Foster Care

Jimmy doesn’t swim in the river
Mummy doesn’t like life that way
He’s waiting for the next big rainfall
Fighting time and yearning to play

Jimmy’s never seen a new sunrise
He lives in the hour before dawn
Daddy has run away to the nightfall
Away from the day he was born

Jimmy has his own secret garden
Behind his own closed doors
Happiness is there in abundance
Away from unforgiving shores

Our Jimmy is a slow growing flower
Like a wind up toy winding down
His petals will open full to their glory
Once mummy has lost her crown

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Pathways

Say it with me
I am the power
The holder of fate
Keeper of the gate
The seer of straight
The bearer of weight
From good to great
I am the hour
My chance to shine
Walker of the line
The blood and the wine
The sunrise my sign
The world is mine

The Profit Song

Like a soiled and sullied uncrowned king
The God of profit taints everything.
As a wasted Eden descends to ire
And man’s great promise is cast to fire.

Like the famine child with extant stare,
The feeble gaze of man’s despair,
As progress blooms with perfidious ease
Trailing its wake, the progress disease.

Where are we heading if we leave behind
The remnant tail of all mankind?
And how will we mark the day we arrive
With the wealthy living while the rest survive?

A highway adorned with lanes of gold,
The dystopian journey of the privileged fold.
To the gated Utopia that readies itself
For progress people with pillaged wealth.

No heaven resembles this hellish design,
No Gods within this vulgar shrine,
But contrived division of the common race.
Accept your lot, and know your place.

Black Lives Matter (Copwatchers)

Come with me to the hollowlands
beneath the leaden skies,
where skin turns lives upon a dime
and black skin surely dies.
Come with me to their faux morality
beyond their righteous line.
Where life turns upon truant respect,
springs up another shrine.
Come with me to the hinterland
behind the troubled lie,
where America wields it’s brutal past
to chase the truth awry.
Come with me brothers, come with me
wherever injustice burns again,
with right and good upon our breast
lest even truth be slain.

Made in Britain

she lives her lows
as stains on the soul
her lonely gains
for lying with unknown
living without hunger
so she fakes wild,
thinks of the child
she’s left at home.

without any love,
but approximation of
she lays kisses
on unacquainted lips.
to live tomorrow,
she salves her sorrow
for hope defiled,
thinks of the child
she’s left at home.

absent respect
expectations of sex
drives her fall.
life is right here
the necessity zoo
where you do what you do
even coming undone
keeps her smile wide,
thinking of the child
she’s left at home.

B to D

we start Here
to go therE
fated,
punctuated,
climbing along the way
striving in the day,
lost in dreams,
hidden by despair,
raised in moments,
like the light of home
there
at journey’s end,
the rising sun
on the darkest morn,
a baby’s smile
when
you needed one,
moments born
upon the breast of gloom,
and more,
a spark of doom
played out upon
the joyful smile,
darkness of loss
in the light of love,
these
moments,
as we walk the line
drawn through time,
punctuation
in the story of life.

The Lady Turned

there’s no refuge there now for the desperate poor
nor the masses huddled by their fuck-off golden door
nor wretched refuse dashed upon America’s shore
homeless still ‘neath Liberty, with freedom no more

in the ending of days enshrined within the colossus
the lady turns to shun the tempest-tost homeless
adopts the mantle of the immoral and the callous
inhumanity writ upon the bones of the hopeless