Addiction

Shambling down the narrow lanes he

carried his world, 

broken long ago

by words and shortages

and grumbles,

daily struggling 

but friendly

encouragers, urging

use of drugs

and alcohol,

shoved him along the paved

road that battled

to bury the pain

and led to a hell

where, craving the numbing money,

facing the beatings,

and abuse of the 

ones-

who think that they

are all above that.

Jesus shuffled down the narrow street

carrying the world

with him in

his battered

body, weakened

and bloody,

flesh and soul

craving any drug

to kill the pain

but, for that man,

he dies in agony. 

Giving us a glimpse

of a 

being 

eternally

battered, 

one who longs

to heal the lonely wanderer

burdened with losses,

and bring them

to a safe place

where the unlovely are loved,

and the addict welcomed,

and hope is found in a cave 

that was a father’s womb.

Assault and despair

It wasn’t on purpose,

she saw that.

It was her fault

and she shouldn’t have said it, and now

Could her body go on taking

the bruising;

Her soul 

the battering,

And her heart

the fear?

He smiled his forgiveness

and said he wouldn’t do it

again and again and again,

But she really should have done

what he’d spoken, ‘DO

NOT PROVOKE ME!

She walked to the shops

her head hung low

the pram ahead 

and for a while 

she almost felt 

she belonged.

Carol stopped 

and asked,

‘If 

she

was

ok?’

She mumbled something about falling

down the front steps

and said a hasty, goodbye.

He hated her talking to 

another.  She had bruises

to prove it.

She looked at the grocer’s window

and saw the picture of herself 

looking back at her

in amongst the fruit and veg

‘I am a fool twice over

but where can I go?’ 

she said to the child.

She shopped quickly and turned back home

soon she would be safe indoors 

and nothing would go wrong,

nothing would make him cross

today, ‘Oh please God, help me!’

She thought as she saw 

he was watching

from the window

that look on his face,

that leaflet in his fist.

She suddenly turned and ran

back up the street,

the pram wobbling and bobbing

and Carol

was there,

and they spoke

quietly,

‘It is not your fault, 

it is not your fate

we can change this

we have a safe place

for you

and your child

where

he cannot go

and the police

will listen to you.’

She saw a black hole opening 

up in front of her.

He would find her

He would beat her

And no one but him really cared.

She wheeled the pram back

to what she knew,

the bruises on her arms and chest

burning and her heart 

knocking, knocking, knocking.

She’d face his temper,

but this time her screams

were heard

and she watched him

still threatening

handcuffed away.

He’d be back, he said.

Carol helped her pack

and drove her to 

the shelter,

a place 

where she could

recollect

herself

and 

learn to smile again

and her child too.

0808 801 0800  Wales helpline  0808 2000 247 national  

Death

The impact of death.

I cook something tasty

most nights, he said,

Treats and trials

and she sits on my shoulder

and tells me ‘You batty bugger!’

You should have chopped

and fried til they are soft,

and he goes on lightly listening

to her cheery censorship

which was absent

in the old life,

but keeps her close

in the new.

——————————

It darted again

Looking inside the empty container

dangling soulfully,

vacant.

He died.

And in leaving 

they lost their friend

from whose hand

kindly and continually

they were fed.

—————————————–

She held herself rigid in the dark,

his hand held hers under the covers

and she listened to his breathing,

It was not a drifting dream

but a rock reality that made

it tolerable.

—————————


I cook something tasty

most nights, he said,

Treats and trials

and she sits on my shoulder

and tells me ‘You batty bugger!’

You should have chopped

and fried til they are soft,

and he goes on lightly listening

to her cheery censorship

which was absent

in the old life,

but keeps her close

in the new.

Too Late!

———————————

The flowers wilt on the wracked earth,

there are no buzzing bees,

temperatures soar untempered,

children stare out of slits in curtains

closed against the searing sun.

———————————————-

It was an emergency, now

it 

emerges change was too late.

Nothing growing on the farms

where water has not been

husbanded. While, in the 

fields the bones of animals

point to the sky 

and their fallen

fetid flesh 

a troubling echo.

—————————————-

A gift we had of 

green Springs and golden Autumns;

we loved more

the fuel driven 

excoriating Economy 

ignoring the prophetic voices

crying in the rain.

——————————-

Politicians will hide behind

banalities and excuses

asking for patience

while blaming

others

but

they

were

told.