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


Truss the Tory way.

The butterfly spread its wings,

as the sun rose late,

the scent of honeysuckle fills the air

on Michaelmas tide,

alighting to drink the sweet nectar it floats in my sight,

chilling my heart as the Autumn’s reign’s diminished.


Swallows and sparrows soar and chat as their

nestlings feed on the whining insects,

while others die of thirst and homelessness.


Small fruits hang on leafless trees ready for harvest,

miniature wheat and barley – barely usable,

and so the humble loaf, priced high will shrink

from the tables of the destitute and hardworking.


Across the burned hills, brown spreads like an ink blot,

til the green and pleasant land is gone.

Rivers barely move on their sluggish journey

to the plastic polluted seas and fish lay dead

on the bare, crumbling banks.


The crisis grows, our greedy government knows,

but still it sows its fracking carbon woes,

madness, insanity prevails, eager to stow honour and

creating rows of zeroes for the richly clad,

and for the poor, voiceless and wise shows

contempt even as they suffer and die.

Climate Crisis Floods

The water soaked into the earth, cooling its parched throat,

dripping through the crooked cracks and pooling in the 

deep, dry depths of the soil which drank it like a sot.

The clouds hovered nearer and more rain poured down,

filling the rivers, the holes and still more and some more.

The people watched it rise, unbelieving the speed; and

fear driven creatures and humans ran to the hills.

Even there, the water came running in rivulets, streams 

and then in full flood and washed away the living and

the dead into the mud streaked death trap of a deluge

of biblical proportions, but no one had an strong ark

and so eyes bleared by tears and sleeplessness saw

their lives taken by a maelstrom and eaten in moments.


Still the creatures ran and tried to swim away from the

gaping jaws of the flooding monsoon as it ground away

the earth, trees n villages disappeared as quickly as the

torrents could engulf them. Soon the small, shivering

children’s screamed, their fears and terrors lost in the

roar of the the angry, rushing, inundating cascade.


Quiet now, dripping water, sluggish streams still carry

the carnage of its crippling attack on the communities

and a contemplating mood comes on those left living

the nightmare of hunger, fear and the black clouds 

that are boiling over the horizon and darkening their

already black nightmare as they cozen rare resources


and wait, eyes dulled, voices muffled for the sounds

of rescue which does not come and their worries

are threatening to overwhelm and depressing their

energy and they sleep fitfully, empty bellies rumbling,

and mothers holding babies, try to feed them from 

empty breasts and fathers search for food in the mud.

Voices are heard and the press has found them, some

chocolate bars to throw over the washout and a word

that they are a few of millions who are in crisis. How

can they be rescued? How can they have hope? How

will they work together to leave their place and enter

the unknown, penniless, grieving, hungry and homeless?

Empty Earth

He stood, sentry like, part of the desertified

landscape, and watched a small cloud

on the horizon, willing the curving shape 

to bring salvation to his people and then

saw it melt away.  The moment gone. Still,

he stood in the shade of the hostile sun.


She watched the food plants lovingly sown

shoot to life and then shrivel, becoming dust,

and still she watched to see in the distance 

a sign, any sign of the black boiling clouds 

that amass and spill, washing away the fear

of another month or year stealing their hope.


They too watched black clouds turn away,

and another day comes and goes and still

the rain, promised by a weatherman  fails

to arrive. Instead, a few drops that dry before

a thirsty land can feel its moisture, then still

more days and clouds break their promises.


and hope shrivels like the desiccated roots.

Every morning they look out at the barrenness,

cheered by a cloud or two, too soon dissipated,

depression returns and tears are the only wet

as the green landscape has been seared by

a drought and for the first time they feel


the true aching for teeming rain for weeks,

and to understand another’s need is not 

just for a storm to bring back the grass but 

to feed their weakened children, who are

sufferers of the injustice of the changing

nature of climate absorbing killing carbon.

Empty plates

Once upon a time we jingled the coins in a pocket,

a loss of magnitude that cannot simply be realised,

half crowns and shillings, sixpence and pence. So

rich we felt with half a crown and even a sixpence

to buy sweets at the shop on the corner of our busy,

children in the road playing, gossiping, caring street.


One lost their job, and the neighbours gave of their

just coping, and felt the pain of the hungry and sad.

Now its a card in the wallet, the dour street divided

and the out of work numbers rising so that no cash

on hand to help another, not a spare meter token,

and find friends at the frantic, empty food banks.


He stared at the mighty banquets of the opulent 

as Oliver watched them as he ate his grim gruel.

