Let not the children of tomorrow
Inherit our sorrow
As we disregard our planet’s worth.
For what we leave behind
Surely will unwind
When they no longer celebrate
Each birth.

As stars shine in the deep,
Our imaginations leap
To a future no longer ours.
We shall not see them weep
When only pictures keep
Alive the memory of trees and flowers.

When all lights are artificial
And friendships superficial,
Lonliness the usual mode of living.
They may not know the regret
Of their forefathers and yet
Let’s hope they find a way
Of forgiving!


There were past life-styles
To forget
For fashions change with time.
Privilege was not regret,
Nor happiness a crime.

Some stances of today
Are of concern.
Memories are kept at bay
Until we can discern,

What to teach from the past?
Can we really know?
Wind the memory tapes back fast
Then play them real slow.

Images to haunt the mind;
This we will inherit.
On screens they’ve left behind.
Much of it has merit.

Much of it! Oh! Much of it!
So much of it about us.
Let us treasure every bit.
Or earth may die without us!


Aleppo fallen! Murder rife!
Bullets, bombs, bitter strife.
How many of us kneel and pray
For mercy and peace, to rule the day?

Riches, this planet’s great resource
Love, must be bequeathed, of course
But childens inheritance of peace
Can only happen if wars cease.

We are old, to rest inclined
Yet question what we leave behind.
Some say, “Who cares? We won’t be here.
There is only death to fear”

So much taken, So much broken
Perhaps this poem is a token?
Yet this too can burn.
When? Oh when, will people learn?


Dad had to march for his job.
We came to London today.
We joined the march at the start
And heard the Colliery band play.

Huge banners, slogans and such.
The rain crashed down on my head.
At times it seemed a bit much,
But I thought of our cause instead.

I held my banner up high.
Then brilliant lightening flared.
People cheered as we went by.
I was surprised so many cared.

Yes we all got soaking wet.
The crowd called out “Well done!”
I kept my features set,
For I’m a coal miner’s son!


The lights of a plane in the sky.
Where will it fly?
I don’t know.

To a country over the sea?
A long way from me?
I don’t know.

Who drops bombs on the poor?
How many lands are at war?
I don’t know.

Pictures we see on a screen
Of refugees. What does it mean?
I don’t know.

Do we accept what we’re told?
Is news fabricated then sold?
I don’t know.

Does anybody know
Who directs the whole show?
We don’t know, we don’t know.
We don’t know
We don’t know!


She wore orange sandals
To match her top.
And went garment hunting
From shop to shop.
The Oxford street crowd
Were milling around.
None seemed right
Each attire she found.

Most people looked
Plump and well dressed
With styles so varied
They were blessed.
She saw a man as
She glanced down
Emptying a bin, with
An angry frown.

An East European
Working for less.
One of the people
Who cleans London’s mess.
Lives are being led
Here on many levels.
Makes you wonder if
The power’s the Devils.

Does it cross her mind
The man lives in a dive,
With scarce enough food
To stay alive?
That he works so long
In the summer heat.
Just another slave of
Oxford Street?

No, it’s the dress
That fills her mind.
The one she tried
So hard to find.
Amber gold silk
With a flowing skirt
Swirling above
The pavement’s dirt!


I’m at home ironing shirts
To Beethoven that will be
Worn without pride.
We heard on the news this
Morning that thousands of people
Have died.

I’m at home ironing shirts
To Beethoiven.
Next to a window outside,
I can see green trees and sunshine,
But thousands of people
Have died.

Yet I carry on ironing
To Beethoven with a numb
Disbelief inside.
How little we know of these
Countries where thousands of people
Have died.

It seems we live in a capsule
Which shields us from
too much truth,
So we carry on ironing to
And pray for the sacrificed youth.

The shirts now hang in
The wardrobe.
The ironing task is done.
Beethoven’s music escorts us
Away from thoughts of the gun.

We have to appreciate living
And not feel ashamed to have cried.
It is God who must do the forgiving,
For the thousand of people who died.