My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush;
And words come in a rush.

Enchanted by the hand that writes,
Bewitched by art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which you pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.

As,mysteriously,to you,to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind,
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone,
I almost caught that one.

The grief that was a stone inside my chest
Has melted into water,now my tears
That rain upon my face, that feel like death

Is human life a torment with its tests?
Must people walk with anguish down the years?
The grief pressed like a boulder, took my breath.

God did not evoke the  Storm that passed
His still small voice  may whisper in the ear
The rain runs down my face, now wrath once love

I rage against the fever,give me rest
The little whisper tells me, do not fear
The grief stood like a boulder on my chest

The Dove flies on the current of God’s breath
My shrouded eyes are wet, how is Love dear
That rains upon my face, that  causes hurt?

From the cliff top I saw  rolling seas
I shall not go again,my mind is clear
The blocked grief,  hard as marble  in my chest
Has turned to tears, yet still I feel  your death

Afghanistan, Iraq,Iran
Can “Democracy” be “forced” on them
Somalia,Gaza,Pakistan

The war on “others”, rights of Man
The grief of infants, war goes on
Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran

Made in Britain, torture ,gun
Electric, fearsome,profit, spin
Somalia,Libya,Pakistan

Europe, Jesus ,Vatican
Where does Revolution win?
Israel, Iraq, Iran

Egypt,Palestine,Jordan
Old Man River,death and Sin
Libya,Yemen,Pakistan

From five or six or maybe ten
The Arts of War, the nuclear ban
Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran
Somalia,Yemen,Pakistan