Breaking the poor to pay the rich.

There, in the place of privilege and parliament,

she held the flame high. And showed clearly the

darkness that assaults the poor and divided David 

Cameron’s almost managing ’til their larders are 

emptied of succour and their frightful futures fixed

with a hasty handful of wealth cultivated wishes. 


Although this time the poor are paying for the rich,

their fingers in frayed pockets for rich folks’ care,

their homes will go while bloated pockets only pay

for their own pleasures and privileges, homes in

exotic islands, money in expat banks. All are

taking the bread out of the mouths of little babes.


The light will always shine in the darkness and 

the truth will always out.  Turning the lives of the

wealthy patrons and persons of high living into


and levelling up will become a torrid

affair where polls are lost and a new party born.

The Mystery of Life

The particles, embodying life flew ever outwards,

light shattering rocks in a star flung emptiness.

Hope burned into balls of molten fire and furnaces

that lit the shadows of planets: where mortality

was born.  And out of nothing single cells formed 

from beauty into an ordering, startling the biologists

and puzzling them with their intricacies of proteins,

knowing that somewhere in this a designer has

worked with love and the brought beauty into being.


I bit into my chocolate, and the thoughts began to percolate.

I tasted the milkiness and bittersweetness and sighed and

cried inside my body – where the need’s nourishment not this

punishment as the weak, hungry child in my mind’s eye dies.


I do not mean to deride the pride we have in our great nation,

as we cut back the giving so that our living can survive the

incessant drive of disease and wasted chances in warped

circumstances yet still the wasting child in my mind’s eye dies.  


I once spoke with someone who had no bread, his children

not fed, and, “I’’m outside the human race, my family thin of 

face. The swollen bellies that you see on your tellies are 

emotional damaging, physically challenging and I have no


way to feed, I cannot sow seed that greed has taken on land

that is stolen.” It is a mystery that in our history we repeat it

over and over again. The poor are pushed aside while lying

governments hide their routes to wealth which scour out

the pots of poverty. 

What price a Child’s Life?

The soft skin dries,

amongst new Mum sighs,

and Dad is keen to play his role

and so the child grows their soul.


The sibilant tweeting of birds in the garden

flow around them, sleeping without fear of men,

til sound becomes words and their mind can think,

and so they learn that their new future is on the blink.


With others they grow and seek the difference they need,

and seeds sown in their lives by adults who’ve yielded to greed. 

No thought was given to a small babies crying while around the table,

lying and hiding the truth strangers wrangle over words and badly disable


the chance to build a world for the newly born but construct it strongly around

coal and oil for the corporate companies who have sold their lives to be bank bound,

taking the joys of trudging lanes, beach trips because to them it’ll be ever dangerously evil.

and when that child dies in wars over water, or hostile weather that will torment and kill, will


those who hide in safe homes with guns 

and food give a toss for them or only their sons.

For Txia and Greta

She slips through the trees she calls home,

and gathering, her kin hear of far off shores 

and stores of chocolates and fine clothes.

They hear of children calling for a future

and the adults who listen not. They lament

with solemnity the proclivity of the adults

unphased by the climate disaster. And a

love of carbon fuels that duels with the

way that the young and the already 

drowning protest, named pests by the

carbon killing, jet loving, coal digging

fools. Together they touch their trees,

their homes and grieve for their losses.


He yawns

and suborns.

He snores

breaks the laws.

Watching the world waits and wonders,

will it ever end or will he make them bend

again and again to suit his rules, and calls

them fools, as he laughs and sneers behind

their listening ears. The homeless are in the

gutter because that is his bread and butter. 

The poor queue for philanthropist’s good food 

and that is understood. For, it is up down and

even top down that only works if friends are

paid and money made first, he has such an

unimaginable thirst for power, control and 

aces the questions by absence and controls

the press by pretences and faces no 


The Jet Set at COP26.

Bleakly I watched the rain coursing down, as if forcing into

our cold comfort house, where gas is becoming as rare as the

meat on our plated meals, we try to manage for the health

of the earth, for sealed promises for it to become a healed 

place, where each and every child can be wild amidst the 

greenery, flutterings, flowers, birds twittering as they rustle 


in the green hedges singing the triumph of Spring over Winter.

I traced the droplets and watched them coalesce into rills

just as the trickles fall  through the troubled earth, deep

tracks through rocks, until it flows into freshets, streams and 

rivers to the seas; where polyester plasticised natural things 

frolic, forage and play in the plastic bubbles of pollution. 


I’m gobsmacked, gobstopped as I groan at the elite of 

the earth, changing their manners to suit the matters but 

speaking platitudes, bad attitudes more of blah, blah, blah

to the violated, desecrated world – for to listen is to believe,

to believe means motivation to the notion of act, act, act.

‘Its awful,’ they say to the camera,  ‘Action,’ to the activists.


While all the time they carry on with their agenda, their

propaganda, waging war on the poor and destitute and

the deteriorating climate of the delicate blue planet, They

think that their money will be their saviour not a change 

in their behaviour. So, the seas roar nearer, the deserts

are drier, forests are for fire and temperatures are higher.

Space to think.

I looked up to see a myriad moments of pulsing stars, my

icy breath the soul cloud between us, and my fingers reach

out to touch and feeling only cold, my heart sinks; for I

was alone, an abyss between me and the borrowed lights.

And the darkness grows around me as I lie on a blue-green 

world. I wait and watch and there, it flashed across the sky 

and, in that moment I saw that they too died. And in dying, 

gave light to the night for the few that noticed that shining

plunging of a meteor lost in space, ripped from its security

to be pulled into our gravity. I gazed as the tiny sparkling

suns silently and slowly moved across the night sky. And

I wondered was someone far out there looking back at us, 

telling the story of a night under the panoply of the heavens,

where the icy air imbued strength to the imaginings of a 

connection between worlds, millions of light years apart, 

and a far off sentient being watching and wondering about