Refugees, displaced persons,
ethnic cleansed, homeless,
those, who in this world
experience death before dying;
to stir our apathetic hearts
you invade the comfort of our homes
through hi-tec images, internet-info.
Like satellite pictures
beamed from another galaxy
we gaze in disbelief.
Perhaps guilt makes us feel relieved
when the picture changes
to the latest soap
or some healthy life-style show.
How can we comprehend such pain,
such raw anguish
from the comfort of an armchair?
When the Time-Bomb Goes Off
The bike just sits there,
dust covering its lovely sheen,
puffing up the Fintry Hills
well, it’s no longer my scene.
Y’see, as a Clydeside apprentice
I proudly learnt the tradesman’s skill,
little did I know then
the price, asbestos lungs that kill.
Now I just sit here through the painful day
gasping each mouthful of air, wondering
how can I make the bastards pay.
They new it was a killer
a time-bomb in our lungs
but, because it was so quick and cheap
they firmly held their tongues.
So what, if it cost the workman’s life,
there’s always a couple of new workers
in the care of the worker’s wife.
Please try to understand my anger
as I and others bear their cost,
a slow death from asbestos lungs,
a vibrant life lost.
Anguish for family and friends,
all in the name of profit;
now that really does offend.
Our anger without direction
is a blind archer behind the bow,
we have to use our anger
to smash the status-quo.