Poetry Blogs (2015, refugees)

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No Sound

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and soon the bombs won’t fall
and soon the bombs will start again
and soon the child will sleep
and soon the child will not sleep again
and soon she will put her arms around her father
and soon she will lay him in the ground
and now the screams of agony from the child
echo back with no sound

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Washed up upon our shore

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Washed up upon the shore


My winter solstice sabbatical, is now almost at an end

Come next Monday morning, more evil will I portend

For I am a silent witness, eradicating evil doing

Chasing down the demons, bring about their undoing


Casting out foul followers, of the darkest lord

From our local coastlines, from countries far abroad

The innocents that suffer, in small ...

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Boarder forcedeath of a childNorfolk coastal watersPorefugeessad loss of life

One people

I will not fight, I will not stand

For border, nor for any land

I need not know, am not concerned

Your place of birth or language learned

Too many wars are fought, too many die

Over province, pride, triumphal lie


I will not guard, I will not bar

The stranger landed from afar

They need a home, and wish to settle

Want to work, to show their metal

We can only profit...

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Should We Walk By?

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Should we walk by the waters edge
Or swim against the flow,
Where men in oceans, stained with red
Live shortened lives below?

Should we walk by the waters edge
Or break against the waves,
Where women flounder where they fled
In watery graves?

Should we walk by the waters edge
Or thrash against the tide,
Where children drown in sunken beds
Whose parents made them lie?

Should we wa...

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I will not be defined by ancient Gods,

or the archaic teachings in their books.

I will tread warily around their words

and avoid the hidden traps and snaring hooks.


I will not stand behind a coloured flag

and spout my blunt imperialistic views

or drape it on a coffin when I die

or burn it on the early evening news.


I will not make a choice that’s...

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How to get everything you ever wanted

Invent a war.
Something bloody and fratricidal.
Lose an uncle to barrel bombs
a brother to secret police.

Three years in, flee.
Pack only what you can carry:
clothes, smartphone, children, cash.
Slip away at night, in silence.

Take your leave of the flat, bakery, office,
rubble-filled streets where the kids once ran
shell of the cafe where old men
drank qahwa, played she...

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The Price

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The price of freedom

is it to much to pay.

To allow someone to come ashore

to live another day.


Allow these people to some dignity

and have a chance at a decent life.

They've suffered enough

they've had enough strife.


Dedicated to the

Syrian refugees



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every night, the same dream

the stink of diesel and of fear which
everyone’s pretending is not here
because if they do not name it, it will not be real
but in the hot bodies of the strangers pressed
around her she can feel
the tension of a panic only held at bay
like sea-sickness, with iron will, good fortune,
muttered prayers
they rise and fall, jaws clench and clench again

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Katie HopkinsMediterraneanrefugeestragedy

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