So we seek change by becoming audacious agents  

of a new way to see and be in our land, where self-

centred politicians have wired us to be self-seeking

and survival of the wealthiest is their awful aim. 


Jesus spoke into this direst of situations with sense,

give banquets for the poor, the crippled and the lame,

not the groaning tables of the grand and thriving rich,

but he calls us again see the erosion of the way of

daily lives, community and making life impossible

by the sly, Conservative party’s destructive ruling.

Do they even care?

Sewage on our beaches

government beyond our reaches,

history did not teach us

and now they cling like leeches,


feeding off the poor, 

slamming shut the door,

hunger comes with a roar

and they say they’re sticking to the law.

Crisis costs will rise, 

Will they hear the dying sighs?

Will they finally raise their eyes?

And free them from wealthy ties.


Money goes into their coffers,

and kindness will make offers

of tins, beans, tea against the scoffers

and cars driven by chauffeurs.


Shivering inside from all ills,

chemist can’t get the right pills.

Climate crisis worsens and kills.

Who can save us from their selfish wills?

Poverty and Wealth 2022 style

Gaunt faces, Belsen like, shivering in Oxam coats 

and parcels of food in Red Cross Boxes,

schools struggling to open, free dinners lost

and hospitals stretched, homes wrecked and

breaking, while the MPs and corporations 


counting their profits and refusing to see

the results of rabid greed and sleep easy 

in their clean warm beds.

The Tory Party’s .

small print!


Its in the small print that we are not allowed

to see.

Its written large in their minds that we will not

be free.

Its in their meetings, their words and thrills

and the meaning is hid in their lying deceit.


Not one has been told but they guess that

it is.

They cannot believe that’s clearly considered

to be

and yet they meet in secret in pubs, remotely

located, with Russians betraying their flock.


The poor are now poorer and the rich count

their glee,

The food banks are closing for a serious lack

of food.

Trust Truss or Rishi, they say, but we all know 


their trust is in mammon for themselves and



Seaside Fun

Dancing sunlit waves, gleeful children,

reddened cheeks, glowing with joy under

a layer of factor 50, to fight off the furious

sun searching out each little corner of skin

uncovered; and so they dress them now

with protecting suits or pop up tents that 

shield, and enable freedom on the beach;

to dig and build, shape and fill buckets, to

make sandcastles that stretch across the 


thinking to stop the tide. and ride the ripples

in the welcoming ambling sea on its quiet, 

soulful days. But, they love too the tossing 

roaring waters that build and splash and 

challenge, that thrill and lift and tumble,

and each one to be met by crazy courage, 

over and over as they wait for the really big

one, that will toss them in the surging surf.

Hiccoughing and laughing, they face again

the cold waters and splash and scream ’til

the call comes to go back, and suddenly 

they are cold and shivering and struggling

with wet clothes and sandy feet that scrape,

warm, dry clothes bringing cheer, and 

tears are dried as they homeward trek to

hot drinks, restorative snacks and hot 

showers leaving gritty sand as they go to

a place to sit, relax, read and slow down.

Britain August 2022

Like sheep to the slaughter we voted them in,

like donkeys we slave away at their despotic will,

like a cat amongst pigeons they pursue and push

at our connections, destroying our community

but, like automatons they tread on unfeeling.


Like a lion they prowl and devour their prey,

chewing the last juicy money from their 

thin, worn pockets and adding it to their fine

warm, bulging bank accounts, watching as life

burns, burying their conscience beneath cash.


She is like a wraith as she looks at the shops,

willing the meagre sum in her purse to stretch,

willing the prices lower and the hunger, stamped

on her child’s face by politicians, to give way to

a happy, healthy smile that lights up the eyes.


Still they chew her coins as they claim expenses,

eating away at the tax payers purses and praying

no one will notice their shameless, shambolic

posturing. Like rats fleeing the sinking ship they 

sail away; steering the wreck from Tory havens.


Death comes oh so slowly for some,

whispering in each struggling breath,

holding them in its grip but tightly

not letting them go to their freedom,

gasping for air, painful frowns as

medication is measured and relief

is sought, but death comes too slow.


Death is sudden. Like a fist to the gut.

No warning, no word, no inkling of it.

She was so young, he was only. God!

This is not how I imagined my day.

Like a huge rolling wave it hits and

leaves an aftermath of abject misery.

It comes. A crater in someone’s life.


Death steals hope and fruitful futures,

and tho t’is part of nature nurturing. so

 it has its shadowy way; a dark valley.

Long ago a wounded hands reach out

from a cross, he shared with us the

grim journey. Now, he warmly welcomes

each weary soul with love and fills them

with life;