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 Refugee

He looked at his children and sighed,

his labouring wife by his side,

her panting and groaning rent the air

with pain, coupled with despair.


He felt the tears slide down his face,

prayed for a moment of grace,

and knelt to deliver his very own chile,

in a cruel world, beyond vile.


Holding his own bloody, broken mess,

his wife sobbing in her distress,

the wind cut through their tiny tent,

rain soaking, the bloodied bent


man, enslaved to the hatred of the lost,

and he alone counts the cost,

nowhere to go, no-one to offer a home,

they’ll die as his son in the womb. 


Tomorrow they’ll move, wander more,

trying to cross oceans roar,

seeking only a safe haven for his kin,

dreaming of health to work again.


A thousand miles and hundreds to go,

the press helping others say, “No!”

“You cannot stay here, you don’t belong.”

All that’s left is his death song.   


He prayed the Lord to end the torment,

of seeing starving children – meant

for living, not dying to the wealthy west,

for God’s grace to do his best.


While others sit in their homes at ease,

and post hate where they please,

he shares a crust and then hunts for more,

and greed replaces hope with law.