The poor oppressed

In ancient times there lived a lord
Who ruled his lands with fist and sword;
This was a prince of fearsome mien
Hated and feared wherever seen.

He taxed his serfs and villeins too,
Freemen oppressed, and there were few
Escaped his fearsome evil ways,
The worst example of his days.

It chanced at last that some had had
Enough of him. He drove them mad.
Their bellies ached with hunger pains.
This Lord cares not. He just disdains

To think of what his actions cause
Or anything beyond his doors.
These few began to plot and plan
To get rid of this evil man.

Their plans sadly would come to nought
For spies of his the news had brought.
Skill to assassinate they lacked
So to his doors this bill he tacked.

"Reward of fifty crowns is paid
When these men in their graves are laid."
With such wealth offered they're betrayed
And all their dreams are thus gainsaid.

He took those men. Not looking back
He forced confessions on the rack.
Now haggard, battered, bloody, lean
They're never more from that day seen.

So that all men would them forget,
He cast them in his oubliette.
'Twas there they wasted, rotted, died
No history of them yet escried.

They never in their graves were laid
So no reward was ever paid.
By means so devious he proceeds
Throughout his life with evil deeds.

But many years would pass and then
Historians write about those men.
Their tale is told, their evil fate
Writ down - this sad tale I relate.

For such as this in ancient times
Was often told in bardic rhymes.
We think we live in happier days
Yet still oppression with us stays.

It's subtler now; from poorest men
They make large profits where they can.
The banks, the multinationals too,
And governments, to name a few;

They pay small wage to make large gain
Unheeding of the poorest's pain.
So goes the world forever on
Until the final day is done

And everything comes to an end.
Then long eternity we'll spend
Reflecting on the life that's gone
The good and bad we all have done!

The Prison Prayer Group

Not monks, but monk-like in austerity
And fast enclosed within these fearful walls,
They pray with fervoured sprirituality,
Seeking God‘s forgiveness of their falls.

Heads bowed and silent I can hear their prayers
And know their wretchedness and deep despairs.

The circle meets and greets and prays as one,
The Christian and the Jew, respectful all
Of one another’s different beliefs
Reading and discussing scripture's call.

Heads bowed, yet joyful for they know each cares
For other, here united in their prayers.

In song they also raise their praise to God,
And heed th' instruction that the leader gives.
In this way they can reach for good
And find the God who every sin forgives.

For such as these the Saviour gave His all;
To rescue us from an eternal fall.

There is no prison for the faith-freed soul,
No bars to hold the spirit’s heavenward leap;
What once was broken has now been made whole
And soars to heaven from the darkest deep.

Yan, Tan, Tethera

Yan, Tan, Tethera… the shepherd counts his sheep;
I wonder, as he counts them, does he ever fall asleep?
The woolly flock, in rank and file a military disgrace,
Flee from the friendly shepherd in a crazy, ram-led, race.

I wonder does the shepherd ever wonder of his flock
If they really understand that they’re an edible kind of stock.
Or do they graze unwitting of their butcher’s destination,
That their legs will soon be dinner for a hungry human nation.

They’re the dumbest kind of creature and yet they have their charm
As they move in wavelike motion across the hilly farm.
The wonder is the pasture on the slopes will turn to meat
(Or some creamy dairy product: milk or cheese) for us to eat.

Life for the sheep is simple though it has its share of threats:
The winter’s bite at lambing; the fox or wolf that sets
Its hungry sights on lambs and sheep that, heedless, carry on,
Leaving safety to the shepherd or to the farmer’s gun.

I sit and think on these things as the dish comes to the table,
The mint sauce on the sideboard – that’s not too execrable.
For th’ambition of the farmer with the lonely shepherd’s aid
Is to fatten them for slaughter – then the table's truly laid!

The head in the window

I sat in the car whilst it sat in the window
And stared down at us in the street
Its glassy eyed look reflected the sun's glow
Through the glass of its window ledge seat.

The head was of paper, in fact, papier-mache,
Pink painted to look just like skin.
I wonder, in this street, if there is some cachet
In windows with heads sitting in.

It's a quite eery feeling to see that head peering
And gauging street life as it looks.
Is each person and vehicle as they're appearing
Recorded in his secret books?

Or does he just sit and secretly ponder
Philosophical thoughts on this place?
Of matters like this I can only wonder
As I stare at his motionless face.

Why was he made and who was it made him?
I don't suppose I'll ever know.
Such things can be planned or result from some whim:
I suppose it will always be so.

It's amazing that such a pink model head
Arouses in me so much thought;
My queries unanswered even by the well-read
On this vision that I never sought.

So farewell paper head, now in verse made immortal -
You'd think I might choose different theme.
But in truth I came out by some very strange portal
Where nothing was quite what it seemed.



We had driven to visit someone in Park Avenue, Hull and I parked just outside the building where she resided. As I switched off, my wife drew my attention to a papier mache model head in an upstairs window peering out into the street. She said it had given her a start as she noticed it and for a moment thought it might be a real person. The eyes were open and large, white against the pink of the face. I decided to write a line or two about it as we wondered what its history was. The question will never, I guess, be answered.

Sunday rain

Sunday morning. Come awake and welcome this new day
The bedclothes thrown, the curtain tweaked but all we see is rain.
The gutters run, the pools are formed, the mud grows from the clay
Yesterday we had such sun - now we have rain again.

Why is it always Sunday that the sky seems made of lead?
Why do we watch the window where the the raindrops form a trail?
And if you think about it, why are we out of bed?
We could watch from on our pillows and see every detail.

Sunday is the day when we just want to take a walk,
Bathed by the sun, enjoying all of nature's song.
On Sunday we could sit outside and drink our wine and talk,
Enjoying garden flowers, knowing it's where we belong.

But the problem we encounter is the rain that falls and falls
Preventing us from going to the countryside to stroll.
So the sun and birds and flowers that to our spirit calls
Are lost and hidden from us leaving just a barren soul.

Lord, I know the rain is needed to help the plants and flowers
But does it really need to fall on Sundays and for hours.
I'll keep on looking out until the sun is breaking through
And then I'll take a country walk and maybe I'll take you!

Wasps that sting

"Do they have a purpose that helps the world go round?"
I wonder, as I dodge the buzzing yellow menace.
His football coloured thorax and menacing buzz sound
Warn us of the danger that is difficult to efface!

These hornet coloured insects always spoil our summer walks
Through the fields and woodland up-slopes where we lay our picnic sheet.
Then out come cakes and goodies, and drinks and popping corks
But the dreaded wasp appears then, for he knows what's good to eat!

We swat and wave and duck and dive, and run and leave our food.
Then the striped beasts settle on it, for they love the thing that's sweet.
Meanwhile we ponder how we can recover what is good,
But this horde of buzzing insects has caused us to retreat.

And if we stay in that place to get back what is ours,
Be sure the little devils will attack us with their sting.
Then swellings, pain and misery will blind us from the flowers
Of a day turned really hateful, though its beauty tries to sing.

The song has turned to discord and the buzz is all that's left
On this brilliant summer's day. We admit dreadful defeat!
The food has been abandoned - of our picnic we're bereft.
And there's nothing of our picnic that's available to eat!

Oh, dreadful, poisonous, monsters; you awful insect horde.
You're the bane of summer's beauty, the destruction of delight.
You buzzing yellow perils; I really can't afford
To hang around when you're about, you're really such a fright!

Friday greeting

May Friday be the best of days;
May rain be damned! And may sun's rays
Shine on you. May the words one says
Greet you with summer's roundelays!