2017 06 – Poems


  • His family came from a failed state
  •   he said
  • this Manchester suicide bomber
  •   who once wore football red
  • so calm
  •   the journalist sits in his wheelchair
  • his body still suffers lead
  •   the TV camera pans
  • to a bloody scene
  •   he doesn’t say who failed it
  • and is it Libya he means
  •   you don’t see the wheelchair
  • for he has been here before
  •   with his propaganda
  • gunned down in the Middle East
  •   did they see him less than candour
  • hasn’t he learnt anything
  •   you might wonder
  • before the BBC made him
  •   an expert
  • now he can binge
  •   while I hope you ponder

Wilson John Haire.



  • He’s the archbishop of social democracy
  •  of the troublesome priest kind
  • media assassins scurry
  •   in a country where heaven waits
  • while hell is in a
  •   hurry
  • to wish him a last supper
  •   hoping the many Judas
  • will fill their wallets
  •   and destroy his vision
  • in a sham ballot
  •   his disciples cover all
  • those treated with derision
  •   the Muslim victim of a
  • slum landlord
  •   compassion calls as a Hindu
  • suffers racial discord
  •   anti-Semitism
  • so much unkindness
  •   in a queue
  • class not race not faith
  •   is the forgotten schism
  • tabloids make a papier mâché
  •   cross
  • another one for the great
  •   cosmos
  • to rise again
  •   but this time it’s up to you
  • when

Wilson John Haire.



  • Suicide bombing the great fertilizer
  •   of political careers
  • in hit-spots you lift the visor
  •   and with your narrow view
  • cast a tear
  •   while looking only at your
  • world
  •   denying the reason for this yet again
  • you now get your union jack
  •   unfurled
  • whilst knowing there will be new
  •   dead
  • as you continue to kill nations
  •   something has to be paid
  • anybody will do except you
  •   no min/max age
  • no particular race/faith in the
  •   terminal queue
  • all will be engaged.

Wilson John Haire.