. debate three .

so we chat and laugh, listen to the radio.   a british voice,  mainly black and white.   we swapped jokes, and wondered if they laughed at  hitler.   at one point .   give pots,…

Source: . debate three .

About me.

About me.


One night like most nights

Making the long drive home

From working with a damaged child

Somewhere down the road.


My mobile rang and I listened

To Denver’s soft whispered voice

“Hi can I ask you a question?”

“You know you always can.”


“What do you want to ask me?”

Silence just the sound of the road

So I said “What’s the question Denver?”

She said “It’s kind of hard to explain.”


“Go ahead anyway I’m listening

I have plenty of time just ask away”

In a slow voice I heard a little girl say

“Can I have a blood transfusion?”


“I don’t want my blood anymore”.

I asked her to explain so Denver replied

“She told me my dad isn’t my dad

My blood will prove he isn’t my dad.”


“So if I get my blood taken out

And have my dad’s blood put in

They won’t take me away from him”.

Denver was 9 years old today.


She was asleep when her naked

Raving drunken mother broke in

And in a hate filled rage

Killed the pets of the children.


She explained her mother phoned

For her birthday with the news

“Your dad isn’t your dad

He’s somebody you don’t know”.


“But Rob” Denver said

“My dad’s really my real dad.

He’s been there forever.

He’s the only one I’ve known.”


“If I have his blood

They won’t take me away.”

She sighed when she heard me say

“I won’t let them take you away.”



I met Denver’s dad today

He smiled when he saw me

Shook my hand and said

Denver’s grown she’s OK


She’s working

And living her life

After a childhood

Straight out of hell


Ten years before

He came asking for help

Somehow it doesn’t

Feel that long to me now.


And the memory of that child

Her struggles with such pain

It’s still so strong I can feel it

But I also see her smile again.


And before he bade me good bye

He thanked me for the advice

And the quiet words to reassure

His small lost child who phoned

Because she knew she could

At times when her worries grew

Too much for her heart to take

And now Denver’s growing too.


From my poetry collection “Time to Heal”.


I don’t understand

I don’t understand

I don’t understand the reason

I watch and listen

I’m confused by people

As they stand up straight

In front of the cross

And mouth the words

Of the hymnal and still insist

This is a Christian nation

And I am left in a state

Of wondering in that way

That I frequently find

That leads me to question.

Does Christ’s teaching

Mean absolutely nothing?

Or have no significance at all?

For the self-professed Christian

When they declare that war

Is necessary and can’t be avoided

Even when warmongers are born again

I shouldn’t be surprised or confused.


It was another war in another time

And I remember listening then

To the same rationale

The need to defend ourselves

From a threat by a nation so poor

It couldn’t feed itself let alone

Pay for bullets, bombs and planes.

And I watched that older generation

Mouth the same words, the same

Hymns insisting the need for war

As they raised themselves from prayer

And moved their lips to the “Our father”.

It was enough to set me walking

From the stalls of the choir

And turn my back on the mouthing

Of words without grace or meaning

I’ll say it again I’m confused by people

But perhaps the blame lies with me

For this perpetual confusion

Maybe I expect too much of others.


And as Billie that crooked boned

Hedge layer once said “You know

People never change” with an absence

Of a critical tone but he looked at me

Hard all the same, holding my eyes

To see whether I’d heard his meaning.


From the poetry collection “Time to Heal”.





He stood in the darkness of the C-130’s hold

Time seemed to have stopped, a minute so slow

Waiting in the silence for the men outside to go

They’d come dressed to honour their friends

Standing to attention to give that last salute

To the fallen in coffins draped with union flags


He watched the Union Jack lowered to the ground

He stood to attention and listened to the padre’s words

He’d watched men stood stiff, heard the bugle blow

Holding themselves together for that final show

Each coffin carried into the planes steel hot hold

The ramp raised that silent blackness once  more.


It was that ground that we fell, he fell and he stayed

It’s that ground, that sandy soil and the dried out dust

That fills your eyes, your ears, nose, socks and boots

Fills the deep heart of you, your spirit and your soul

It never leaves wherever you are, wherever you go

It’s the darkness, the memories, the joy and the loss.


It is the brightness of that dawn, that sky, our hopes

It never leaves wherever you are, wherever we go.







Ilmi Umerov


Mikhail Bulgakov couldn’t have made it up

Ilmi Umerov the former vice premier of Crimea

The leader of the Crimean Tartars

Committed to a psychiatric institution

For expressing his concerns

He suffers diabetes

A heart condition and Parkinsons

So withdraw medication.

Seems sensible.

And so we await

the appearance of The Master

And of strange happenings that suggest

That evil may be taking charge of reality

The return of the magician,

Of Koroviev,

That black cat Behemoth,

Azazello and Abadonna,

Not to forget the witch Hella.

No that would stretch the imagination

A stretch too far

Russia is up to date

A modern society

There is no room for Satan

Superstition or evil

Such things could not happen

In Putin’s modern Russia.