Sifted news, we drink it in,

Turning back the pages again,

looking for a truth or nothing,

wondering who really is there

at the top, making honey pots

of money out of slaves and misery.


Is it true they’re starving?

stick thin legs on children,

drought bared fields, and

animal carcasses, littered,

rotting, stinking beneath 

the stark pointed branches of 


dead leafless, fruitless trees,

a child stares into the camera

her thin drawn mother speaks

but where is this? Can it be?

That we as humans would

let our children live like these?


Like fallen Autumn leaves,

they lie dying while some

like vultures eating at tables 

laden with their choices,

feeding pampered pets

and stop the reporting.


There are those who believe

they are called to bring help,

work to provide food and water

while archaic lying politicians self-

centeredly fight against the truth.


They choose like greedy gulls,

snapping up their treasures

and gobbling up their wealth,

Who am I to say? Are my choices

purposefully against poverty?


And so the world goes round,

they hope,

but this time it will not,

the blinkers will come off,

when it hurts them.

and it will be too late.

Butterfly Memory

It brushed my arm, lightly caressing

as it winged lazily flapping by me,

bright blue amongst the long green

grasses of the overgrown verges.

My eyes followed its gentle passage,

none but me to see its fair fluttering,

resting so sensitively on each sweet,

nectar filled flower in the hedgerow.


Camera at the ready as it slowly lay

on the summery petals, sun warmed,

a slight flicker and I had its likeness

as it slipped, flowing with grace away.

The picture looked solid and heavy

with grief I looked in vain for the

fragility of that delicate china blue,

beauteous in its velvety softness.

I waited quietly and a watched as

other white tipped yellow, red and

gold came, flapping dainty wings

and drank in their lives instead.

The Shy Bluetit

The darting cobalt blue,

streak of yellow gold

swiftly passes

snatching tasty seed then –

flees to hide, green

amongst the laurel leaves

which tremble and

close in its wake.


Peeping out eye bright, he

fixes upon a nutty gem.

The seething bush

releasing a wild friend, who

like a salmon leaping

over a water fall

flies up

and sinks

and is gone

as is the morsel


to feed

a tiny form


the growing cold.

Fraud hurts.

It seemed innocent in my in box,

from a friend, someone I knew,

some photos, or a link to them

and I stupidly thought, ‘How Kind!’


I pressed the link and felt so bad

as others told me I had been had,

a virus poisoning my little iPad

and others around that I loved too.


I thought I’d learned my lesson,

but it really was not the same, it

came from my Amazon account,

troubles over paying the  amounts.


I thought I’d check and pressed

the link and a nice email came

back asking clearly for my bank

card details, the slimy individuals.


Now my card is cancelled, the

fraud team so kind as they 

explained that scams are 

widespread, a plague that kills.


My misery was compounded when

the fraud team called me back,

and I gave them bank account

numbers and waited, worried until –


I wept with grief at my statement

showing that all my stash had gone;

and the bank was kind but very firm.

So, now if I see a request for details

or a link that arrow clicks elsewhere, 

a delayed delivery that needs payment,

a desperate person disastrously stuck 

and in need of my personal help.

Because they are thieves and they’ve

stolen away my pride, for I like to

help. I like to be right in things,

but now it feels so shallow, but

I will refuse.

Put the phone down.

Check it on the internet.

And most

of all I will cry,

for the loss of my


and for

fraud loving


Echoes in Faith

It is in the silence that he is usually there,

in the angel music he will ordinarily speak,

but like many who wander and wonder

there is an emptiness and disconnection.


Shadows of shapes where he used to be

and a faint echo that which led to stability,

a heavy heart hangs low, he held it once

and led me by my own frail hand.


A desertification of my spiritual journey,

sand dunes and landscapes of coloured

hues of a sun set, strange birds and sighs

as the wonder that is around me -waits


by my side and some times I can feel

that he’s been there, walked this way

and in my dreams I am trying to run

and reach him before he is truly gone.


Then the crying of tortured people,

the homeless refugees, raped women,

and hungry children call me to pray

and in praying I kneel and beseech


and ever doing it in a vacuum I trust.

I will not stop even though he is silent.

I will not put down the calls for prayer.

I will never stop saying God is Love.


For Jesus walked this world and wept,

and so I will continue to cry in hope,

and proclaim that God is good ’til –

my wounds and his are bound together,


The silence echoed in the crowded room,

each person bent on praying, living, hoping,

and grieving his loss, his touch, his smile,

the room too small for his shortened life.

The air outside warming as the day begins,

their celebrations quietened, occluded by 

a cross,

an empty grave,

a hill top, angels and heavy hearts.


Shrinking from celebrations of Pentecost

the day God changed their history, 

gave Moses the Torah,

heralding a new isolated Israel,

they close ranks, support and pray.

Unexpectedly, a noisy, storm arises, 

violent winds tossing their lives about,

and lightning flames alighting on every head.

Non-consuming like the desert bush and

holy as the ground Moses, bare foot trod.


Wonder and awe, anxiety and fear, tumbled

through them igniting in their hearts, souls

and minds,

the love of God, Christ’s very Spirit poured

in and through and for our broken world.


Each tried to speak, each eyes saucer round,

and the flower of the Messiah’s mission crowned

                    and voices spoke and sang 

in praise for the everliving, omnipotent saviour.


