Why not phone a friend when
The boys go into war
You can’t envisage peace any more

Why not phone a friend tell them
You are slowly dying
The weight is crushing you.

Why not phone a helpline when
The men are fried
In prison electric chairs

Why not tap a hotline when
The bombs rain in
You have no shelter to find

Why not sap the phone power when
The remains of the unborn
Dragged into this world dead

Why not talk to Childline when
The children are shredded
The TV ratings come in late

Why not contact your head when
The body bags are shipped in
Along with worn out guns

Why not telephone your heart when
The bloodied hand taps you on the shoulder
Asks you to send in more men, but bolder.

Why not phone your own bed when
The smoke of war and censors clears
You see the writing on the stained wall

Why not phone the bank when
You see the dollars clouding the skies
Ask for a permanent heart-loan

Why not phone the world’s leaders when
They heartily banquet themselves on death
Ask them not to send you their crumbs

Why not phone the world’s starving millions when
The next gun shipment leaves for their lands
Let them know that development aid is on its way.

Why not phone a friend when
You need the comfort of human warmth
You see only the dark clouds every day.

The newly damp
Unkempt road where layers of darkened leaves lie
Seems to invite the emerging sun

For it to burst into brilliant calendar colours
As beams shoot their laser light
Into the trees

Crossing the deserted lanes
Marvelling at the aroma of rain
Waiting for it to begin again.

The unkempt damp of a new road
Where the travesties show
In large potholes.

Letting the light win the battle in time
The evening rain was brief the colour aroused
The towers were bristling with leaves.

No one was sure of the travelling
For no one knew the secret of moving,
In times and places when it was raining.

Reaching down into our reserve pockets
Not expecting to find a song.

Not listening, but only riding every sound we hear
We sketch our plans
We dig our graves
We build our towers
We hide our bodies
We paint our pockets
We write our songs.

Chanting down the history of our cells
Who can really tell
Where the rhythms started
But have they yet stopped?

Reaching upwards pushing open the roof
With our tongues
Putting down the pens.
Sharpening every page
Not forgetting the colours

When filling in the empty spaces
Knitting complicated laticed worked motifs
We knit lace
We emit silence
We cage emotion
We build walls
We sketch agony
We die slowly
We live in our pockets.

They came crashing in my door
Machine guns in my kitchen
Blasting blood onto the wall
Coming and fetching
The actively mobile and the poor

Boots in the throat-my-eyes
Rifle in the groin in my kitchen
Igniting flames in my legs, my insides
Retching and all the while fetching
The victims, the prisoners, the dead.

The shouting and swearing
As fierce as the sound of gunfire
Bellies split open smells gushing
The Shits on the Kitchen wall
Grinning dead head knives embed.

We stand braced against the wind of words,
Watching them felling trees as they go….
In the evening rooms,
The silent smiles reach my gaze and go in
We stared into what is behind the words
Looking into them telling me as they go
In the evening tombs
Flashing TV smiles into our silent rooms

Gunning for my hours, reserving war
The wordings are far from the ceiling
In the evening rooms
We are burying the TV
But the sound is escaping and we smile,
Not embarrassed but surprised
Looking into the rooms next door
As the evening looms
The silence is in the carpets, the curtains, the glass.

We wait in bunches in the streaming words
Listening for the only sound that moves
In the evening rooms
When the envelopes fly through all our windows
No longer silent, we smile with teeth
No longer shy we breathe our belief
No longer on TV
The silence leaves our evening rooms.

The sky looked steel grey above
And roses with swords for thorns
Rocked against the skyline.

Your cities of old with steel caps
Are nought but dreams with taps
Their rolling fancy is never mine.

Watching the aeroplanes overhead
Cast shadows over the hills and rivers
Their motion is anything but anodyne.

The interest of the shadows subsided
As clouds assembled their old darkness
Without exception no one was bothered.

Would it stir us given a handful of roses,
At the point of a sword pointing skyward,
With a slash only scattered petals remained.