Grief a Broken Heart.

The darkness grew in my mind, as

I watched the fragile light recede, in

my distress I saw it swallowing,

me whole.


The grief I felt washed through, as

I remembered the good things, and

there, in a moment, overwhelmed 

I wept.


 You were there and    yet I could 

not reach you. I felt abandoned, 

and there was no comfort in the

time past.


People ebbed and flowed around, I tried

to hold onto words, a touch, and

the weary faces of compassion

and love.


Someone left a card. Words blurred, as

I tried to read and the loneliness, broke

on me and I sat in the darkness, with

no hope.


It wasn’t a word, or card or prayers

but a friend who kept coming, they

sat, stayed with me, listening, if

I talked.


It was not what they said or did, but

that silent witness that I was worth

their time, patience, their kindness

and love.


We walked in the park, or by the sea,

slowly I saw that I was valued, not

while I was an asset but while I was

a drag.


They stayed through the anger, the

frost and the rain, the dark clouds,

the storms, anxiety, even

my hate.


I asked them why, they waited for me

to ask and spoke of a God, who stays

with us when we are foul, and also

when good.

I tried it for myself, I stormed at God,

I screamed at that face on a cross.

They’re forgiven? My punishment

lives on.


I cried, I wept, I swore and I cursed,

I yelled ’til I was sore and worn out

and still God was there, never went,

nor left.


How could a God above everything,

consider me to be worthy, like that?

And love me when I loathed them

so much?


I sat in the dark and a faint light, as

small as pin was there, a little point

of hope and over the years God and

the friend –


They never gave up, never closed a

door. I scoured my home, lit every 

lamp. Then I sat and asked for help

to forgive.

It came so slowly that I hardly dared

to hope. It came so hard that it was

like being in a prison and try bending

the bars.

Time passed and the bent iron bars, 

breaking, the dim light grew around, so

I tentatively tried out living again, 

with God.

I took toddling steps, grew stronger, 

valued myself, and still the blackness

threatens but now I know that I’m not


I learned that I cannot know everything,

that I am not at fault and able to now

stand with others, through their all, and be

their friend.

The Trenches

Mud like superglue, makes battle grim,

mountains of slimed clothes, never clean,

boots feel like leaden weights

and the humble sandwich tastes like dirt.

The sweet face of a friend sinks down,

leaving the grief to to fight and show

that this hell is more than enough,

and bitterness bloats the corpse.


Precious moments in the lull to look,

birds have flown, they’ve more sense,

the sun dimmed by the bloody gore

and clouds unwelcome pour more mud.


Soon, too soon, they’ll all be gone,

and their death song forgotten,

all that will be left is the tragic

cry of the bereft childless mother.


We grow old in ancient lore

but never learn to abandon war.

Grace in the Waiting

Dissolving margins take me deeper into the desolation of the soul,

with each moment long, I find my life weariness increasing the hole

in my thinking. 


Tears thicken in my eyes where the sight is strained by searching,

my heart is like a rock as if the spirit’s flown leaving me lurching

on its journey.


I wait in silence, for your response and hear only wait, hold, wait,

I can’t I think wishing the tears to fall, the shame and hurt to abate

so I’m staying.


I am like a tree bowed in the wind with no hope of rain or sun,

my leaves fallen, my branches, like sprouting bones web spun

for my company.


The wind blows where it will, and tosses me as I hold so tight

to the ground where I was formed and there my roots will fight

to stay my hope.


There was another, who was torn, his battered arms stretched, 

strangled on a tree, who spoke my name and in my wretched

state he loved me.


As nails bit deep into his healing hands and feet, he screams

and I think of his desolation, his dear tears flowing in streams

through my grief.


His tender eyes searched my unseeing eyes, turned in on myself, 

he quietly listened to my muddled mind, my closed ears listening

only to my grief.


Rising, I stumble through the day and search for fruitless solace.

Like a wounded bird seeking healing for a broken wing in a place

unfound, alone.


Silence slips into a hush, my resistance gone his heart and mine press

and beat together and my grief flows into his, dissolving brittleness

while I weep.


Too soo, a shrill call from the others entangled in the grief ridden pain,

and still burdened I move towards them feeling that he’s gone again

but left his dear





Children matter more than guns.

