Grenfell Tower by Frances Smith

And when He asks for us to look after the orphans and widowed wives and to help the needy and the poor – to meet their needs with
a stepping ladder
to step into the world where His love can reign
as Ephraim; double fruitful for milk and honey for all
Yet the golam in you gives just barely enough
dwellings with no gardens, no wild Poppies
or sprinklers
Where paper coins buy herds and herds of black and pale horses galloping and yet He asks us
to treat others as we like to be treated and to
Love one another and be kind.
If they were the poor ones would they
want to live in the housing they offer to you?

PTSD: Hit and Run by Frances Smith

Already too much trauma in my life
Past and current
And now I remember the why’s that I asked through secondary school
The why’s I wondered in day nightmares outside my class room window
The why’s that made me deaf to my teachers words which paled into insignificance in my life.
I wished I wasn’t there
I wished I had seen her,  been with her at that time
And I wished and wondered for decades.

Now I am wishing and wondering again
Another life taken too soon
And why the one who loved me the most?
Who I did love a little more
And who was a best friend.

I can’t stop the replay of sound
The thud
The body,  the blood
The sound of acceleration
The intense nausea
The indigestion
The realisation

That won’t stop.

Nations Rise by Frances Smith

Drugs fuelling dichotomies of mind

Making ok what is purely unkind

Frustrations causing extreme distress

Chemical ware, our blood is a mess


Red bloods raging turmoil as the sea

Tsunamis rising inside you and me

Blood boiling over exploding like a bomb

Positive life has gone terribly wrong


Wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong

Positive life has gone terribly wrong

Destroyed in poverty,  austerity and lies

Causing addictions and no one asks why?


Why are we as a global family

Warring over what should set us free.

Vulnerability: Confusion of a Refugee by Frances Smith

Waking in a new Land
My clothes are different
Their clothes are different
My words are alien
Their words intangible
I am lost, abandoned
I  know not which way to turn
I know not whom to ask
I know not how to ask
So I stay the same
Turn into myself with prayer
Wanting to know
The right way to go.

Battle of Aleppo by Frances Smith

Omron sits alone;
A supermodel of suffering
Blood dripping
War continuing
Bombs killing, maiming,
Scarring hearts
Another child of war
Where are considerate adults,
Looking for their minds
Looking for their children
Why aren’t the governing
Parents preserving their future
In Syria and beyond
Where are the fathers
Where is The Father?
Omron sits alone
A supermodel of suffering
Blood dripping
War continuing
Bombs killing, maiming
Omron, an injured child
Who needs a cwtch
Not a camera lens
Or is a cwtch also forbidden
In this mad and perverse world?

The Games of Hunger by Frances Smith

    Careless power games;  Hungry games of power:

That internal asking question deep inside their core aching

screaming, crying for something to alkalize the acid burning the hole

that erodes the essence of life.

“Food glorious food.”  The right of every living being

realising the potential of Hippocrates words…

“Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food”

 For healing and sustaining life switching on the bright lights of the soul

 light energy, the life force within.

“Though not by bread alone”

There is darkness in only white bread

when empty food poisons the soul, being fatally controlled by invisible

powers of wanton desire  that be fat cats who don’t know care, nor grace:

Reapers, rapers, takers;   paunches, pouches pockets bursting full

Remember Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist?

 He and Nancy asked not only for more but  “Where is love?”

Where is the love that cares for the orphaned child

of the battered wife of the wayward husband?

Where is the love that fulfils us with love and fills

the black acid hole of hunger with nutritious food?

Where is the love that fills loneliness with friendship and

makes us whole in spirit being able to fruit joy and peace and happiness ?

Where is the love from The Word that feeds us all

medicinal nourishing food?

The love that does not allow hunger.

Surrender by Frances Smith

(dedicated to Adi Hudea)


I think I recognise something in your eyes

I see your face showing love lost somewhere far away in another world like on

the Titanic

I see eyes beyond your years that should be twinkling bright, resonating trust.

I see arms that could be raised in the excitement of a roller coaster ride;

screaming with delights from man made fear without death; without war;

in a parallel world

I see arms that need to reach out and embrace and a mouth that should not be

falling into gravity.

I see eyes deep with the feelings of fighting men; deep brown saucers;

I wonder if they have seen how Orinoco cares for his planet?

How he clears the rubbish garbage out; is there any chicken soup for your soul

from the soup dragon?

Childhood killed; whatever the lens; however viewed.

