Cancerous Greed.

He held tightly to the statement of his wealth

groaning as he saw the fulsome figures falling,

wondering how he’d keep his balding head up 

as he flounders int he dust of only multi-millions.


She held tightly to the small wad of new notes,

freshly received from the ATM and felt thrilled 

to have earned so much money, enough for rent,

food, that school trip and perhaps for electricity.


He hungrily looked in the window, watched them

serving meals  on clean plates, smelling the eggs,

bacon and feeling in his pocket the cold hard

edges of coins, too small, too few, for their food.


She cast a glance up to heaven, grateful to find 

cheap meat, beyond its date, good enough for

her thinning children to be able to eat tonight,

taking a bag of sprouting potatoes, she’ll eat too.


She calls out for her Gucci bags and perfume,

her Gabanna dress hung in silk folds over her 

perfectly surgically sculptured slim body, no

not worrying about money, the servants do it all.


A mother collects goat droppings as gold,

and sets them before her starving children,

others cook leaves, stripping the trees to

stay another day of death stalking their lives.


Billions it cost and all just to own the bird

that talks of matters best left unsaid, there

instead of giving the poor a chance, he’s 

egged on to feed the greed within himself.


He works in government and knows only

the hard working wealthy folk around him,

cannot imagine eating bad food, searching

hotel waste and never having their choices.


A cancer is working through the weary world,

causing lasting pain, loss, hatred and fear,

teaching a few how to take more and more of

their unfair share and hide the starving in



War on Refugees

Huddling close for warmth they gripped each other’s hands,

the ragged clothes hardly covering their shrunken flesh,

their sore covered faces closed eyes that had lost their light,

no one would come but those displaced, empty handed,

starving families, children like theirs dying slowly into

the corrupt earth.


Governments rage against refugees, refusing to grant

them a chance to be free and a shaft of hope of life.

They go to their worship where they hear of a God

who cares about humans and the ravaged planet,

and turn blind backs on the horror of displacement

and dine richly.


Charities working give them hope in clothes and food,

but no-one can help them while terrible traffickers 

take their coins for frightening travel, cons and lies,

promising heaven and giving them hell, while those 

who could stand for justice and mercy choose hatred

punish the innocent.

Now politicians think up wicked schemes and plot

to send them to countries violating human rights,

spending our money to perpetrate crimes against

humanity, binding them in chains and sending them

away to suffer more, be killed and so Pilate Patel

washes her hands.

The Early Purple Orchid

A robin puffed its red breast

and sang for the joy of the day, while

down below a glorious sight.


It stood tall, admiring the view,

sparkling waters and sun caressed



Its flowers opening to the ever-present bees,

and deep in the earth the bulb, which died

to give it birth is renewed.

Slender stemmed it sways in the breeze,

cheered by the sight of the many more

cerise orchid blooms.


Pyramids of  beauteous petals,

shine amidst fading violets and growing grass,

watched over by a song in the golden gorse.

Resurrection and Reconciliation 


Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my lambs.

do you love me, Peter?

Lead my sheep.

Do you love me, Peter?

Feed my sheep.


He lifted up his hands and the nail holes showed clear,

the scars on his forehead from the scorn of thorns,

and he blessed the denial and dread in Peter,

and will bless ours too.


We need never fear the judgment of Christ,

He gave his all,

We need never fear our own sins,

We are worth his life.


As we stand in the shadow of the cross,

where love chose goodness,

we are reconciled, forgiven and free to become


Fraught Fishing

Jesus is Resurrected and appears to the fishermen.


The net stretched deep into the lake,

the stars glistened and somewhere an owl hooted,

still they worked and searched,

no fish came.


The net still hung in the water, 

as it tinted pink with the waking world,

a fire on the beach, nothing strange,

no fish to grill.


They mistook the stranger 

with wood in his hands, a wave and suggestion to try

on the right side of the boat.

Only a man?


Scents of bread and grilled fish,

a welcome and so he serves them again, kneeling, 

red from the heat of the fire,

love smiling.

The Hiddenness of Christ

The Road to Emmaus


Talking makes it real,

words inadequately describing,

while walking.

No one would guess seeing the two,

that one unseen, a companion

who bent his head and heard,

hidden for a moment to give space,

hidden from their grief.


The moment came and he shared their grief,

a friend for the walk who understood,

and gave insight to their weary steps,

broke the bread of his body,

and hid.

