Spring Equinox Poems – Balance

Balance is one of many spring equinox poems, a reflection on the scarcity of true balance in the world, people, and societies.

Balance – Spring Equinox Poems

She knows the scales
and weights and volumes
of lead and feathers
of blood and water
of bread and gravel.

Her sister taught her
how to blunt shadows
and taper the light.

Like the blue moon,
she owns a house
craving windows,
a door to the east,
a door to the west,

conjuring flight,
sparse between
the tick and the tock
of the clock.

Poverty Poems – Bread, Light or Heat

Bread, Light or Heat is one of my poverty poems, a description of some of the hard choices people have to make when cash is in short supply.

Bread, Light or Heat – Poverty Poems

The fridge stinks of emptiness,
the stench fills the room
every time his forever hopeful kids
open it to see
just in case he'd have bought
some bread.

Last week, he chose light
over bread, homework is
important after all,
he reasoned
and stretched the spaghetti
from Monday morning
straight through to Sunday night.

In March, they can sit
and watch TV without
wearing woolly hats
and itchy scarves
and knitted socks /
perched in front of the
fire, lit from
branches they heap up
in the woods on Sundays.

He loves Monday mornings,
though he detests work
as much as they abhor school
for all the reasons you do
stale bread,
glaring lights,
and stuffy heat.

Equality Poem – Robin Hood, Where Are You?

Robin Hood, Where Are You? is an equality poem highlighting the global inequality crisis affecting billions of people. The wealth gap continues to grow.

Robin Hood, Where Are You?

Dear Robin

I know you’re dead a few hundred years, some say, you didn’t even exist, are but a fantasy figure made up for pure entertainment, but anyhow, I know better.

I feel compelled to write to you and urge you to come here at once. You see, we need your help right now. Where? I hear you ask. 

Let me put your mind at rest first. No, the Sheriff of Nottingham hasn’t returned to throw his weight around once more. But the trouble is, he’s got many successors who’ve taken on his ways. They live off the poor, are cruel and greedy, just like he was when you took matters into your own hands. Why can’t we do the same? I hear you ask.

Well, we’re not as brave and clever as you. Some have tried, more have failed. And now, most people live off crumbs and a handful of folks live the life of Reilly. If only you could get yourself down here on your best horse and do what you did all those years ago. 


So, please hurry, this is an emergency! I can assure you, you’d be a hero once more.

Yours truly.

Friar Tuck

PS: Feel free to bring Lady Marian for support
PPS: We need you in Australia, Africa, Europe, New Zeeland, Asia. the Americas, and Antartica, so you’ll be busy for a while!

Equality Poem – Robin Hood, Where are You?

Resistance Poetry – Daisies and Dandelions

Daisies and Dandelions is my contribution to resistance poetry, a reflection on inequality, solidarity, resilience, and hope.

Daisies and Dandelions

Says the daisy to the dandelion:
"Why do we never get potted?
I'd love my petals warmed
by glass-magnified sunrays,
laze on solid-wood sills,
have dainty hands
water me
with a copper can,
be wary of the cat
but only a little
never drown in
the pelting rain
never tremble in
cruel breezes
have my roots spoon-fed
by soft soil,
my leaves groomed
by tepid glances,
occasionally chat to
a fluffy fly or
a wayward wasp
and for the night to
turn day
at the flick of
a switch."

Says the dandelion to the daisy:
"You see, us dandelions, daisies,
violets, and weeds
didn't make the cut.
But fear not,
fierce and
sail winds,
coast storms,
tame tornados,
punch hail
swallow floods
lick ice and
dance in the dew."

The sun smiled and
the wind puffed
the dandelion and
the daisy
a little

Crime Poetry – Tightrope

Crime statistics show a couple of common denominators right across the globe: poverty and instability in the home. Tightrope is my stab at crime poetry.


 To strangle time
he etched
horizontal lines
on cell walls,
tripping over
a limp pencil,

the tightrope
he wished
had choked him
not stretched out
in front
from day one.

He asphyxiated
day 7049
charting another
wiping out
the last glimmer
of white wall

he'd soon bunk
to seek
green pastures
unfamiliar to
tightrope walkers.

