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.

Guantanamo Fear or Victims


He hides face in his arms as they grabbed him,

twisting, hurting his already rope burned skin,

innocently he had travelled to aged Afghanistan,

guilty by colour and creed he was violently taken,

not arrested, nor accused like hundreds of others.


Guantanamo Bay, a cruel place of tried and tested

torture criminalising good men,

treating them with contempt 

and evil won the day.


Lives broken, loving men lost to their families

forced to live now in isolation,

their punishment continues,

plagued by secrecy and doubt.


Evil’s at its best when rabid racism enters

the eyes of the kind hearted,

and fearfully trains hearts to a fear

based on the thought police.


Men who would be our friends have been lost,

peaceable lives tragically torn,

and now will justice come? Or,

like the dew or go early away?

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.

Prayer on the Front Line.

I pray for Ukraine,

that each blade of grass,

flowers, bees and beetles,

birds and butterflies .


I pray for their protection

against the avalanche

of violence and vile



I pray for each small child,

girl or boy, their school,

hospital, park and their

climbing tree.


I pray for their safety,

in the minds, bodies,

and, cast away from families,

to be safe from harm.


I pray for the mothers, who

wait by the phone,

fathers, changing a job

for tanks, missiles and a gun.


I pray for their hearts

that they don’t break,

that the abusive powers

relent – speaking words of peace.


I pray for the medics, 

short of supplies,

for the vets who cannot

save bomb blasted pets.

I pray that they’ve

healing hands, their touch

to be as Christ, – in the absence 

of enough of everything.


I pray for the governments,

choices they are making,

to save a people or

bury them in ash.


I pray for them to see with

a frightened child’s eyes,

to hear the cries with a

shattered mother’s heart.


I pray for the world powers,

to put aside their quarrels,

to open negotiations,

and work solely for peace.


Prayer is a voice in the wilderness,

a light in the darkness

and always on the front line

of any battle for any life.

War on Pregnant Women

It was the pregnant woman cradling her hope

that shook me, a brave baby born to turmoil, 

no real future, freedom of speech and the liberty

to choose a path where hissing missiles and 

guzzling guns will not overwhelm the fragile

life that sparks behind closed contented eyes.

A year ago a couple’s loving embraces creates

a foetus, cells growing and separating in her

wonderful womb – in a time of political peace

and their precious neighbours were not vilified

by Putin’s army of trolls, and a settled peoples 

scared for their very lives as weapons wrench

the ridged roofs from their heads and harry the

poor and cancer sick lying in their winter beds.

They’re now starving, shivering, staying stalwart

in the face of agonising choices and harm,

weary women again running to find safety and 

a moment of grace for their horrified children.


The human love that receives us at birth has

been warped and twisted, re-modelled until

it is a hatred, which like a volcano spills its

boiling lava over a verdant land burning,

steaming death in its severing of the living

in a holocaust of terror and no one ever





as the mother

and her



The Pain of Womanhood

The lash landed on her bared back,

rupturing the fragile scarred skin

and ruby red droplets scattered

across until they formed flowing




Each stroke shook her heart as

it tried to cope with blood loss,

and pain, and shame, and anger,

at abusive laws set to break 




Collapsing into a bloodied heap,

her hair coated red, and the marks

of many crosses on her battered

back; she prays for the dignity of




They will treat her unjustly inflicted

wounds. They will get her back on

her feet, and then they will punish

her again for nothing more than she




He looks and hates the desire that

he feels. The lash has become his

lust, and anger, that a female has 

stood up to the misogynistic male




What has brought women so low

that they feed on a male’s unsub-

stantiated flow and subverted praise?

The answer is that they have always been




So, womanhood is to nurture not the

male’s domination, for that is corrupting,

but themselves and as they grow and 

fight for their freedom to be, they’ll




Each society is builded on blocks of virility,

each fails and blames their helpmeet and

violates her and so nations collapse and

their hope for the future, their very children