Ancient stories tell truths

but modern ones lies.

Are we called to hear

but not to question?

each of us thrilled to

the sound of hope

to be dashed by

a creed of half starved

children in containers

in our streets.


Sweet innocence sold

for an ideology

forced upon us

by men and women

who have no idea

of hungry bellies

and filthy water,

of scant scraps that

more than filled

shrunken stomachs.


Is it always the way

that those with a voice

still the waves of their

storms , pushing the raging

rollers into another’s path?

Resting back replete,

depleting choices

in the pursuance of power.

Weeping Angels

The dust baked blood caked, 

form flew into a space

beneath the breeze, black, blocks;

and laying her sweet

head she stilled

in death.


The bombs blown, rained, down

and little mites murdered

dying amidst dust, and

and not one to note

their passing,

from life.


A child’s shrill cry filled

a ransacked rumbling building

while over his ruined blooded

body butchers will

claim this is

God’s will.


Not so, the weeping angels greeted

as they raised up

broken bodies to new souls,

to sit 

on Christ’s knee, whose

tears wiped their terrors

and losses and loved their

trembling souls; and sheltered






who have sold their souls to Satan.