A bit of pottery

Trying my hand at building some stuff from clay … first attempt …

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Just cry

Distraught man holding dead child

I saw your Facebook post,

About Gaza, the wounded, dying and dead.

The photos which had no right to be taken,

Of maimed children on blooded mattresses,

And parents screaming uncontrollably into the emptiness.

I looked hard through the comments underneath your post for sadness and tears,

But saw only anger and self-righteous indignation,

The very fuel for the engine of the next wave of death and destruction.

 

So, please don’t send me any more photos of dead children,

These tiny seeds of anger for next year’s harvest of hatred.

Each photobite a perch upon which your anger can rest awhile,

Before flying off to the next tree.

Please don’t tell me you know the answer.

Please don’t tell me you are right,

Because being right is the padlock on the door to peace.

Just cry.

A poem about life, death and tea

The teacup

After my grandmother died,

I wandered her house looking for traces of her,

Until I found in a cupboard an old china teacup trying to hide,

Ashamed of its stains and chips,

And worn out gold rim, sucked off by countless lips.

Pushed aside over time by ugly mugs, bigger and stronger,

Its fading beauty and lack of utility valued no longer.

Mourning the loss of its matching saucer,

Pushed under a plant pot in the porch,

Before being broken one day by a clumsy granddaughter.

Then I realised that this old object and my grandmother had lived parallel lives,

And the tears flowed free,

As I remembered a different time,

In which my grandmother was full of life,

And her little china cup full of hot loose-leaf tea.