When fright has left
And fight has left
And flight has left,
What's left?
Read more poems by SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD
WAR
When fright has left And fight has left And flight has left, What's left? Read more poems by SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD
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FAILED STATE
The people crowded into the sleeper coach; Blankly staring at each other. The blur of life Flashed past the smeared window. Brakes screech; A jarring halt. They stole the last rail. See more poems by SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD Invasion
I sit in the sun. Soft white clouds drift gently by; Birdsong and a soft summer breeze Bathe me in peace. The calm, blue sky, A cossetting blanket Around my world. But you cannot sit. There is no sun for you today. No birdsong; Just whistling bombs Pulverising your homes. Vicious blasts Ripping the day to violent shreds. Dark clouds of destruction and hate Shroud your world. He came intent on obliteration; Rampaging, malevolent, merciless, He will not stop Until the land where you were born Lies shredded and torn. Breathing deep of the strangled air, You scale the mountains of rubble Where yesterday your homes stood. From this great height of righteousness You look him in the eye And you fight. With every breath, you fight; With every slingshot, You fight. And the world looks on. Politicians talk. They wag their fingers and talk. They say they will strip The giant of his velvet jacket; But they only snip his sleeves. Some sit on the fence and watch, Talking of talks. Whistling into the winds of war. I sit in the sun. On the horizon, I see Dark clouds billowing; Threatening my sun, Shrouding my world. READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD THE CONSCRIPT
Young, Tanned and free, Beaming smile of innocent glee; Carefree, Flicking the untamed fringe from his eyes. A boy Not yet tuned to politicians' lies. Tanned and lean, Happy and keen. They put a uniform on him; Made him part Of their killing machine. Stiff leather boots, Polished to reflect The regime's aspirations; Not his own ambitions. They cancelled fun, Gave him a gun And drilled robotic obedience. No more sympathy No more empathy. They taught The enemy are nought But evil apparitions; To be fought. To kill Or be killed. And so, The boy became the man. Still tanned, Still lean; But now hardened And mean. When they were done And their war lost, or won, They dropped him back To find his own way To get back on track. Now, he is searching For the parts of his being They buried; When they took the boy With the beaming Smile of joy. READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD It started with a promise,
A rainbow nation and a pot of gold. The promise they had yearned for Since times of old. And the people Cheered And the people danced; A new life was being born. A life of better chance; A life no more forlorn. But corruption smashed their pot And stole the gold; Warped and twisted the rainbow And tore the fabric of her soul. Shoes worn out, Tears cried out, They turned and began to shout, Rampaged and stormed. Black clouds of smoking anger Filled a sky once bright. Even the rain wouldn’t fall Through that distorted, mutated pall. SEE MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD Plastic sceptre, plastic crown,
Mink coat and ermine stole; Fox in a box, Gold chains and clocks; Perched high in the sky, Above the world of love. With sleight of hand You stole Their tax, their pensions, Their land. They twitter and you Tweet. But hear the Starlings sing, See them flock. Great numbers Of tiny beating feet And furious flapping wings. Plastic sceptre, plastic crown Land in the sand, Sprawled on the ground. READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD He came across the sea
Looking for opportunity To live And just to be. “Get out!” they said. “You are not one of us!” “What is ours is not yours To take and plunder”. But he stayed, Just outside; And he worked and he toiled And he grew stronger. And he saw When their strife came. Their hour of need. And he packed his tools And walked. Perhaps his heart Was a richer red; For he walked to them And brought his strength To help them. “Be one of us”, They said at last. “What’s gone is gone, It’s in the past”. “There is no you or me, It is but We; It was always meant to be”. “Too many skills, Too many strengths To be tied in every you or me.” Finally they understood. “Together, we Have power and strength To walk this road It’s full length.” And as they turned To face the future, A weary stranger Stumbled in. “Welcome.” You are We. That’s how it was always meant to be”. Click here to find out more about Sharon Heaney Stansfield Click here to read more poems by Sharon Two little girls
On the back seat of the car Dressed all in pink, Pink animal-shaped school bags, Four little sandled feet Pointing upwards from the seat. Two little girls. Two best friends. Play together every day In the school playground In fantasy corner. Two little girls Wearing safety belts On the back seat. Two little mouths Talking and singing, Sharing school songs And games from fantasy corner. Then pensive silence. Finally broken As one best friend asks “Do you get scared at night?” “No”. “The shots and shouts in our street scare me. Mommy says to hide under the bed So bullets can’t hit us”. “Oh”. Two little girls. Two worlds. Two planets. Their orbits’ only overlap In fantasy corner. How do we Remove the force of poverty That pulls the orbits apart? How do we Make one world For the future Of two little girls? SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD Read more poems by Sharon On top of a London bus we rode
On that bright summer’s day. The city’s arteries cleared Of past congestion. We travelled on And the sun shone. All around reflected The optimism Of the summer sun. Buildings shone brighter, Cleaner Than decades before. Billboards told Of how the old Is making way for the new. Clowns blew bubbles of hope Outside the stores. Mothers smiled. Their children on scooters Following, Laughing. For them the promise Of a future of summers. We saw them clamour at the gates To see some majesty Or leader of their democracy Who might step into the brightness of the day. Then we saw them, In the cold shade Of a neglected doorway. Shivering In tattered blankets He tried to fight his fever, While his lover gently caressed him. The sun seemed to have missed that doorway. Sharon Heaney Stansfield Bent over almost double,
Weathered hands Scratching and searching. It has been a long, cold winter, She needs more firewood. Her toe peeks through her shoe, Wary of rocks And snakes in the grass. Lifting the pile of wood to her head, She straightens and smiles. Pointing ahead She tells her child “Look, that is our President’s compound.” “We voted him to serve us.” The child cannot see beyond the walls. Only the movement Of uncaring cameras. She does not know this benefactor Who was voted to serve. She is shivering and cold. Her mother pulls her close As the car splashes mud. It’s cold blue lights Flashing into the distance. She lifts her child onto her hip, Adjusts the burden on her head. “They are our politicians.” “We voted them to serve us.” Her child’s soft hand Caresses her furrowed face. Find out more about Sharon Heaney Stansfield |
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