No doves cooing whole spirits, whispering whole food that allows

innocence to shine.

Let the river of healing flow to make its water mark on Adi Hudea so one day

she can smile a smile that melts those chocolate button eyes with love.

Fricking, Fucking, Fracking by Frances Smith

Shit the rip, cool delusions of madness causing
Despair, desperate greedy desperate madness
Ripping our homes from under our feet for
Power with power of power for power;

Desperate measures for fuel to control you, us & me;
To fuel death to you; death to a nation & death to the sea;
Death to the planet and death to the tree for what?
Utilities? Where there is no utility you see
Just millions on antidepressants and green tea.

Get on your bike and use your legs, it’s what they’re
Made for; walk; walking, walk and talk to each other for free,
Walk and talk for utility and run free for health, heat and energy
Without green tea where we don’t need screen illusions for
Friendship to be; friends are warmth made in you and in me:

Power to the people.

Stop the Fricking, Fucking, Fracking.

My Tusks Look Better on Me by Frances Smith

I am a heritage animal, living life simply as I always have done
Living in harmony with my naturally harsh environment around me
I do no harm to others, unless provoked or attacked
Unless YOU threaten me or my family
I will defend my family
What civilized being would not?
My family are beautiful and emotionally caring
I will defend them with my life
We look after each other and look after our children
Calves as you call them.

We live together, we play and share
We protect our kind, we keep our families together
Living, surviving, protecting;
Slowly, steadily, strolling, sprinkling, showering at the
Life sustaining waterhole to soothe our skin from the
Relentless scorching, southern sun.

My tusks look better on me, as do my feet
My trunk won’t cure your ailments or your impotence
Nor my fellow thick skinned Rhino’s horn
Only your own integrity and fidelity makes you strong
Look after your own family to cure your own impotence
To be true men be honourable to raise yourself up with love
To become the best you can be: Mankind, not Manmean.
Who benefits from Manmean?
Man being selfish and self gratifying
Reaping, taking and raping
Manmean only loses his own self worth and
Sacrifices his own emotional cascade of love and fertility.

We cannot fix that for you. Rhino’s horn cannot make you feel good
In your heart and soul, nor my tusks
How can they, how could they?
There’s far more wealth in a world that loves and cares
A world where we all want to live together with respect
Fertility, peace and harmony – but it is
YOUR gift of free will which determines
The world we all share together!
There is so much potential for a beautiful life for all
On this fertile life giving planet.

How can you; choose to use my foot as an umbrella stand?
Your own primate’s hand as an ashtray?
Our tusks for deco or so called medicine.
Why butcher and deface me for your vanity?
My Tusks look better on me!

Surrender by Frances Smith

Syrian girl

To Adi Hudea

I think I recognise  something in your eyes

I  see your face showing love lost somewhere far away in another world like on theTitanic

I see eyes beyond your years that should be
Twinkling bright and resonating trust

I see arms that could be raised in the excitement of a  roller coaster ride; screaming with delights from man made fear without death;
without war;   in a parallel world

I see arms that need to reach out and embrace
and a mouth that should
Not be falling into gravity

I see eyes deep with the feelings of fighting men;
Deep brown saucers;  I wonder if they have seen how Orinoco cares for his planet?
How he clears the rubbish garbage out;
Is there any chicken soup for your soul from the soup  dragon?

Childhood killed; Whatever lens; However viewed

No doves cooing whole spirits whispering
whole food that allows innocence to shine

Let the river of healing flow to make its water mark on Adi Hudea so one day she can smile a smile that melts those chocolate button eyes with love.

