Corruption and Greed

Bombast and rhetoric that lines the domain,

blasting through democracy and destroying,

bruising the nerves and breaking the news, 

to split and divide neighbours so they can

cruelly conquer the looking lost, the pain

filled poor, the long time oppressed, and 

dignity dies from preventable diseases

while they warmonger to warp their

furtherance. And the fragile minds of


children are mutilated by ill timed

mumblings that deaden the brain to

hasty honour, love and self-worth

tidily sorted away as something bad,

while the  nasty peddling of putrid 

policies work in the veins of a populace,

to dislocate and deaden until the dead


arise and triumph over the sad sickness

of oppression, organised hatred, and

so a new happence, a hope, like the

halfling trudging through Gondor with

the weight of the world in a wicked ring, 

persevered, while evil conquered itself and 

good overcame. 

Hope in the Darkness

Darkness invites the weary,

and brightens their time,

with candles and fires, 

with glimpses of moons,

and sparkling stars. And 

through the darkening

sky peeps  the pallid sun, 

its silent strength grown 

weaker; and wearily now it

warmly shines in the myriad

eyes of the parcelled populace, 

squinting and smiling, to

see and feel the hope of 

wistful winter, lit by a

baby born at a time of 

plagues, fear and poverty.

Then, she will garnish the 

land with seed fresh shoots, 

snowdrops, and daffodils,

to hearten the weary, wintry

traveller with treasures 




Stealing a Life for Profit

It hurts to see the world as it is,

where the oppressed are bound

and the power abusers succeed.

To feel their hatred for a child

because of birth and colour and

creed, and the dreadful damage

being done to violently vanquish  

good through evil.


The child begs on the street, and

for centuries pleads for coin and

she sells her body for grubby 

notes and loses her sharp sense 

of self, and the ghosts of the past

mingle with the spirits of the

present; showing them the

sheer hopelessness of ever

being better.


The man stoops, old bones

in a young mind. His back

bears the brunt of racism

and hatred gouged into his 

flesh. His once family, now

gone, and he grieves for

the countless children lost; to

vile ideals.


She snatches sleep, while the

proud company sells her life

in garments, made while she

sleepwalks into stick thin 

limbs, that crumble and break

like her spirit, under the weight

of western greed for cheap cat-

walk prosperity.


A once prophetic song, ‘When,

will they ever learn?’ And still

we go around and around with, 

grasping greedy bodies,           reaching

to enslave- to expand their profits,

and subdue dissenting voices,

until their own hearts harden and

souls shrivel.


And is God good? A face, 

diminished by the slaves lash 

and the wrongly accused cross.

He cries out for the oppressed

and the free and – Like a dove, 

hope flies on, and on and one

day, our restless wings and the

white dove, will surely rest

 in the sand.

The Box he Carried

The box he carried weighed in at

tons of right wing rhetoric, and 

pounds of destruction of democracy,

and stones of self interest, and

gallons of lies and manipulation.


Left behind was hundredweights of

destructive control and bushels of abuse 

of the power of a potted parliament. 


The lining of his pockets, pushed 

the poor past the margins of just

managing, the immigrant forced

to face fear and famine. And the

hope of a healthy future, flushed 




The Refugee

He looked at his children and sighed,

his labouring wife by his side,

her panting and groaning rent the air

with pain, coupled with despair.


He felt the tears slide down his face,

prayed for a moment of grace,

and knelt to deliver his very own chile,

in a cruel world, beyond vile.


Holding his own bloody, broken mess,

his wife sobbing in her distress,

the wind cut through their tiny tent,

rain soaking, the bloodied bent


man, enslaved to the hatred of the lost,

and he alone counts the cost,

nowhere to go, no-one to offer a home,

they’ll die as his son in the womb. 


Tomorrow they’ll move, wander more,

trying to cross oceans roar,

seeking only a safe haven for his kin,

dreaming of health to work again.


A thousand miles and hundreds to go,

the press helping others say, “No!”

“You cannot stay here, you don’t belong.”

All that’s left is his death song.   


He prayed the Lord to end the torment,

of seeing starving children – meant

for living, not dying to the wealthy west,

for God’s grace to do his best.


While others sit in their homes at ease,

and post hate where they please,

he shares a crust and then hunts for more,

and greed replaces hope with law.

Is God a Bully?

Wear a hat!

Sit still!

Wear a veil!


prostrate yourself!

give money!




God is warring,

violent, avenging,

A Jealous one,

rewards killers,

racist, white,

spurns women,

wants sacrifices,

tramples infants!

Thous shall not!


Didn’t God create

a beautiful world?

Love and families?

gave us Jesus,


equality for all,

non violent


stood against


self giving,

so beautiful.

The cross.

The grave.


Loving hands freed to heal again.