Palm Sunday

As we enter into the winter of our discontent

the Son of God rides into Jerusalem on the

back of a donkey that was wild; until he felt

the touch of the Christ child grown. Like the 


but bidden that we are, to be broken in

by the gentle touch of hands that were

bound and nailed to a tree, its life given as

he wove its beauty long ago, by a soft smile

that was whipped into screams, as he fought

for hope in life rather than in death, crushed

for an unwilling world. 


Untie us Lord and lead us

to the wells of the water of life, guide us through

this frightened and fearful world of violence,

rape, plunder, poverty, starvation, tyranny and

tribulation, to where we can rest in those loving 

wounded hands, see the love in your smile  and 

know you are walking each step with us and will

weep with us, will right wrongs through us and

help us heal the hopelessness of our hearts cry.

Blindness Threatens

I open my eyes and look to the dark,

thick coils swirl across the vague lit 

ceiling of my changing eyesight and

I imagine all sorts of things are there

floating just outside my vision’s night.


I wonder at the others who lie awake

and test their eyes against the lies of

day, and see through their minds a 

host of many hued delights they love,

playing there just by their bedsides. 


My heart is churning thinking of all

the life I love, my need to see my

beloved and my children and       theirs;

and the pillow damp with tears; hid

from those kind seeing eyes longing


to help, find a cure, seek a way to

teach, braille, train me to see what

I can, for a long as I might but still

the drop falls and the night palls

and fear grows with the coming light.


Mine staved off for now but for others

the grey mist falls. And a white stick

calls so that they might walk amongst

the living and feel the grief of the toil

that boils in rage at the injustice of it all.

The Tithes of Prejudice

They tenderly picked up her body, wonderfully made, brutally murdered,

Her intelligence snuffed out, her wisdom lost, her mothering care gone.

Society wept, crying against the constant bombardment of hate, hate, hate,

spoken through the media social, the radio, the speeches and the street,

as it wielded a gun, killed her, willed her death, for no reason of rationale.


Children growing are taught to loathe, not to think, to despise not to learn,

their minds are instilled with invective, blocking their detective instincts to

ask and probe, to seek and read and find leads that take them further into

a world where there is hope, and to question is honoured, and to examine

the speeches and not be nose led, or gross fed the lies of white supremacy.


Instead they are learned in the lore of ignorance as they close their minds

and buy ropes that bind, buy hats that are signed by bigots and yet even

some will test the waters but find that to step away from such hypocrisy is

to break their family, shake friends and take their status. So, they don’t but

there are those who care, bear the burden of stagnant, Godless thinking.


They march in the streets, carrying pleading placards, their minds fixed 

on changing the reels of those; who have been educated to seal their

brains, with monetary gains, choosing the reign of inflicting pains and 

staining the ground with the blood of innocence.  The protesters struggle

straining to shift the ground, see evil reigned in, turn the widening tide, 

promote healing, heroes out to challenge and claim the humanity of 





Then, Now and Tomorrow

I sat beneath the boughs of a tree, once,

and watched the crowds go by. Dressed

warmly against the cold, bright coloured 

scarves, boots and shoes, and even sand-

als displayed beneath shorts of a wry

hard man, displaying his hairy legs and

muscles against the hoar, raw frosts on  

the brown, bare, sleeping, avenue trees.


The crowd moves, like silvered mercury,

in the morning wintry sunshine. Slowly

spreading out and coming together in

harmony. They wave to folk walking the

long winding pathways and, like the tiny

silvery blobs, they pool together and 

they separate and move on to their own

warm fires or cafés for cheering drinks.


The children run around playing games 

with balls, throwing frisbees as high as

the topmost branches of the green firs.

One child falls and shattering screams of 

rage echo across the grass and concrete,

of the play areas, and a cool, concerned 

father kneels and administers the kindly

kisses and hugs. We, wait as the noise


subsides giving space to, a robin above

my head as it sparkles into life and its,

rich notes rising and falling; delighting my

shocked ears. And others turned and we

smile and watch as he comes to hop on

harried grass, tipping his head, levelling

his bright eyes as if to say, ‘Better now.”

This was a time of many months long, 

and still a robin sings and brightens the

day but I wander through the park as

if I had lost my way. Each of us now

carries our burdens of COVID deaths, 

and fears of our futures as lockdown

follows lockdown. But now the man in

his shorts, a stick supporting wasted 

muscles, each breath broken. We chat

through masks and he mentions being

in hospital and the heinous, horror that

COVID19 is. No one has been spared.

Each face the gravity of the mounting

up of debts, job losses, shoddy leaders,

rising death toll and various vaccines;

and will they help us through to being

a human race that is wary of each other?

Do we like those silver drops attract ?

Or do we prefer being divided? Separated?

And we solemnly ask, ‘ Will there come a 

time again,

when the folk dance will stir again and

welcome the pull towards each other, shake

a hand and hug or will we, our nature now

changed to isolation, continue to slide away?

