From my window, a tree stands tall,
arid as it may seem,
alluring still are its limbs
to the lone passerines.
One by one, they gather near,
and in symphony, they sing.
Their presence, though small,
voices a chorus
that wakes me from my trance.
Soon after, they fly elsewhere,
flitting from branch to branch—
as if on cue, they perch upon a different tree
to delight another’s window view.

I never thought
my poetry was ****** —
But do I want
to arouse; stimulate evocative
emotion,
and stir longing
irrevocably within —
Yes, undeniably, YES!

Do not all of us want that full-body
retort?

Richly —

That leaves us out of sorts, compelling us to transform —

Three deadly ingredients
Plague the shelves of our stores
They leaves you wanting more and more

Three deadly broadcast companies
Edited in corporative deceit
Endless state propaganda in repeat

Congress demonizing good doers
Fighting to keep the status quo
This government has definitely
got to go!

This is a snapshot in history,
a cold day in mid December,
in the year twenty-twenty four
and civilisation is so last season.

There are three major conflicts
happening in the world today.
No! Not conflicts. Wars!
In Sudan, in Gaza, in Ukraine.
All have been eaten by savagery,
cruelty, pain and despair.
But they overshadow the others.
Stories of suffering yet to come.

In Afghanistan women have been banned
from attending college to train as midwives.
Trained midwives are forbidden to work.
There are no male midwives in Afghanistan.
Women's suffering is yet to come.

In Iraq there is a new government marriage law.
It is now perfectly legal for adult men
to wed girls as young as nine years old.
More or less legalising child abuse.
Children's suffering is yet to come.

And yet if all these wars were to stop
there will still be many more wars.
There will still be savagery and pain.
There will still be cruelty and despair.
There will still be pregnant women and pre-pubescent brides
screaming for help in the long dark nights.
And nobody will lift a finger to help.
Their suffering is yet to come.

So why are we allowing ourselves to slide,
to fall, to regress, to return to Mediaeval barbarism?
Is this our destiny?
Or is this...
Our suffering yet to come.

I carry a heavy, wounded spirit,
Failure, rejection; my ego can’t handle it!
I turn into a little kid, not getting my way,
I cry out, scream on the inside trying to hear what it is You say;

Pride just wants to shut me down,
Disown me, rob me of my crown.
But it’s only when I surrender before thee,
That you open my eyes so I can see,

Love still surrounds, alone I am not,
I will feel and trust, believe that You have not forgot.
I await Your leading,
Protect me from myself’s heeding.

He lay on the table,
his heart torn apart,
Fasted and hollow,
a soul from the start.
For eight long hours,
the surgeon would fight.
A scalpel in hand,
to restore what was right.

The Mayo scissors cut deep,
tearing through the skin.
Halsted forceps clenched,
pulling through sin.
A bypass to carry
what was broken inside,
but the heart, in silence,
began to collide.

Scream tore the air,
choking the breath,
crying for mercy,
for the end, for death.
With every stitch,
the room quaked and bled—
A love that could never
be healed or fed.

And when it was done,
the silence was worse.
The screaming had drowned
in an endless curse.
No suture could bind
what the heart couldn't bear.
A wound so deep,
not a soul could repair.