Being Beautiful Beings by Frances Smith

Well tonight I am going to put things right; that is why I write to
Right the wrongs for me and you, for us to write new songs for life:
Thus firstly you are Beautiful;     Beautiful;      we are Beautiful:
To be beautiful we have be:     To share our humanity –
Beautiful in life forming words for expression of our souls;
The joys deep inside; the hurts deep inside; where
Serpent snakes sneakily gnawed the fruits of love; cobras rising, spitting
Venomous hate killing golden hearts of blind and innocent children
Feeling their way to light.
The darkness is but is not right; it will stop you sleeping in the night, the
Darkness of worrying thoughts of the things which bring the darkness;
Darkness like a cloak of no joy.     No joy. No joy. Does that annoy? Annoy the
You who is beautiful, your light and beauty robbed by the dark of the
Intrusions to your soul, the intrusion to your unborn children,
The intrusion of a spitting snake in a child’s hand, a daughter, an alter boy
Who has been just a toy for the priests of deception showing darkness not light,
Doing wrongs not right,  from the beginning of time until revelation  time.
You see the God particle is farcical without an article for love; we need a
Revelation revolution to lighten the darkicle raven where there is no dove.
It is only when the dove gets lost that we turn to frost frozen in time
Brittle cracked ice that is not nice enticed by falling short of love for
Just an orgasm;. just an orgasm. just an orgasm:  well we are a whole lot more than an
Orgasm – we are an organism of  cells and water and proteins which can  play notes so
Beautiful we can fly; we can fly to the very plains of heaven in our souls, in our minds joy of
Love fulfilled through sweet music , play on Apollo, if music be the food of
Love play on as said William Shakespeare, play on the music and just be;
Here it is heavenly: To be or not to be –  love? – Where we are not being – when we are
Not present, not here, we are in fear,  not love, in worry, not dove, is when we are not being Love
We can all be beautiful beings.

Cloned Vanity by Frances Smith

Self, self and more self

Me, myself and I: do I look perfect?

Bleached blonde hair or long dark hair –

Bought from Russia, maybe?

Skinny starved stained brown legs

False fibre nails scratching

Thick, fake, fluttering eyelashes –

Collagen fattened filled up lips and

Pert, silicon enhanced tits

Fat removed by liposuction;

Fat free food and what is the mood?


An entrenched frown removed by

Botox instead of detox

Wearing someone else’s name:

Adoration; Idolatry; Perfection

For the camera or magazine

To be adored, to be desired

To be loved, to be rich

To be free but how can this be?

It is only vanity!

Remote Control by Frances Smith

They know how to hurt you don’t they!?
Those cold, calculating controllers.

They know how to hurt you don’t they!?
Those cold, heartless controllers.

They break your heart with denials don’t they!?
Those ice cold, controllers.

They hide things from you, don’t they!?
To ensure they are the controllers.

They don’t know love and trust, do they!?
No natural affection from controllers.

In their game they have to win
Winning is all that matters
To beat you, at any cost.
It is their game.
You are not allowed feelings
You are not allowed opinions
In a controlling dictatorship.

You are not allowed to be you
There is no laughter with those
Ice cold, heartless, remote controllers.

Time to Heed by Frances Smith

Money money money
Buy buy sell
Dow Jones, footsy100.
How exciting and what fun
9 to 1
Odds on favourite
Bull or bear
Do you care?
Wow! What a profit
Here’s a few million
To make a trillion.
And as the money flows
The fever grows
The flowers bloom
For some.
Yet down below
The flowers can’t grow
They are a luxury
Second to food
For the mood is

Struggle to pay the bills
And pop the anti stress pills.
But who says this is ok?
Who allows this greed to breed?
It is
Time to heed!
There is no need for greed
Heed now!
Or breed contempt and strife
No wife or women to make society
Beautiful and wholesome.

Our youth is rife with debt
Burdened with despair
Instead of
Faith and hope
In a life that’s fair.

Working women
Burdened by duty
Love and loyalty
To their children and homes
Until breaking point.

Hardly any time
To sit and smell the roses
To see their fruits
Or ripening.

Wives and women struggling
Men and media
Against lawlessness
Struggling and
Losing the values
That make a society wholesome.

Homes becoming hostels to
Sleep between work and chores
Unhappy stressed
Women can become bores.

Stressed communities break down
Stressed families break up
Stressed couples break up
Stressed individuals break down
Perversions of life are born
Like stress, and porn.

True love cannot dwell
With stress and fear
Where love cannot exist
To hold someone dear.
Happiness, smiles and contentment
On hold
Peace, fulfilment and harmony
Ever elusive

Sins and vices sold as
Naughty but nices
Techno devices
Drip-feeding desires
To sell, sell, sell
Sex and violence
Affairs and murders.
The stuff of drama
That make up stress
And depression
And impotence
And crime
For profit.
Where man is enslaved
Again, and again
Because he won’t listen
To the messages of pain.

It is time to heed
Let’s abandon greed;
What is this profit
If all are poor?
By always wanting
More and more.

Frances Smith:
After 30 years working as a therapist I write about emotional links between mind and body. I convey these with an appreciation for all creation, in particular the miracle of life in the human body. I write about abuse, stress, injustice, infidelity, animal welfare and the healing power of love for an empathic world for peace. I write to observe and inspire change. This  poem is from my book Healing Poems for Positive Love.