.dead soldjer. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

dead soldier


.not for sale. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

critical.  some things are not for sale.


you see.

it is

not about money

nor gain.


critical. heard things

you disliked.     they

saved your life

didn’t                they?


critical and        difficult

on all sides.       it is not

a competition, we shall

not paint it white.   the


upper rooms.



.security. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

bless thee and paste the words.


oxblood does not offend me,                   unlike

your rantings, protestations.;  words continue.





bless thee, pray your maggots



while we pick out the remains.


days continue with                       blessings

while the thoughts that this is not personal

are failing.


so i will continue to raise tickets on your befalf




bless thee.


.the visit. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

blessings on your   house,

those who kill your sisters.


result.                cathedral.





it is not as you would think, sir. it is



blessings on your house, those that

reside there.


ignore reality.


ignore the fact.



.the war house. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

dug within for strength, without for vegetables.


tidy allotments  for food. primroses came by post; my father.


war was declared before me.


they said that some hid in outside toilets to avoid the bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.


some dads dug deep for shelter in the garden.  anderson, half buried.  flower beds planted with veg.


peace times, families stored their potatoes , rather than waste. rationing continued.


i remember the implications, was told the facts later.


much later.


the war house & after.




we dig within for solidity, solidarity, power to continue.  food is plenty.


in wales find they grew potatoes here. i have a          photograph.


I still hide under tables.

war house

.white feathers. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i dream i dream of porcupines.


white feathers dipped in blood.


bloody mess  wars,

bodies rotting  there.             there

are   thoughts while stitching that

this could save the world.


a quiet thing. no injuries, the blood

comes small in useful            drops.

drops down,      meditative sound.


white feathers fall.



white feathers

.grubby cars. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i did not know when you started.




about the socks,      how

they are not made to last.


about those you were wearing

for five years.    i did not wish

to see your leg    sir.


about the chamois leathers, how

we used to have more variety.


which brought him to talk

about hand car wash. by

foreigners. his words not


insisted that they deliberately

scratch the cars, then turn their guns,

these foreigners. his words not mine.


i left, i am not paid to listen to  your racist

remarks sir.


i am paid to weave and serve another day.




he left without buying.

grubby cars

.diagnosis. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

look at the actor,acting that the arms hurts

to help with self diagnosis.


it will be ok if we have paper to write



wait for news of those that are dying, have died

of fire.


we may still have paper.

to draw on.


read the news and watch the radio, we can keep

up to date through the publications

if they have paper to print on.


numbers rise,

high rise.


For them all by Rang-Zeb Rango Hussain

For the Refugees who have lost their all,
For the Homeless who are abandoned,
For the Forsaken who have no one,
For the Voiceless who go unheard,
For the Loveless who grieve for trust,
For the Dead who perished in poverty’s fire,
For the Orphans who dream no more,
For the Betrayed who died far from home,
For Humanity in a time of mass poison.

for them all

#chestercathedral by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope.


look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.

wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?

it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.


pray for them, all is in disorder.



.. wouldst thou be pm, an abbreviation.. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

archaic or dialect question, in appropriate.                         a lowly start

with slight misgivings,  i come arrived from the country, an immigrant



if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely.  a safe bet in that

something grows decently.


do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty?  mine was

white last year,

now nothing germinates.


the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant.  forgive me, this is the second

time. this time,


i shall stay.


despite my nationality.


.moving on. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

moving on from the last verse of girly looking

after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.


the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the

rings were                  three thousands and more.


enough to take her        home and more.


“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”


. evil it was, evil it is . by Sonja Benskin Mesher

did you dream of evil last night, for evil it was.


pocked, bleeding and dead.           back broken.


this morning the garden is damp, a mole  died



plans for a new path are growing, yet there was





last night.



Don’t Let Us Die by Stephen Jarrell Williams


don’t let us die

we that are starving

in all corners of the world


we have our dreams

butterflies in the air

with a full tummy

before we sleep.

Don't Let Us Die


Stephen Jarrell Williams writes and draws late into the night, watching out his window for the Coming Good Dawn.

I saw the Children by Stephen Jarrell Williams

I saw the children marching

a long protest march

against all that is wrong

and in their faces I saw us

a better us

doing so much more

and here they come

their laughter

and spirit

and strength


all the sad monsters of this world.

I Saw The Children



Stephen Jarrell Williams writes and draws late into the night, watching out his window for the Coming Good Dawn.

Fly-Tipping Point by Marc Woodward

This is where we sit to watch the night come in
ever since Trumputin bombed our English towns.
We emptied freezers, ate our neighbours pets.
Now in the bird-settling, when once we sat down

to be tamed by tv shows we can’t recall,
we recline here and watch the weeds approach
knowing soon their rope will be a ligature
that tightly winds itself around our throats.