The once kissed face unrecognisably their chlld,

tiny hands, they touched, covered in drying blood,

their little lungs filled with blood, their future stolen

and their once loving hearts, overwhelmed died, 

sacrificed at the altar of the  ‘Right To Bear Arms.’


Mothers broken by the news weep inconsolably,

fathers fury chokes the tears back in their throats,

Grandparents shocked and stunned cry, brothers

and sisters seek comfort from frozen parents; all

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’


Police mumble apologies to the stink of cordite,

counsellors offer their capable services for free,

while hastily assembled candle lit vigils haunt us,

with the souls of the carnage, of yet another school

sacrificed on the altar of the ‘Right To Bear Arms.’


Fear lives inside each school as children are drilled,

parents, in terror wait for their weapon driven call,

and children are taught that the student body count,

increasing each week is worth the terrible sacrifice  

on that altar, where they will  be burned while bound 

by the 




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.

The Flames of Death

It was beautiful, the newly shooting buds of ancient trees,

those toppled by the terrible storms defiantly greening,

At our feet the carpet of pungent garlic holding its buds

as precious gifts to a foraging folk and here and there

stars of anemones shining in the dim lit ancient path.


We trod on round the scars of fallen rocks, glimpsing

blue sky and rolling waves as they washed the shore, 

relentlessly cleaning the rocks and sand, filling small

coves with tiny shrimps, and cockle shells for the

sustenance of the crying gulls and scuttling crabs.


We rounded the corner and felt the cold wind of

death. All around blackened, tortured branches

crumbled into the blackened earth where the tiny

bodies of creatures lay cremated by human hands,

who’ve abused and raped this gentle, gracious land.


Broken by the sight, smell and disgust for our race,

teary eyes took in the acres of what should be golden

tipped gorse, bluebells coming, and a place where

bees would buzz and butterflies dance. But their 

hiddenness in this brutal affair cost them their lives.


The stench remained with us as we finally passed 

into green and gentle slopes laying atop the cliffs,

called us to pray for Ukraine and others. There, a

beautious land has been stripped and burned. Both

their fruitful futures killed by callousness and greed.


The smoke still hung in the air as we silently pass,

the grim reminder of the disregard for living things.

The blackened soil lives in in our dreams, haunting

our thoughts recalling us to reality that some care

not for creatures, nor climate change carbon stoked




Then, Now and Tomorrow

I sat beneath the boughs of a tree, once,

and watched the crowds go by. Dressed

warmly against the cold, bright coloured 

scarves, boots and shoes, and even sand-

als displayed beneath shorts of a wry

hard man, displaying his hairy legs and

muscles against the hoar, raw frosts on  

the brown, bare, sleeping, avenue trees.


The crowd moves, like silvered mercury,

in the morning wintry sunshine. Slowly

spreading out and coming together in

harmony. They wave to folk walking the

long winding pathways and, like the tiny

silvery blobs, they pool together and 

they separate and move on to their own

warm fires or cafés for cheering drinks.


The children run around playing games 

with balls, throwing frisbees as high as

the topmost branches of the green firs.

One child falls and shattering screams of 

rage echo across the grass and concrete,

of the play areas, and a cool, concerned 

father kneels and administers the kindly

kisses and hugs. We, wait as the noise


subsides giving space to, a robin above

my head as it sparkles into life and its,

rich notes rising and falling; delighting my

shocked ears. And others turned and we

smile and watch as he comes to hop on

harried grass, tipping his head, levelling

his bright eyes as if to say, ‘Better now.”

This was a time of many months long, 

and still a robin sings and brightens the

day but I wander through the park as

if I had lost my way. Each of us now

carries our burdens of COVID deaths, 

and fears of our futures as lockdown

follows lockdown. But now the man in

his shorts, a stick supporting wasted 

muscles, each breath broken. We chat

through masks and he mentions being

in hospital and the heinous, horror that

COVID19 is. No one has been spared.

Each face the gravity of the mounting

up of debts, job losses, shoddy leaders,

rising death toll and various vaccines;

and will they help us through to being

a human race that is wary of each other?

Do we like those silver drops attract ?

Or do we prefer being divided? Separated?

And we solemnly ask, ‘ Will there come a 

time again,

when the folk dance will stir again and

welcome the pull towards each other, shake

a hand and hug or will we, our nature now

changed to isolation, continue to slide away?