Poverty breeds entrapment.

It sucks you dry of pride.

Its bone marrow is toxic,

a cancer chemical agent

called poverty.


It clambers up your back and

sits like a demon, perched

on your shoulder

with no lack of grace

it hisses – “You loser!”

“You nobody!”


Poverty breeds

Social isolation


Living without.


By  Mj  ©

Symbiotic Relationship



Symbiotic  Relationship

A  persona  poem  by  The  Poet  Mj  ©


I  move  among  the  Giant’s  feet

singing,  whistling  my  food  song  of  thanks

no  more  famine  when  you  are  around

stamping  the  ground  in  great  quakes  of  vibration

like  the  ‘Horse  God’  of  old

who  made  all  horses  from  its  thundering  hooves

running  through  the  air  in  a  winter  cloak.


And  you  one  of  these  Demigods  –

Provider  –  come  stomp  upon  the  earth

and  up  comes  food  from  your  wake

honey  nectar,  morsels  sweet  for  my  beak

caught  with  a  flit  of  the  wings,  quick  and  silent

feeding  my  life  and  so  I  sing  my  thanks  to  you

O’  Great  One,  under  thy  feet.


Your Sea Poem

Your  Sea  by  Mj  ©

The  wilderness

of  your  belly

I  stop  there

I  cannot  trespass

Your  vastness

Your  opened  mouth

And  rushing  tongue

Your  voice

Your  salty

Sea  kisses

Your  vertically


starry  straights

north  to  your

Milky  Way

At  your  water’s  edge

I  see  not

Your  depth

‘Sultry  Temptress’

You  sing  me  in

To  swim,

drown  within

Your  lapping  arms

and  legs

To  my  watery  rest.




Weaving  by  The  Poet  Mj  © 


Weaving through time

hands, minds, the techno Web

the body lived

transformed and lead.


But woe to words

that Shelly bleed

which blew on sands

and into dust…


“I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert… these words appear:

‘My name is Ramessess II, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”


So the weavers of the Reeds ‘Buandik’

to the Egyptian dreams

and times of artisans modern climes

falls away like all things

and stand and bow to the new

weaving of social connections

profiles, reviews

consciousness left in a heavenly web

and AI melds with our minds

weaving its deviances into our

pores, ‘til one flesh

And ask…

which in time

what is left

wonder on…

‘The Next’