The New God

By Scott Bailey © 2018

There was
This civilisation
That worshipped
A God
A new God
Not a water god
Nor a sun god
Not a god of the earth at all
But like all gods
This one promised
Safety and security
In return
For absolute
When times were hard
Lives were demanded
And lives were given
Though tears were shed
It was accepted
And the God was given a name
To ease the pain
And make the people
They were enslaved
Made them think
They were a part
Of something bigger
They called this new God
The Economy
Stock Market Graphs
Image from Pixabay

Seemed appropriate for today – after all keeping the schools open demonstrate’s exactly this thinking.

Heavy Hands

By Scott Bailey © 2014

The blood of a million children
Is heavy in my hands
Slipping through my fingers
Like eternal sands

Not the consequence of acting
But the consequence of not
A stain upon my conscience
And ever-growing blot

So I consume and I create
And so I spend and save
Consumer and producer
But I never gave

The hand that should have proffered
Is stained with guilty red
The reproaching cry from beyond
Of the wasted dead

So my heart is heavy
With echoes of that cry
If you believe of guilt you’re free
Look me in the eye

Image from Pixabay

Cold Hard Hate

By Scott Bailey © 2014

Cold hearted calls
Behind cold stone walls
Directed at a late great clown
Filled with such hate
And vitriol great
Delivered with thunderous frown

But they do not see
That we are free
From what they term belief
But hatred and fear
Will never come near
To dimming the laughter and grief

So go back to your knave
To the submission you crave
Kneel with the weight of your hate
Lower your head
Grovel with dread
But you will never ever create

Image from Pixabay

The Voice

By Scott Bailey © 2014

There’s a voice I know
From way down deep
Fuelled by wars
That never sleep
It’s warm but still will be
Ever lonely

It sings of thoughts
And curses old
Soothes the weak
And beats the bold
Finds us in our weeping
And our fury

It moves our walls
And wayward paths
Offends our truths
With staggered hearts
Weaves its way into our
Very grieving

I wonder now
At all the cost
And when at last
No wars are lost
Will the voice still find its way
Towards us

Or will it fall
In silence then
The broken harp
The dried up pen
Or will we hear the whispered


Image from Pixabay

The Ripple Effect

By Scott Bailey © 2006

Six flashes of gold beneath the mirrored air.
Ripples reach out to my feet.
Blurred images pass here and there.
Their intrusion indiscreet.

The casters of these images,
against their prison rail.
Disgust contorts their visages.
Behind a lacy veil.

What is true they scorn and spurn.
Blurred figures in a shaky land.
To look up! They will never learn.
And see the clear truth at hand.

Image from Pixabay

The Piranha

By Scott Bailey © 2002

The flesh-eating Piranha fish
Is not as rare as you think
Much more common than one would wish
The flesh-eating piranha fish
Beware, you may be their next dish
If into the water you sink
The flesh-eating piranha fish
Is not as rare as you think

Image from Pixabay

Only Us

By Scott Bailey © 2014

We don’t understand
The fight between them and us
There is only us

(Inspired by the Peter Gabriel song of the same name.)

The Jellyfish That Froze

By Scott Bailey © 2014

The jellyfish sighed, in a jellyfish way. It wobbled awake.

Another day after another rough night.

The little jellies were disturbed, heavy currents last night. They had needed lots of comfort. He had wrapped himself around them and rocked them to sleep against the waves. Mrs Jellyfish had bumped up against him, squishing his comfort and rumbled fitfully. Bad dreams, turbulent waters.

He stretched out, taking in as much of the early morning sunbeams as he could, building up energy for the coming onslaught…

The jellyfish swore. Riding the busy jet stream he had just missed crashing into a hard-shell and getting himself shredded.  He had survived the morning scramble, the sleepy then crazed, energised little ones. The rush, the noise.  Now he was squeezing and twisting himself in and out of the flow. Avoiding the less considerate travellers. Collapsing himself sliding like and eel. Rolling up like a ball to barrel through the wake of those speeding by way too fast. One day his shifting and gyrating would not be enough. He would get hit.

