The cracked and umber, cyan, lichened bark,
its wintry deprivation echoes stark
impoverishment: the denizens live their
neglected, leafless lives, in Highgate Park.

The winter icy earth’s, anaemic fare,
enough for hungry birds and squirrels, there
is insufficient food for bigger beasts,
who huddle, famished, in the frosty air.

A grassland’s faded, green, uncut, now greets
all walkers down its dwindled concrete streets,
replacement for old honeyed flags: new flaws
displacing golden pathways, lined with seats.

The squirrel, hungry in the cold still gnaws
her nuts: she holds the winter food in claws,
and quickly looks for danger, then a pause,
and runs, avoiding snapping canine jaws

Cracked sienna and burnt umber bark
on trees fuzzy with blue green lichen,
like the stark, leafless, winter clothes,
of Highgate’s denizens.

Hazel branches stripped bare by squirrels
a foodless frosty park,
it’s Victorian bowling green surrounded
by golden paths and benches is
wild, broken, neglected
grass and concrete.

Exposed on the grass
a hungry squirrel gnaws her nut
sees danger and runs up a tree.
A dog barks and tries to climb,
loses interest,
and sniffs the inner city's air.

The park whimpers deprivation.

The black man – like a pretzel on the grass –
is sitting vilified because of race,
and option less, he has to let it pass;
pretending not to sense he's out of place.

Another couple point, and laugh, and stare:
fair skin and hair proclaim their easy life.
A honeyed world means they don’t have to care:
their actions cut him like an arctic knife.

Behind, the sacred stone and glass stands for
a fruitful tree of life that’s meant for all,
but cherries are too costly for the poor.
Sweet learning for the rich, though they are dull.

It’s up to you and I to fight against
all orchards that we think unfairly fenced.

We're eating the meat

of nameless animals still --


unknown to Noah.

Our world
Rich and beautiful
Yet hollow and bland

Her emptiness has no depth
Her riches fathomless
Her dwellers drool in confusion
Starving to death amid plenty

Her inhabitant flourish
But in poverty and misery
Yet own enough to feed generations unborn
Leading to chaos, anarchy and doom

Her poise awful with looming damnation
Owing to avarice and man’s inhumanity to man
Countless of billions mourn while a handful celebrate
Our world the product of our hand

Spent silverfish, massed on black
whippets at        the end of the track
cracked nut shells, lying
inflated balloons, dying.

Steel mosquitos that    tattoo poppies
shot up cartridges by    the school gate
in new mown grass    that stinks      the street.

Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.

it looks
he took the rights
never thinking
the same turns
make a spiral

The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.

the pale eyes
were toneless
—one might take
them for blind—
but underneath flesh
and inside the hollow heart
sits a little blue guy
whose chirps
aren’t recognised

The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.

still ******* air
and as alive as any other

An ode to a beggar, who sits on his stoop.
One can't study to fight when you're begging for food.
The best ways to **** will go over your head.
Taking a nap you'd much rather instead.

While the brave and the foolish go marching to war.
The beggar just sits, thinks about it no more.

Hail to you ol beggar, with no blood on your hands.
In your ***** rags you don't hide weapon plans.
Hail to you ol beggar, blessed are you in your stride.
Hail to you ol beggar, on the enemie's side.

Perhaps one day later when the boys become men.  
When those who are left, travel home once again.
Damaged or whole, they will perch on the stoop.
And the old, weary beggar will command his new troop.

There is no beauty

with the dishes, not even --


a dream of real life.