Poem About Society – Humming along with the air-con

poem about society

Humming along with the air-con is a poem about society and a reflection on how we define people by their problems instead of their beauty.

Humming along with the air-con – a poem about society

Do you sometimes wake up in the middle of the day and think that
you're nothing but a cause
a bark to muzzle, an outbreak of pimples and zits
a skin to larder yellow-pack cream ON
a mouth to throw money AT
if only you'd ever shut your gob?

Are you a child throwing yet another tantrum
spewing toys out of a three-wheeled pram
mother walking her sunglasses and heels
headlining the city crimson
lipgloss and blush never smudge on the farm
why don't you just die down?

Under the table
you wriggle out of the tapering straps
go draw a picture of Moses snug in his basket
floating down the river or go banging empty cans of beans
with the one straw you clutched at the drive-through
when your shirt was wet against the car seat

and all you could do was
hum along with the air-con
except you've never sat in a 4x4
but you know how to make and do
like turning phrases into flowers
or screening the perfume of a lilac bush

in May when the chicks dare plunge
and you know you're one of them.
No one ever bothers
checking the henhouse for golden eggs or
downing a head on a pillow
stuffed with your downs.

Motherhood Poem – Some Mother

Motherhood Poem

Some Mother is a motherhood poem, a reflection on the needless death of millions of infants around the world, 2.5 million in 2017.

Some Mother – Motherhood Poem

If her womb was to be 
the only safe place for her child,
she'd refuse to birth
not have her newborn
join the two and a half million
dead infants
dead
from causes
preventable
with a bucket full
of Cornershop
medical supplies.
She'd slow the time,
have her womb
grow the size of a house
if her womb was to be
the only safe place for her child.
So, she crafts a palatial nest inside
with a red carpet and velvet settee,
a nursery like a chest full of soft toys
a school and a college and
a path as soft and smooth as baby skin
and a suitcase full of treats and surprises
for this child, for every child whose
only safe place is her womb.
And when the time comes
she halts labour
steps in
and embraces them all
in the palace inside.

Election Poems – The Crow and the Magpie

Election Poems - The Crow and the Magpie

The Crow and the Magpie is one of my election poems, a reflection on campaigning, hateful populism, and election promises.

The Crow and the Magpie – Election Poems

I
Stoked by juicy baits like "I know your mud and will put my beak on
The line for you - we'll wipe out the ants"- spiced speeches,
A million earthworms wriggled across the ballot paper to vote for
The Crow.

II
At last, we've someone to represent us and fight for our soil, not
Like all the foxes - the Crow is different, let's put her in charge.
Dissenting noises dismissed, the two million worms fought the
Crow's fight and won.

III
Fidgety from chart-toppers like "I know your hill and will recoup
Your gold - we'll dry up the soil and the worms will die"-tinted
Speeches, a million ants crawled across the ballot paper to vote for
The Magpie.

IV
At last, we've someone to represent us and fight for our hill, not like
All the dogs - the Magpie is different, let's put him in charge.
Dissenting noises dismissed, two million ants fought the Magpie's
Fight and won.

V
On a thick branch, towering over the battlefield, the Crow and the
Magpie are sipping a glass of prosecco and enjoying the
Spectacle. "Easy, Peasy, Lemon Squeezy", they tweet in the
Glistening of pearls and sweat.

Poem About Poverty – The Crack

poem about poverty - The Crack

The Crack is a poem about poverty, the growing social divide and the widening wealth gap. It is also a reflection on the dehumanisation of “the poor”.

The Crack – A Poem About Poverty

There’s a crack in the surface of the earth where
people fall into darkness
and no one ever sees them creeping back over the
edge. Standing near the crack, all you see are
vermin scavenging for scraps.

I’ve seen the same crack in the middle of my garden, but
so far, I’ve managed to avoid
the black hole, unlike my kind neighbour who tripped
and fell down last week after a nudge from the woman
down the road. I’m quite sure I saw her

scurrying across my lawn this morning, now a long-tail rat.
I can’t tell you the course of the crack,
all I know is that it has carved its black into every continent.
I’m still waiting for a news report about it. Truth be told,
everyone knows about it, but

few dare to shed light on it. Some leaders are crafty and
shove their pests into it.
Now and then, you see someone casting a rope down
the crack to heave someone out before verminification. As you might
expect, some people turn rat keepers,

some preach that others belong in the shadows, others
disagree and build bridges across,
or walls. As for now, the crack remains, suiting some and
swallowing up many, many, many more people every day.
A pocketful is immune to the crack.