#MeToo Reclaim the Streets

Reclaim the Streets

For Sarah.

Who made the streets the way they are,

lit, de-littered, guttered, de-rutted, tarred?

Motorists and macadam, shovel wielding

navvies? Contraptions stealing the earth.


Now,  we walk, we talk and balk at the noise,

of the traffic, black gleaming lanes and kerbs

giving grace to a flow of varied vehicles on

their way to a destiny that others have made.


Yet, in the midst of through and thorough fares,

walk women of the newest times, grimy years

of tears under male domination, correcting our

mothers, sisters, aunties, girls and grannies;


they walk those streets in fear and trembling;

as I did when a car stopped at the kerb and 

then as I ran, he followed, nipped around and 

was in my face, til the empty roads and alleys


became a labyrinth and my pursuer like a wild

animal stalking his prey, blocked my exits, he

terrifies me still. Running, hiding, crying, and

shouting, finding an all nighter, shrinking back


to hide from his leering, ogling face and grim

tactics bent on what? I’ll not know. Luckily I

was not a police case, a race, a killer to trace,

learned to avoid the chase, spray the mace. Be


aware of preyers. Take care! Go out in pairs! 

Male friend to walk you home? Or starve, take a 

taxi but they ruined that too. Have a pepper

spray. A mobile phone but they keep their own


beastly distance as they cruelly chant, they

swore, called us whores and aimed at our

cores where we kowtow to a male society, that

never passes any laws, do the police even try


to work for our cause, show them the iron doors,

close their jaws, and quieten their roars, for men

foment, they plot and plan, cos they can. Yet,

Sarah died and so did our right to peaceful



Together with the true males we’ll take a stand 

turning to one another, and all those precious

names will not die in vain, cos you and I will 

kindle a flame, tame the male wilderness,

reclaim the streets, let justice be the pavement

and respect 

be the


The Harrowing of Hell

Is it within, without, was it always

someone else’s tool that they used

to abuse, confuse and cruise their

hate through another’s quick crisis.


Hell hath no fury? Give them hell.

Hell is – other people said Sartre,

The road to hell is paved with –

good intentions. I felt like hell; are


just the many man made ways we 

use a word that holds the world in

contempt; forgets to tell of the one

who came to hell and withstood its


snares, despair, and vile wares.

He sparred as he harrowed hell 

on a lonely hillside, braved alone, 

and faced the dreadful darkness down.


He attacked it within and as death

lost its power. he cowered it across

the land, until hell punched the air

with joy over the sealed dark tomb.


Dead, he harrowed evil o’er and more,

til he rose above the empty grave,

and hope erupted, gilding the day

and building a way for you and for 


me to crush and push and thrust

hell, hushing its voice in a troubled

land and hassling it in our hearts

to pulse anew with joy and grace.


To seek it, wreak it, break it and 

there in the darkest moment we

will find the candle set there by

a loving, grieving pearl of God.

The Pain of Womanhood

The lash landed on her bared back,

rupturing the fragile scarred skin

and ruby red droplets scattered

across until they formed flowing




Each stroke shook her heart as

it tried to cope with blood loss,

and pain, and shame, and anger,

at abusive laws set to break 




Collapsing into a bloodied heap,

her hair coated red, and the marks

of many crosses on her battered

back; she prays for the dignity of




They will treat her unjustly inflicted

wounds. They will get her back on

her feet, and then they will punish

her again for nothing more than she




He looks and hates the desire that

he feels. The lash has become his

lust, and anger, that a female has 

stood up to the misogynistic male




What has brought women so low

that they feed on a male’s unsub-

stantiated flow and subverted praise?

The answer is that they have always been




So, womanhood is to nurture not the

male’s domination, for that is corrupting,

but themselves and as they grow and 

fight for their freedom to be, they’ll




Each society is builded on blocks of virility,

each fails and blames their helpmeet and

violates her and so nations collapse and

their hope for the future, their very children



Creation groans.

The bounteous skin of the earth corrupted,

its bones break through, bleaching in the sun-

light, which beats on the dust blown surfaces

taking from it life and burning into it death.


An owl flies through the ruins where the gaunt,

parched desert yields it no life and so it falls,

scattering its atoms into a hungry landscape,

where nothing can stay the terrible tragedy.


Where it meets sea – the salt encrusted rocks

are battered by ravening waters and strewn

with the plastic detritus of human wastefulness,

its anger beats each stroke of crashing waves,


together they cry out for justice and mercy but

many people huddle and mutter, they grumble 

and look at the encroaching briny, the storm

broken homes and the violent viruses, which


their selfishness has released by condemning

the oak and the redwood, hazel and ebony; 

replacing them with concrete, cattle and city

slickers blinded to the call of the creation.


The earth groans and calls, spits flames, and

burns paths through human made jungles ’til

the air is filled with its call – that folk will hear

and relent of their evil and work with nature for