Doubts and Fulfilment

Easter Monday 

Wandering the streets did little to calm,

his mind’s wanting to smash each Pharisee,

excepting Nic, 


to go up to the Roman Soldiers who divided his spoil,

and tell them just who they had killed.

Thomas, tears ever present in his eyes, 

found solace in the garden,

and weeping he knelt in the very place

where Jesus had been,

groaning, angry beyond words with

God who’d deserted them.


He walked back through the busy streets

and into their space and his rage

showed in his fury at the pretence of them

his beloved Jesus had returned.

Nonsense his mind cried. Believe them beat his heart.

and he wanted so much to throw something,

swear and curse.

He turned and saw what they had seen before,

a man brutally beaten and battered, crucified.

He mouthed a thought but could say not a word.


Jesus seeing his pain showed him the side,

where the sword has passed through and

invited his touch and in the very nail holes too.

Shocked, guilt spread through his soul,

and kneeling he could only say, “My

Lord and my God.’

And after, his heart pulsed with pleasure,

He was chosen after all.

The Hidden Christ.

Easter Sunday

He wound his hands around the tree

and watched Mary come by,

He saw the others and waited.

His heart broke with the tears she shed,

and he stepped forward to help.

She sees a gardener and he his child,

and says her name. Mair. 


As a child hears the love in her parents’ voice,

she opened like a flower. Changed by love.


He gave her the message that lasts thousands of years,

Love dies for love of you.

Love has overcome death.

Love is now eternal.

The Waiting

Holy Saturday

Hushed was the garden where he lay,

birds silently watched and soft wings

of many hued butterflies flit to and fro

alight on the stone as if they could 

prise it open and find their Lord within.


In Bethany tears flowed, work stopped,

food untouched, and shocked bodies

slumped,, and talking tried to find a way,

to think of life without his being there

and the failure of all that he promised.


The eye of the storm lay over Jerusalem,

as the leaders rejoiced in their victory

and enjoyed their power and Passover,

feasting and worshipping their man made

God of power, abuse and bloody sacrifice.

Within the tomb Jesus lay,

God holding his broken body close,

together they caused an abundance of love

that would heal a broken world and seal

the promise of hope again.

Public Humiliation of the Innocent.

Good Friday

All through the night he was moved and tried,

no one stood by him and not one dared stay,

Peter denied knowing him and a cock crowed,

people yelled, ‘Crucify!’ when Pilate was unsure.

Washing his hands, wipes away innocent blood,

scans the grown ugly mob and turns to Jesus,

and hands the love of God over to his fate.

Whipped til his skin reveals the bones, forced

to walk humiliated and shamed, struggling

bearing the sign of a murderer, wearing

a crown, meant as a taunt, which pierced 

his head, blood pools in those loving eyes.

Blood lost left him weak and faint. he fell,

His already blood smeared cross, it falls,

Simon was called to carry it to the skull,

There, on the cruel mount he laid it down.


Nearby, hIs faithful followers stood stunned,

flinching and vomiting at each hammer blow,

unbelieving, as he was raised up above them,

watching him gasp, he was hardly breathing.


Proud of their feat the jealous elders shuddered,

Feet ran swiftly. Tells -The temple curtain is torn.

Jesus called out in terror, abandoned, alone,

calling on God to forgive their ignorant wrongs.

Then a collective sigh as he breathed his last,

the healing, loving man was gone from their grasp.


Truly dead declared the sword in his watery side.

Violated, abused, his spirit was freed.

They brought him down, lowering his broken body,

gently they wiped away flies, blood and smears,

then carrying him, awkward in death, to a tomb

hidden in a garden, where Spring flowers bloom.


Mary his mother, tear stained shock showing 

in her face lined with grief, pain and living,

stumbles over stones and Joanna holds her

while Mary of Magdala holds onto his feet.


The cold blast from the whitened sepulchre

welcomes the already stinking, oozing corpse.

Death always come with grim decomposition 

and the loss of a person we will dreadfully miss.


The stone in place and the group drift away,

numbed by the traumas of the recent day,

each tree a reminder of his stertorous breath,

each nail etched into their tortured memory.

No one can speak stretching the silence,

sick with himself, Peter goes off alone,

his manly pride battered by his denial

of a man he loved, worshipped, adored.


All over the world they humiliate the fallen,

the innocent and callously condemn them

each to a whip, public execution and so 

he, in them, feels their heart and weeps

in desolation of our vile inhumanity.