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Christmas Lights.

We love the lights of Christmas,

they sparkle and they glow.

They lift the hearts of shoppers

and brighten up a show.

We delight to hear the carols

and all the Christmas songs.

To share with all our families

and know that we belong.

We love to open presents

to see just what’s inside.

And see the joy of loved ones;

our warmth we cannot hide.

We spare a thought for lonely ones,

the homeless and the old.

We need to share our warmth with them,

not leave them in the cold.

When midnight chimes on Christmas Eve,

Church windows are ablaze

As Christians go to worship God

And joyfully sing his praise. 

We love the lights of Christmas,

the birth of Christ our Lord.

He lights our hearts forever,

eternity assured.

Presents of Mind.

To give and receive

is life’s circular flow.

It always was,

and is eternally so.

Who can tell by the wrapping,

just what is inside?

So gifts must be opened

and not be denied.

The First Good Friday.

You didn’t have to do it,

that first Good Friday.

What drove you to it?

What drove you to

endure that night of agony

in the garden?

When you could have said

“Not your will, but mine”

What drove you to allow them

to arrest you,

insult you,

beat you senseless

and condemn you to die?

When you could have been rescued

by ten thousand angels

in the blinking of an eye.

As they drove the nails

through your hands and feet,

what drove you to hang there

on that cross,

when you could have just

torn yourself down

and annihilated your torturers?

What drove you to allow your Father,

your loving, heavenly Father,

to turn his back on you

in your hour

of deepest need?

Was it me?

Was I worth all that torment?

Was I worth all that pain?

You say that I am.

No – you proved it.


From Socialite to Suffragette;

an Indian Princess.

Such an unlikely supporter

of women’s suffrage,

using her time and money

for the cause.

But, such an effective one.

What a great use of power.

A magnificent, middle-class,


for women’s rights,


by Millicent Fawcett,

Emily Davison,

the Pankhursts

and the Princess.

Tireless campaigns

and meetings

over many years.

The selling of papers

on the streets.

The derision

and violent attacks

they had to bear.

The notorious Black Friday

in Parliament

where 200 women

were assaulted by police.

Even the press

rallied round and

supported them

by publishing photos

of the event.

The sheer institutionalised

barbarity of force-feeding

the hunger strikers;

strapped down

with doctor’s approval,

and fed by tube

through the mouth or nose.

Causing untold distress

and on-going

health problems.

The “Bodyguard” of women

who formed up to defend

their suffragette sisters

from physical assault,

by learning Jujitsu.

All this to gain

what should have been

freely given and accepted

as an inalienable right.

What suffering.

What dedication.

What Courage.

And finally

what a victory

in 1918.


In a sense,

innocence is lost on

the innocent.

For if they are

truly innocent,

how can they possibly

know it?

Death in Winter.

Another shrunken dead body;

emaciated and old.

Found lying in squalor

in her kitchen.

In winter.

In freezing cold.

No relations had

bothered to visit.

She had nobody to care.

No-one to witness

her suffering;

or even her troubles to share.

Her coffin is

pristine and spotless.

No hint of the

heartache she’d seen.

No-one to mourn her passing.

It’s as if her life had not been.


“Wroughton” was written

on the label.

“I was in hospital there once”, he said.


They couldn’t find the cause.

“Stress”, I thought.

Stress does funny things to people.

Except they’re not so funny really.

Getting up early on a freezing winter’s morning.

Still in his short trousers.

The cows had to be rounded up for milking,

before breakfast, before going to school.

Holes in his boots. Wet feet……

Ironic really. This story from a bottle of milk.

From a farm.

Tony’s book

“A Day at the Zoo”

is available on Amazon at £6.96

All poems are copyright Tony Inwood and can only be reproduced by permission.

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