The jellyfish quivered. He shook himself more awake and aware. Had to concentrate more or mistakes would be made. The others didn’t help. The one who needed to be high up to avoid the sand. The one by his side who couldn’t help bumping him with every list and move. The on behind who kept expanding and contracting. He was only here because he could adapt, shift his shape to accommodate.

Another day. And tomorrow yet another. And the day after.

The suddenly the alarm. Shark! Here! that was new. It was almost exciting, but he had all the other jellies to think of, to return to, to bear up and settle down. He could not enjoy this. Not without guilt.

They scattered. All of a sudden he was alone. Alone in the deep. No shark, no one.

Sunbeams drifted down through the undulating waves. Debris floated gently on the eddies and sway. It was silent for once. Peaceful

He basked in the peace and dreamed. This he could enjoy.

There was a sudden surge of cold. A surprise current swept in and took him. He curled up and rode it but he was at its mercy. No control.

He pulsed with, fear. And excitement.

This was out of his comfort zone, out of the everyday routine and out of his volition. Therefore he was not responsible.

He let go – he could enjoy this.

The water got colder, He suddenly noticed looming, dark shapes above him. Icebergs. He has heard of them, never seen one. They looked imposing. Hard. Unyielding.

He watched them for a while as they crashed through everything in their path.

And then he made his decision.

He froze. It was a simple act of will. He became as rigid as the icebergs. Shaped himself how he wanted and never shifted his outline again.

He returned to his home. Now, everyone had to shift their stances, adjust their positions and accommodate his new shape. They had to as it was crowded with sharp points and hard corners. He was not comfortable to be near.

Now the world was shaped around him instead of the world shaping him.

He was pleased. So please he did not notice how far everyone drifted from him.

He was frozen and would stay so.

No one had ever told him that even icebergs melt.

Image from Pixabay


By Scott Bailey © 2018

When was the last time
You really felt
The weave of a really
Good fabric
Wool or tweed?
Or the tickling temptation
Of lace
Over smooth, warm skin.
Or shivered in the dark
Back against the rough
Hard bark of a trunk?
The screen steals our eyes
And the other senses

Image from Pixabay

Where the Red Fox Roams

Where the Red Fox Roams

By Scott Bailey © 2014

Image from Pixabay

The timid beasties scatter
With tiny racing hearts
The scent of blood approaches
The herd all ways it parts
For here
The red fox roams

The scent of fear it rises
And fans the fox’s fire
Into enslaving passion
To raise the killer higher
The red fox roams

Filled with hate and ire of
Where the white wolves dance
The dance the fox desires
Denied its golden chance
The red fox roams

The world has grown accustomed
To fear of tooth and claw
The world has grown so weary
Of lives lived short and raw
The red fox roams

The timid beasties scatter
Will never make a stand
They’ll not accept the secret
To gain the upper hand
So proud
The red fox roams

No one knows the course
Where the fox’s road is heading
All they see is darkness
The cast of all the spreading
Where the red fox roams

Where the Grey Wolves Grieve

By Scott Bailey © 2014

Image from Pixabay

On a barren plain
Where food and joy are sparse
The desolate packs wander
Watching slow time pass
The grey wolves grieve

With rose stained eyes
Patrolling their border wide
Preserving what is left
Of what they hold inside
It’s why
The grey wolves grieve

They gaze across the delta
To far off distant times
Where game and ease were plenty
Than in these austere climes
And so
The grey wolves grieve

Disgusted by the carnage
Where the red fox roams
On guard for rebel spirits
Keeping safe their homes
The grey wolves grieve

Yet what they seek in earnest
Deep within their hearts
They know is far beyond them
Beyond their stilted arts
The grey wolves grieve

The packs struggle onwards
Huddled in their gloom
Their hearts so full of anguish
For hope there is no room
In this land
Where the grey wolves grieve


By Scott Bailey © 2018

These areas
Our neighbourhoods
Will become districts
Classified by wealth
And faceless systems
Will place us
Where they see fit

Image from Pixabay

This Isle

By Scott Bailey © 2014

Red the blood
That flooded the plains
Of the green valleys and hills
Where children still lay

White the bleached bones
Of warriors old
Who died for their lords
Defending high homes

Blue is the blood
Of those who command
With wires of constraint
And tradition’s grey chains

Image from Pixabay