Nabka Day 2019 / #nabka71

Nabka Day

Today is Nabka day, the 71st anniversary of what the Palestinians call “catastrophe day.” You can see more by checking out Twitter #nabka71

Here’s just a glimpse into the plight of the Palestinian people.

#BDS – Join the Boycott on Nabka Day 2019

The global #BDS (Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions) has been gathering momentum. More and more people across the world stand in solidarity with the Palestinians, you could be one of them. You can check out the BDS movement website here and register your support.

Palestinian Poetry – Mahmoud Darwish

Here’s a beautiful poem by Mahmoud Darwish:

A State of Siege


A woman asked the cloud: please enfold my loved one
My clothes are soaked with his blood
If you shall not be rain, my love
Be trees
Saturated with fertility, be trees
And if you shall not be trees, my love
Be a stone
Saturated with humidity, be a stone
And if you shall not be a stone, my love
Be a moon
In the loved one’s dream, be a moon
So said a woman to her son
In his funeral
He goes on to add:
During the siege, time becomes a space
That has hardened in its eternity
During the siege, space becomes a time
That is late for its yesterday and tomorrow

Crime Violence Poem – Inner City News Week

crime violence poem

Inner City News Week is a crime violence poem, a reflection on how social deprivation is a direct contributory factor to violence and crime.

Inner City News Week – Crime Violence Poem

 Wednesday
The police arrested the 15-year old youth hours after he had raided
and ransacked Logan's grocery store in the city centre. During the
raid, the youth cleared the till and assaulted staff with an iron bar.
They are now in a critical condition at hospital.

Tuesday
According to the head of the local second level school, expulsion numbers
are at an all-time high. Unruly student behaviour, truancy, and
lack of home support are among the main causes. Although the
school has requested funding for additional resource staff, so far,
it has been unable to provide specialised care for troubled students
due to financial restraints.

Monday
A teenager was found dead at her family's city centre apartment
this morning. She had been stabbed repeatedly. The police have appealed
to anyone with information in relation to this brutal death to come
forward.

Sunday
The local food bank is seeking donations to enable it to continue to
meet the growing demand for staple food items. Donations can
be dropped off between 9 am and 6 pm seven days a week at the
headquarters in Mill Street.

Saturday
Shortly after midnight on Saturday night, the police had to
disperse a large gathering of youths after neighbours had
complained of drunken and disorderly behaviour. Eyewitnesses
said that it was unclear whether the teenagers had been drinking
alcohol or consuming drugs.

Friday
The Minister for Finance announced cuts to spending on social
projects, including community care, youth development, and
educational support schemes. His statement dashed the hopes
of locals campaigning for the erection of a youth and community centre.

Thursday
Today in court, a woman lost her appeal to have her children
returned to her. After gaining employment at a warehouse on
the edge of the city, the woman had hoped social services would
allow her children to come home. Her 15-year old son and 11-year
old daughter remain in foster care despite their pleas to the judge.

PTSD Poem – Mary

PTSD poem - Mary

This is a PTSD poem and a tribute to Mary, a wonderful old lady I was privileged to meet many years ago. Mary was elegant, stunning, delicate, and fierce.

Mary – PTSD Poem

They say a bomb hit the hospital where nurse Mary was working 
during the Second World War. Her frail body is still trembling,
her mind blown to pastures afar, her hunch back and scrawny
legs dancing on the streets of Dublin, sock in hand stuffed to
the brim with coins gifted by passersby doing their good deed
for the day until the stocking gets snatched by a herd of unruly
youths with nothing better to do.

In the evenings, Mary gets her dinner at the shelter where she
resides and sings old hymns, unscrews the lid of the coffee jar,
dips in a spoon and proceeds to sprinkle the granules across the
floor tracing delicate steps whispering "set them free, set them
free." Sometimes, she sows mashed potatoes or baked beans,
yesterday, she unchained demerara sugar, delighted.

Only locked doors at night or a hot bath she doesn't want to have
stoke and lay bare Mary's raw muscle, sharp nails, and sirens,
extinguish her grace, her soft glow and glint. Once soaking
among bubbles, the shower hose helps Mary set free a flood of
drops. After the bath, she's still and sips lemon tea, converses
until it's time to be gone again.

Spring Equinox Poems – Balance

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,

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