission crowned

                    and voices spoke and sang 

in praise for the everliving, omnipotent saviour.


Startled they listen and like angel choirs

they joined together in an explosion of joy,

every language blended as one as

the Holy One of Israel calling a world,

separated by their mother tongue

to a unity, unforeseen, unknown ’til

The faithfulness of a few opened,

and God flowed through.


The crowds were gaping, accusing, mystified,

understanding each their own language uttered,

as wonder abounded as Peter spoke of love and grace,

a new era begins

of possibilities of a place

where the poor have self worth,

the oppressed dignity, where

God’s Spirit dwells in human hearts.

The Last Supper

Tables overwhelmed with flavours and smells

Of ritual foods,

Bitter herbs and unleavened bread,

Hard eggs and sacrificial lamb,

Wine poured ready for joy as the

recitation pours out of shared history and hope.


Mary waits to light candles and pray

but finds him kneeling, water to show them, 

the way.

He washes her feet, invoking

a memory in her mind, A sword will pierce her through.


Plates filled, the plagues recited,

the Seder begun, takes on wine

and merry hearts, laughing and singing,

stories that tell of a God who saved them from the slavery.


He stands and breaks the bread for dipping

in bitter tears, of slaves, 

This is my body he says, given for you,

each time you eat it, Remember me.


One of you will betray me, his words

Cut to the bone,

Guilt, fear and curiosity making them ask, If 

it is I Lord?


Sad eyes watch, wondering as Judas leaves.


The cup stands full, alone on the table spent,

calls for Elijah to return, and

lifting it Jesus, made plain what few could hear

My life blood is here, drink it for now

a new covenant is born in my blood.

All who seek me will find me.


By my blood forgiveness is now the law,

for Grace has come through me.

A new commandment I give you

Love one another as I have loved you.

Drink this, remember me every time,

but for me – I will Not drink wine again until God’s kingdom’s come.


He watched as stunned faces sought his smile

Frightened eyes wanting to assurance,

they drank and passed the bonding cup

Pondering its meaning as they supped.


He saw the mystery of human minds

missing the point and settling for less,

Love burned in his gut for each and every,

but wanting a way, any way to stop

death’s hunger for execution and his humiliation.


Some leaders stand, like he did, 

search the faces in front and 

take from them all they have.


But he stood,  he loved,  gave all he could.


She landed heavily on the lawn, yellow beaked

with bright red spot for a Pavlov response

in their tiny brood of ever hungry chicks,

grabs and fights and fusses over a few crumbs,

flapping noisily those strong wings, holding

her muscled body ready to fly off in an instant

should cat or dog or gardening human appear.


Now she readies her self, stamps her feet,

their webbed strength sounding like rain

to those wriggling worms who, on hearing,

tunnel their way up towards the pittering

and pattering, and raising their blind eyes

find themselves lost in the snapping sunny 

jaws of the ever hungry, diligent mother.


She heaves herself screaming off the ground

and cries and shouts her way over the rows

of roof tops until she’s home, hee-haws her

coo at her chimney, disgorges wriggling worms, 

into open beaks of her mottled family, 

squawking and batting each other, just to

tell her how their empty bellies grumble.


Hoisting herself back into the air, joins a 

fight over lunch scraps by an empty bench,

and keeping a weather eye on gardens she

takes to the air and her well fed chicks call

her back and back, always asking for more,

but together with her mate they endure,

until they are ungainly brown grown birds.


They struggle to get their last nested meal,

hastening over each other to clamber out, 

and then they flop onto branches and begin

to flap their strengthening wings until they

too flap and fly and scream with delight 

as the air flows over their growing bodies

and the skies open to their unfettered joy.


They scrapped and fought as they grew

They fussed and wailed and squabbled,

cried out their annoyance, hunger and 

from their persistent progeny they have

learned well their lessons and too from

hardworking parents, for now they flew

and wailed, scrabbling for kitchen scraps.


They screamed, chattered and fought

their way through the summer months,

snatched worms from the earth, pushed

and shoved but while brown they took

the second place in everything until, after

two long winters they were whitened.

War is Death.

Appalled and angry he stares after the lifting fuselage.

By his side his children sit in the dirt, with the whiff

of kerosene in their nostrils and their weeping mother 

trying to make sense of the inexplicable losses.


Firing weapons raise smoke to sun kissed skies,

now nowhere will be safe from their anger and hate,

together they try and understand the meaning and

imagining driving further, threats on every corner,

while soldiers clean their guns and wipe blood off

where weapons have invaded their fragile bodies,

and somewhere a general orders his men to kill

and kill and to kill again until he is all powerful.

A fragile world where death is ready to invade each

corner of life, overheating oceans and desertifying

the beautiful land – for selfishness and blind greed, 

and still they sow violence, burning and violating


their own, their land

and their hope

and everything loses.

Glorious Gorse.

Greying, frost burned branches,

hanging low as they sun turns

and warms them, calling out,

nature yawns and slowly wakes.

Slowly the buds come and each

sunny day fresh green mixes

with the winter gloom and cold,

giving hope of a golden rebirth.


Everywhere around daisies glow,

tiny violets and bluebells delight,

their blue melding together with,

sky and the wave whispering shore.


Then, gorse buds glow with sunlight,

their smiling faces as snapdragons

pulsing, gilding the grassy landscape 

glowing even on the darkest days.


April time. The gold painted gorse

fills the cool air with sweet coconut,

and sunlight smiles back at the sky, 

with joy for the

glorious blooms on smiling gorse.