Daily Archives: March 3, 2016
Not my Child by Lindsay Oliver
Not my child
Laying limp in the sand
Face down in the sea
Not my child
Huddled unbreathing
In a cargo container
Not my child
Stranded alone
Dead on a beach
Not my child
The curl of his fingers
The curve of his cheek
Not my child
Hair soft as thistledown
On the nape of his neck
Sewn up by Marie Lightman
I stitched my mouth
together to stop you,
as my words
are not heard.
I will starve,
as you sip cider
from bowls
and eat freshly
baked croissants.
Donald Trump has got yellow eyes
Nothing so sensational about the Calais refugee camp evacuation, a poem I wrote about the Pas de Calais migrant evacuation is now up at I am not a silent poet (March 3, 2016). Many thanks to Reuben Woolley (I am not a silent poet) & Mari Lightman (Writers for Calais Refugees) for letting me take part in the poetry assault they are doing in response to what is happening in Calais.
Click here to read my poem: Nothing so sensational about the Calais refugee camp evacuation
Some other poems published in I am not a silent poet in response to Calais “Jungle” Evacuation:
After the blaze by Kushal Poddar
279. courage to cross. by Sonja Benskin Mesher
Sightless Eyes by David Wilson
No one deserves to be teargassed, looking for shelter by Dave Rendle
One More Day 29/02/16 by Natalia Spencer
View original post 64 more words
Dead ends by Jackie Biggs
Kids run around small tents
catching sunshine
among fluttering canvas
parents watch
their anxious knots
gathering tighter
beneath a belt
of razor wire
coiled and cold
one metal gate
closed
locked in
locked out
shut up
stuck
in a cul de sac
where mulberry trees
make frames for
men to hang
their final protest
and the man with the cold heart
in the black suit
says: ‘Do not come here’.
While we struggle
only
to find words to say
this same story
again
in some different way.
Jackie Biggs.
poetry blog:http://jackie-news.blogspot.co.uk
The Devil Slakes his Thirst by Lyndsay Oliver
The devil dons his mask
and casts our children from the land
with promises purloined
fromthe nightmares of the dead
The devil sheds his skin
walks the dark sequestered streets
as we worship and adore
his glory all unbound
The devil stakes his claim
to pitch his shadow on the sea
while we collect his rent
from the safety of the shore
The devil takes his due
with an unforgiving hand
more practised than restrained
and lays his burden down
..
Lindsay Oliver lives in Leith and writes poems, short stories, and longer fiction. Her website address is http://lindsayoliver.scot/
This by Mark Rawlins
This is the tyranny.
This is the fear.
This is the misery
for those who live here.
This is the hatred.
This is the war.
Nothing is sacred,
not any more.
This is the anger.
This is the pain.
This is the hunger,
but this is no game.
This is the pestilence,
this the disease.
There can be no resistance
from down on your knees.
This is the rotten,
and these are the starving.
The people forgotten
when it comes to the carving.
These are the children
fighting for rice.
This is globalisation,
and this is the price.
This is humanity
at its very worst.
This is insanity,
and these are the cursed.
This is the murder
and this is the rape.
This is the fervour
they try to escape.
This is the boat
and this is the lorry.
‘This is our quota,
we’re terribly sorry.’
This is your great…
View original post 49 more words
Voyagers by Matthew Smith
People, packed tight into the backs of lorries
like tinned sardines.
When we see them washing up on the shore
we remark that they were
‘Simply returning to the sea.’
That’s where they belong,
not breathing our air, breathing our waters,
there’s room down there
we can spare a whole corner of Atlantis,
but not one square metre of our Zion,
our promised land was promised to us,
it’s never been a melting pot,
even if it looks distinctly like a cauldron
if we add anything more
it will be boiling over.
We don’t care if you’re dying on our doorstep,
just don’t get blood on the welcome mat,
the “welcome” isn’t for you,
it’s for the privileged few.
Only people with capital
are allowed in our capital
that’s why the housing market is in “boom,”
gentrified neighbourhoods,
prices through the roof,
we barely allow our own to live here,
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Shove Ha’penny by Pat Edwards
When you play this game with people
lubricate the board with French chalk
those worthless coins
will reach tipping point
fall in human cascade
Why we couldn’t see this coming
pennies lining up haphazard
pausing only to glimpse
futures worth the risk
as they hopeless tumble
What did we expect but chaos
wrapped in tear gas grimace
no order to this penny pile-up
lives saved from one battle
shifting game show to another
When you play this game with people
lubricate the board with French chalk
those worthless coins
will reach tipping point
fall until you stop shoving