Startled they listen and like angel choirs

they joined together in an explosion of joy,

every language blended as one as

the Holy One of Israel calling a world,

separated by their mother tongue

to a unity, unforeseen, unknown ’til

The faithfulness of a few opened,

and God flowed through.


The crowds were gaping, accusing, mystified,

understanding each their own language uttered,

as wonder abounded as Peter spoke of love and grace,

a new era begins

of possibilities of a place

where the poor have self worth,

the oppressed dignity, where

God’s Spirit dwells in human hearts.

The Last Supper

Tables overwhelmed with flavours and smells

Of ritual foods,

Bitter herbs and unleavened bread,

Hard eggs and sacrificial lamb,

Wine poured ready for joy as the

recitation pours out of shared history and hope.


Mary waits to light candles and pray

but finds him kneeling, water to show them, 

the way.

He washes her feet, invoking

a memory in her mind, A sword will pierce her through.


Plates filled, the plagues recited,

the Seder begun, takes on wine

and merry hearts, laughing and singing,

stories that tell of a God who saved them from the slavery.


He stands and breaks the bread for dipping

in bitter tears, of slaves, 

This is my body he says, given for you,

each time you eat it, Remember me.


One of you will betray me, his words

Cut to the bone,

Guilt, fear and curiosity making them ask, If 

it is I Lord?


Sad eyes watch, wondering as Judas leaves.


The cup stands full, alone on the table spent,

calls for Elijah to return, and

lifting it Jesus, made plain what few could hear

My life blood is here, drink it for now

a new covenant is born in my blood.

All who seek me will find me.


By my blood forgiveness is now the law,

for Grace has come through me.

A new commandment I give you

Love one another as I have loved you.

Drink this, remember me every time,

but for me – I will Not drink wine again until God’s kingdom’s come.


He watched as stunned faces sought his smile

Frightened eyes wanting to assurance,

they drank and passed the bonding cup

Pondering its meaning as they supped.


He saw the mystery of human minds

missing the point and settling for less,

Love burned in his gut for each and every,

but wanting a way, any way to stop

death’s hunger for execution and his humiliation.


Some leaders stand, like he did, 

search the faces in front and 

take from them all they have.


But he stood,  he loved,  gave all he could.


She landed heavily on the lawn, yellow beaked

with bright red spot for a Pavlov response

in their tiny brood of ever hungry chicks,

grabs and fights and fusses over a few crumbs,

flapping noisily those strong wings, holding

her muscled body ready to fly off in an instant

should cat or dog or gardening human appear.


Now she readies her self, stamps her feet,

their webbed strength sounding like rain

to those wriggling worms who, on hearing,

tunnel their way up towards the pittering

and pattering, and raising their blind eyes

find themselves lost in the snapping sunny 

jaws of the ever hungry, diligent mother.


She heaves herself screaming off the ground

and cries and shouts her way over the rows

of roof tops until she’s home, hee-haws her

coo at her chimney, disgorges wriggling worms, 

into open beaks of her mottled family, 

squawking and batting each other, just to

tell her how their empty bellies grumble.


Hoisting herself back into the air, joins a 

fight over lunch scraps by an empty bench,

and keeping a weather eye on gardens she

takes to the air and her well fed chicks call

her back and back, always asking for more,

but together with her mate they endure,

until they are ungainly brown grown birds.


They struggle to get their last nested meal,

hastening over each other to clamber out, 

and then they flop onto branches and begin

to flap their strengthening wings until they

too flap and fly and scream with delight 

as the air flows over their growing bodies

and the skies open to their unfettered joy.


They scrapped and fought as they grew

They fussed and wailed and squabbled,

cried out their annoyance, hunger and 

from their persistent progeny they have

learned well their lessons and too from

hardworking parents, for now they flew

and wailed, scrabbling for kitchen scraps.


They screamed, chattered and fought

their way through the summer months,

snatched worms from the earth, pushed

and shoved but while brown they took

the second place in everything until, after

two long winters they were whitened.

War is Death.

Appalled and angry he stares after the lifting fuselage.

By his side his children sit in the dirt, with the whiff

of kerosene in their nostrils and their weeping mother 

trying to make sense of the inexplicable losses.


Firing weapons raise smoke to sun kissed skies,

now nowhere will be safe from their anger and hate,

together they try and understand the meaning and

imagining driving further, threats on every corner,

while soldiers clean their guns and wipe blood off

where weapons have invaded their fragile bodies,

and somewhere a general orders his men to kill

and kill and to kill again until he is all powerful.

A fragile world where death is ready to invade each

corner of life, overheating oceans and desertifying

the beautiful land – for selfishness and blind greed, 

and still they sow violence, burning and violating


their own, their land

and their hope

and everything loses.

Glorious Gorse.

Greying, frost burned branches,

hanging low as they sun turns

and warms them, calling out,

nature yawns and slowly wakes.

Slowly the buds come and each

sunny day fresh green mixes

with the winter gloom and cold,

giving hope of a golden rebirth.


Everywhere around daisies glow,

tiny violets and bluebells delight,

their blue melding together with,

sky and the wave whispering shore.


Then, gorse buds glow with sunlight,

their smiling faces as snapdragons

pulsing, gilding the grassy landscape 

glowing even on the darkest days.


April time. The gold painted gorse

fills the cool air with sweet coconut,

and sunlight smiles back at the sky, 

with joy for the

glorious blooms on smiling gorse.