Is life real?

I feel as though the horror and violence 

waging wars around make no sense.


How can we believe its right today

to hurt a child or blast them away?


Where is the sense or rationale?

It’s archaic, cruel, a foul bad tale.


Is there a place where children play?

A timeless point, a safe place I pray.

Kneeling I cry to a God of sad sorrow,

who lost a son and wept for tomorrow

when love ascends and vile hate dies,

and the humble are the ones to prize.


Somewhere, surely, there’s another room,

so close like a wee babe curled in a womb.


A home of peace and loving sanctuary,

a place that’s real with no adversary.

The Cult of War

Tarnished shells of tragedy and sorrow,

burnt out buildings and long snout guns,

stand against the hideousness of violence

and the cult of war.


Children flung from cowering to funerals,

parents arms empty, people without homes,

empty plates and emptier eyes hollowed by pain,

and the cult of war.


Trampled plants and the trembling of animals,

creatures of the day and night,  dying in agony,

maggots alone have food in plenty through killing

and the cult of war.


Armed forces die, anti tank devices flame,

leadership,  safe in their homes, order them on,

a Covid invasion, a created virus of human intent

for the cult of war.


Offshore accounts heartier, affluence hastening,

weapons manufacturing, wealth to make,

eyes blind to the savagery, the lives they take

for the cult of war. 

God is listening!

It chilled my soul,

cos I could see their goal,

dominating women,

and then,

push them into dark corners

make their lives more onerous

beat them black and blue

tell them what to do,

while they gloat and glower

and boasting of their power

boiling their own souls.


It chilled my soul,

cos I saw the ugly foul

staining and spreading

when a man a child weds.

I am lost for words, as their

evil beds

are places for children’s terror,

violation and horror.

It chills me still when I stop and think

of the millions of girls on the brink

of all the good that God has given them

to find it stolen by a knife

by women, by life,

by their family,

to grimly  live with the hurt,

to satisfy the lust of a pervert.


Yet, good men suffer too,

as they stand up against you,

as they feel your shame,

and call out your name,

place the blame,

of your monstrous sinning,

knowing that God is hearing

to the weeping of girls and women.

The Barn Owl

Motionless but for a revolving head, waiting 

palely, a faint outline in the brooding darkness suddenly rends the air with a psycho scream, 

penetrating, threatening.  

  A ghostly flight as it sweeps the ground

waiting silently, a sentinel of the dying light,

seeking the future through scampering feet,

blood for a scavenger’s brood. 

White against the starlit sky she prowls,

listening and arguing her rights to voles and creatures scuttling through shifting grass,

leaving her organic waste. 

Perched in the rafters of the blacknight barn,

searching eyes for a mouse,  farm fresh food,

feeling the affinity with hard pressed farmers

she bides, a spirit of grace. 

Harmony of flight and a soul of lost moments,

she lifts her wings in prayer to a quiet God 

and eyes shut, roosts in the crumbling tower of

a once watching church.