Absorbed he bent his     head,

listening,     to hear the echoes of days past

and hearing nothing, lapses into sleep

where he is young again, yearning.


She was there laughing, but with no 

name and waking he frustratedly 

tugged the rug, warmly wrapping his 

legs which no longer walked his way.


A noise startles him and turning, he

sees a stranger a sweet, mouth smile

on her face, sorry for what she sees,

her lover’s connection hard broken.


Tis his forgotten thrill of love too,

tears run down as the dark deep

sadness of a nowhere loss, holding

him close to gently dry his cheeks.


Love speaks and he hears sounds,

their unfamiliar shapes of confusion,

sinking in they soothe his soul and for 

 a moment his smile blooms again.


She silently shows photos of strangers,

and helps him with his cooling tea,

then kissing that cold cheek. she leaves

taking with her the echoes of his living.

The Passionate Waterfall

The strumming of the running stream, 

jumped and blundered, sloshing over 

rocks and boulders in its way, til toppling

lavishly, like lovers flinging caution 


to a wrestling wind, it waits and then

as an angel it falls, slowing motion,

creating rainbows, raindrops, rushing,

thundering as it collapses and crashes


into a waiting pool playing the music

of lost souls as it leaps in the air again,

squeezing by the next sensuous space,

slamming and tumbling, as it ricochets


and sparkles in the silver shined spray,

it ever  thrusting the water on and on,

til it sighs and slowly pools its passion,

to run deep and dark with desire.

A Thought

A thought is but a fleeting moment in time,

that like water slips into the small spaces

and trickling through pervading the whole

with its denigration or delight, hate or hope.


The trickling consequences of biased thinking,

busily blinds the sighted, and bruises the 

beauty of the hated, hunted, harried, human

now bowed down by steely opinionations. 


So, they fall prey to the purposeful prodding of

a few, who flayed them with the will of wealth, 

blighting the lives of black people, and pursuing

the goals of the racist generals of white elitism,


and I bend the knee to send out a new thought

that racism is wrong, it is right to resist, and 

right to rebel against the rigidity of thoughts

that have prorogued years of possibilities.

Children in Chains

 Proudly the traders stood, as the ship came to port,

T’was in Bristol, not so long ago whence they came,

Each full of self importance, watching their black

gold thrust from the very bowels of a boat to hell.


They stood in chains, naked, on show,  picked over.

Each body demonstrated to the purchasers their 

potency as bulls and cows, muscles for work and

the children stood between, dazed and drowned


in the tears of their mothers who stared at those 

with money in their pockets and dogged drudgery

in their minds, mindful that some would bear the

brunt of their brutal beatings, rape and by-blows.


Sleeping in fits and with stripe plastered backs

they sought such seeds of courage to continue

and we, who subjugated friends, should hang 

our heads in stead. We are the shamed. We did


not ask. We did not look and we do not today.

The slaves are everywhere still ,and we block

out their suffering and voices crying while they

die to our fever for fashion, fast food, fuelling 


a trade at the cost of children’s lives and creating 

a customer that perpetuates slavery for personal

gain, is blind to the beatings and a benighted 

people improperly punished into paving the way 


to destroy a child’s future, they assault them, they 

abuse them, 

attack them 














but this.

It its time to be shocked, to be counted and stand up

to the bullies,

time to brave the bludgeoning staffs of

cheap goods,

and time to pay the


of those things we want ourselves,






I am no Victim

I was a Victim

I am no victim,

not any more.

He ruined my life

took my innocence,

I was deceived and

it tried to destroy

the life in me.

Others saw my weakness,

But, I will not let 

them be something that

rules me,

it erases my expectations

it ruins my outlook

or confidence

I am no victim

because it is no 

longer they 

who choose

but me, myself





my soul.

Duty can be Hell

Wearing whatever could be made in time,

he strolled the corridors of need,

knowing that his work would wrest

a grieving groan from his gambolling gut.


He smiled through his mask, at a

mountain of plastic moving slowly

on tired feet and eyes that showed the

shadows of pain and further tragic loss.


Donning his mound of clean clothes

and a mask fitted to his contours,

he wrestled with his soul and prayed

for today to be better that any yesterday.


Entering the intensive care ward area

he looked for faces he knew, people

he ventilated, he’d held their hands

willing them back to breathing, health and life.


Some waved a hand and some were

gone, and others were in their beds,

while a nurse whispered the numbers

and told him of her friend who was dead.


Tasting the bitter gall of perseverance,

he worked through with courage and care,

stopping to encourage and weep, for

the ones who were no longer lying there.


At last, he was relieved as another took

his place, and peeling off the layers he

remembered the face of the woman

who was recovering, and would see her


family again -he smiled recalling her smile

giving him the strength to 

go on.

Deadly Disease of War.

She turned to the sun and smiled

her weakness fading it fast,

the light had raised hope that

somehow, now would be other.


She tolerated the torment of

inhuman hunger and grief, as

she was too young to know

of a people punishing children.


Her heart fluttered and fitted as

the sun rose to its heights, and

shifted her 





as death came to claim her.


Her sister watched wearily

she’d tried to eat weeds, 

and her writhing bloated 

belly freed her spirit from pain,


unnoticed, like a petal of 

blossom, floating gently back

to mother earth, snatched from

a frost bitten, bewildered tree.


No milk soft mother, foraging 

father or big, brave brothers,

they died weeks ago when

the army came and hell broke out.


They lay together rotting, forgotten

by a world,          wise in covid19,

but deaf to a child’s choked off

cry for crumbs from the rich man’s table.

Ice Sculpture

It wasn’t the ice sculpture

nor the misinformation,

it was his contact disregard

for his position of power,

irresponsibility of a man,

who followed footprints he 

cannot fill,

by breaking the long lived

traditions of careful civility

and his bad behaviour

bringing him points and votes,

as we lower our setting standards 

for extreme

politics that destroy our

democratic life, for vile ways

that will divide us razing

Britain, raising a state

ruled by foreign felons

far away. 

Rule Britain

Sugar coated conundrums

cast out of royalties empty promises,

listing, the ship of fools sails

out into the misty metaphors

of a future fading into foreboding –


of a time where the happy smiles,

are those whose wiles have won 

them influences, that capitalise

their assets and bring ample riches.


Today would be dukes and duchesses,

lords and ladies bow to false news  and the lately

made promises of more, to make this

land, ‘Those who have shall be given

much, take more and the rest get it taken.”