Poverty Poem – Landfill Lives

Approximately 15 million people across the globe live off trash. Landfill Lives is a poverty poem, an attempt to highlight this horror.

Landfill Lives

 scavenging for scraps 
no spellings or subtractions again today

when you're poor but don't want to sell your body or beg
landfill treasure hunting calls

to feed mother, father, sisters, brothers
shacked up in a metal hut perched on a pile of trash

you've got no rubber gloves to shield against
broken glass, syringes, rotting flesh, and faeces

no face mask to armour against
the stench of garbage and shit

no blindfold so you can pretend
to be at school / even for a minute

dowsed in deadly diseases, you work all day
2.50 the compensation

that'll buy you some bread, carrots, and rice
won't stretch to a sausage or chop

one kid / thrilled to have spotted an outfit
scrubbed up and went to school

only to be told he was too smelly, too disease-ridden
no landfill kids here please
Landfill Lives – a Poverty Poem

Capitalism Poetry – The Big Race

The Big Race is my contribution to capitalism poetry, a reflection on the value and ethics of free market rules.

The Big Race

Race day brings swarms of 7.7 billion runners, limpers, jumpers, 
hoppers, one-leggeds, joggers, sprinters, crawlers,
wheel-chair-bounds, and dead-weights.

Mixed weather at the starting line, with sweltering heat, biting
frost, piercing hail, leaden showers, mild breezes, balmy
sunshine, and tepid temperatures painting the 7.7 billion

Onlookers discover a hit-and-miss medley of footwear among
footed competitors, air-cushioned breathables alongside
dirty protruding toes, itchy sweaters besides sunburnt or
frostbitten torsos.

To call some athletes would be in bad taste, those at the back
of the field, behind the 7.6999999 billion, scrambling for a
foothold. As for the legless, some are blessed with crutches,
others are not.

Blood, tear, and sweat-costing brawls about hunger pangs and
homes or the lack thereof break out hither and thither.
Meanwhile, the starting line is smooth and fair - free passage
for 7.7 billion pros and rookies.

At the bang of the gun, they're off, the field cut at once,
billions dropping like flies before the first hurdle from
pre-race exertions, blisters, deadweight equipment,
leglessness, balls and chains or sloth.

An unruly mob of spectators hurls power snacks and energy
drinks at the foot-cushioned frontrunners wearing non-sweat
running gear, soon coasting toward the finish line. When they
tire a little, they hitch a rest on a bunch of no-hopers.

Sponsors bestow them with enviable endorsements like foot rubs
and shoulder massages or cool sponges to the forehead.
Buoyancy-boasted and basking in tough-training-rewards, the last
few rivals dig deep, not shy of a dirty trick or two.

One or two teeth-grinding, heel-digging once-amateurs
latch onto the glory but never quite catch up. The red ribbon in
sight ignites the final sprint to draw out the winner.

Gloating to a prominent reporter before getting his trophy, the
champion applauds splendid organisation, fair-play, and credits
gruelling preparatory work. The first handful of losers seethe
a little over a glass of prosecco.

As for the bulk of the 7.7 billion, some vow to try harder, some
cry foul-play, some despair and die.

Empathy Poem – Juxtaposed

Juxtaposed is an empathy poem, reflecting on human fragility, vulnerability, and the lottery of where and when you’re born.


into an ocean of terrorising sirens and deafening alarm bells, unproclaimed fireworks, not-warned-about bombs, not just scares. In lieu of architectural bonanza, rubble, dust, and a distinct stench of sewage, a shitty stink of unpotable drinking water.

The cityscape cedes to a bloodied bodyscape, limbs scattered, bawls shed, seeping into torn corpses. Too much screentime, not a problem here, falling stocks dinky, juxtaposed with prospectless crowd investments, dried-up shares.

Sewn back together, limbs wrapped in fresh soft skin, gather around the once-child, now juxtaposed into snug serenity, ignite the once-fire to heat bones and kindle the ambers. NO ALARMS here, only surprises.

Empathy Poem – Juxtaposed

Solidarity Poem – Pooling Resources

Pooling resources is a solidarity poem, a reflection on eight billion individuals inhabiting or co-inhabiting the same planet – together.

Pooling Resources