Christmas, what’s the point?

The lonely are lonelier,

the poor – even poorer,

the weak are slowly weaker,

the spoiled are so spoiled.

And there is a place

where you are either

outside or in. And no-

one asks you to enter.


The sad are even sadder,

the glad somewhat gladder,

the fearful – more fearing.

The workers – hard working

and there is a place

where feet are on the rest,

food is served to the best,

And joy is an Offshore Bank account.


Bastard! they called him,

born in squalor they said,

cuckolded his father she did,

and then he ditched them and

rebelled against their traditions,

Legalism and tyranny.     Instead,

He loved the sick into health,

gave sight to the blind,

restored the dead to life,

and hatred heartened them.


Captured him, killed him quick,

denied him a future. Just to stop

the rot.   Tortured by lash.

Crucified,  Christ on a tree,

They tried to rub him from 

history but love rebounds,

restores and reconciles.


Love gives the weak strength,

Love will feed the hungry,

Love befriends the lonely.

Love cares with the fearful,

Weeps with the tearful, and

Somewhere He is celebrated

still.  His sacrificial love 

flows and received heartens

and always a reason for joy.


Nadolig Llawen, Happy Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel Frohe Weihnachten, 圣诞快乐, חג מולד שמח, Gëzuar Krishtlindjet, Ikrisimusi emyoli, ハッピークリスマス, Счастливого Рождества, Καλά Χριστούγεννα


Mercilessly the virus pursues us and prunes life on earth,

Masks are worn and relationships torn and born on the net.

Massive queues by the hospital to see the overworked staff.

Moment by moment worsening ’til Covid conversations are

Mixed with Christmas Greetings and curtains closely drawn.


Many people are working to avoid the pyres, wreaths and woes.

Multiple hands crafting vaccinations against poisonous progress.

Measuring and creating the chemists turn to war on an invisible

Mutinous enemy who coldly challenges their clever craft, then

Mutates into something new, something vile, a calculating killer.


Maintaining their arsenal governments buy their weaponry, 

Munching machines greedily tear down healthy trees and plants, 

Marksmen shooting innocent angry orangutans trying to flee.

Miserly we carve up our life, green space and wonder why it

Mercilessly bites us back!


Must we fight nature instead of nurturing the glorious wonder?

Masterminds of the world unite to secure a future for the whole.

Moved we should change today not tomorrow bearing the sorrow.

Mother Nature calls us to be as one with the beauty of our world.

Mother Mary birthed Jesus who spoke then of saving all creation.


Magi and shepherds hailed his coming and angels split the skies,

Moaning lips accused him. Shattering the hope of unity and progress.

Most times we occlude the truth that Christmas is the celebration of

Making us one with the creator who made each leaf and flower,

Multiplying shape and hue and scape. And true in steadfast love.

Carbon kills.

With stick thin legs and bellies swollen,

they remembered their playing in grass,

hide and seek around trees and cattle 

beside the flowing watery tracks of 

the recent rain; that washed the earth

and egged on the good, growing grain. 


Rain still falls on someone else’s land,

in a place where fridges are full and 

children are found to be fat, but still

they burn the death ridden fuels to

enable them to career around in cars,

that don’t seem to make them happy.


They frown and furrow their brows as

they eat their fill taking the food from

the mouths through hogging their own

ways. While out in a land somewhere

climate change is killing small children

and the cattle rot on the sandy desert.

Party time for some!

Its party time for clowns,

jumping around he laughs,

drinking long deep draughts,

while they giggle o’er jokes and  their gaffes.


Outside the folk stay in,

the rules for others thin,

no invitations in the nation

apart for the leading loon and his pally kin.


jostling and singing along,

playing games of ping pong

with the hearts of the nation.

Happy Christmas to us in Lockdown’s their song.


I can’t get my medication

I can’t get my favourite snack

I can’t get my Christmas treat,

because it’s sold out and we will adjust to the lack.


I am sitting in a cold room 

‘cos gas is rare and dear,

I can’t visit my family ‘cos

that blasted mutating virulent virus is very near.


The NHS is overwhelmed,

the waiting lists are long,

the staff tired and exhausted

busting their guts while no 10 revels along.


You partied, you Brexited

and took your time to Lock

down. We pay in hungry kids,

cold houses and even toddlers toys are out of stock.

So, stop grinning and

face the facts that your

miserable acts and greedy

pacts are disastrous, derisory and break the law..

Broken Politics.

Casting a vote on the emptiness of politics,

is like being tossed on the unpredictable seas

of storms and whirlpools, sinking and drownings.


Those who are outside suffer hunger while sated

men and women on huge battle ships belch fire on 

those struggling in the waters of injustice, malice and


violence from incited racism and attacks on women 

grow endlessly as grossly negligent police forces are

ignoring the violent suppression of women’s voices, and


the killing of women daily as well as tiny children who are

broken and burned, tortured and violated by the very ones

that are called to protect them, gently love them and safely.


There is nothing new under the sun as the news is trotted

out by biased papers and news channels owned by the mega

rich and so we look on in fear and shock and shame that our


nations representatives are heeding to shameful passions

that kill and maim. And through their lying teeth we hear they

are building strong for a nation, but breaking the beleaguered poor.

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.