The Grief of Afghanistan

It takes years for the slights and prejudice to forge

a people of deepening hatred for their oppressors,

and they bite back burning away the years that cast

cynical doubt on their cruel power hungry purposes.


It was like blowing oxygen through molten pig iron,

lowering the carbon content to make it stronger and

enabling a revolutionary force to grow a steel shell

that would withstand, wait and harden their hearts. 


They watched as kin were blasted in their homes,

and by purposely poisoning people’s perception,

turned the willingness and casting of a new country

into fractured fragments of flawed steel overheated. 


Piled into trucks, prowling the streets they marched,

greeted by friends who have longed for power, still

they dance and wave their mighty machines of war,

and violate the women like vile cowards afraid of


      their beauty and see the female as corrupting

and themselves unable to control their own urges,

denying the gift of God who gave love, equality 

and joy, instead of the male dominance that will


take and destroy the lives of girls to slake their

own lust, and coerce them into sexual slavery, and

in fear,  wrestle daily for justice while chained to an

evil avalanche of masculine perpetrated misogyny.

Cambo and others

The candle flamed and then the dark enfolded it,

taking the space from the rank room and filling

it with the sins of the rich nations who take each

glimmer of light and feed on it leaving the rest to

wrestle with the deepening dread of night and


nearby in valley of shadows someone’s sharing

a story of long ago tales, of times where treats

were not rare, and meals were met with thanks

and shared with the stumbling poor. Not one

now knows a joy of justice or the fun of fullness.


The gloom grows with grim satisfaction as the

world closes in – while keeping its largesse for

itself and still they feed the fires of greed as

once wealth takes root it feasts on flights of

fancy that it is never, ever going to be enough.


The historian looked and struggled with tears

that threatened to make pathways down her

frowning features, she read again of the 

terrible tragedy of humans who hesitated,

gave life to oil fields, who oiled their palms




Money Paces the Action.

The turbid water struggled down the sluggish stream,

filling my mind with the conflicting consequences of

completed actions repugnant to life, like the stagnant 

putrid puddles steamy with slimy sewage by the bank.


The once clear waters had flowed, tumbling over the

rocks and stones, sparkling in the sunlight as it wove

its way past gay, green meadows and tall stalked fields

of wind blown wheat, waving like golden ocean waves.


Now I see only the wasted time of delayed deliberations, 

spoiling the landscape, destroying the already dying

lives of once naturally resilient flora and fauna for ever,

decisions made by filthy lucre, ignoring the science.


Like the stream we muddied and meandered on 

doing things that meddled and made things worse, 

to line the pockets of politicians and  friends, to suit 

those with egoistic eyes amassing millions in a bank.


I wake, in early hours with gloomy meanderings.

A spiky virus wanders through and I watch it 

despairing that it will ever quieten and agree.

Then a forest aflame floats searing my vision,

cresting the wave of self destruction as each

carboniferous death of a carbon absorber. 


I slip sleepily into the comforting sounds of

a sea shore somewhere where the flow and

fall of tides rocks me ’til I surface fearful.


I lie there, tight muscles, a starter headache,

staring into an airless abyss where towering

trees crash to the gulping ground, and small

frightened folk disappear into smoke filled

zones, where the hottest hell ate their home.


Somewhere in a laboratory, an obligatory 

effort is going on to find ways to quell those

spreading tongues and restore the fragrant

forests, or opening the way for a dying world

to yield heating carbon into holding containers.


I slide fitfully into a place of nightmare dreams

and try to recall the calm and peace of the blue

lulling sea calling me. And then I hear the screams


of women caught by fighting men and forced

from their freedom into slavery as extremist

Moslem wives. I hear their calls for help and

weep bitter tears of shame as I will arise and

live my day fearlessly and framed in love.


I restlessly try to form their cries into prayers

asking a God who they say is love to go there

and show the men that it is their shame to 

treat God’s created beings by cutting back their

lives to be trampled on, their lives terrorised.


And still I cry, for why do men think they have

the power and control to cruelly treat women,

as worthless. I lay awake praying their pain.

Save the Life of a Child

You look at the pictures of that abused child,

you ain’t no better than the one that did the vile

thing to that sweet innocent little bundle, that 

should be full of joy and you filled her with 

filth and degraded her little form, that ain’t norm.


You got them on dat computer of yours and turn

it on,

while those caught kiddies they done nothing

to deserve being brutalled and sometimes totalled, 

for you on your tech to insanely, sickenly burn.


Them judges don’t seem to realise, they summarise

your behaviour as less than that one what did the

terrible, horrible, vile violations to a dear little one.

You looked at them and paid, you did that thing to


that little face that cries and hurts, sick at heart,

just so that some sick pervert scans their photo.

So, if you be a judge, they be deserving the same

as those that stole that little child’s spirit and life.


Those children are suffering, used for buffering

a bank account, that’s the amount they matter,

Look at their eyes, see the reflection and note,

You should be the one in correction and fighting

and righting the porn and scorn of helpless kids.

the Loneliness of Easter

The Loneliness of Easter


Pilate stared at the growing hostile mass.

Alone he stands to be manipulated

and called and crowded, til he



human justice

is undone – that God’s justice

is embedded in an empty tomb.


The crowd:

Together we are stronger and louder.

Our strident calls for death echo

back off the silent walls

of the palace in its opulence,

as we shout, ‘Let him be crucified!’

Leaving him to death, we depart,

unhurrying, worrying what have

we done? He loved us,

laid hands our sick,

stood up for us

and now he is gone and we

alone and God in the long distance.



Hiding was no good because

His voice was in my mind

‘You will betray me three times.”

Three times not once

t’would be bad enough

But I did and now I cannot

be my own company or

theirs and I weep alone





I destroyed him

and isolated us from hope.

We are abandoned,

unaided and he

did not take

silver, he gave life

in his loneliness.



Yes, I said, ‘Your will not mine be done!”

And then it struck like a stone,

as I stood in silence by Pilate,

It was also their will.

They want me to die.

I have no one left but Him

And Eloi, Eloi lama Sabachthani,

Even He left.



The Poisoned Butterfly

The Butterfly

It lit on a leaf,

unfurling those brushed fur wings,

eye spots, golden in the sun

and blue and white lacings,

delicate and soft,

light as feathers,





A tongue so fine

sucks the sweetness of a treat,

sown by the corn stretched meadows

the man made poisoned wheat,

the graceful wings close,

to open, to fly.






Hilary Evans

Grace at the margins

He walked slowly in the crowd.

Each person designated

to call for help and hope

and she touched the hem.

He told stories of seeds and lilies,

each person wanting more;

gathering to hear and ask

for heavenly wholeness.

He shared his quiet space

his moment with his Dad

and thousands crowded near

with fish and bread he fed them.

He stood before Pilate

his heart beating fast

and thronging him his people

egged on, called, ‘Crucify!’

Pierced hands and feet

and failing organs,

jostling for room they scoffed,

‘Get yourself down from there!’

The tomb empty and cold,

he stood in the garden.

Just one waited alone

He called her,  “Mary.”

We scorn him now at greater cost.

He stands in our midst to help.

He never will condemn

for love is only love.