Hi all, it's been a bit of an up and down week here. We started the week with Aparna Pathak's poem "Intentions" about the Pakistani/India clash that is ongoing in Kashmir. It is a simple yet powerful poem that could apply to most conflict in the world. A bowl of humanity is what is needed.
David Mellor continued his recent run of good poems with "Truce Bomb" about the Syrian rebellion and the West's attitude toward it.
Editor Michael Holloway contributed a great poem "An Evil of Want" about the current British government and their attacks on the most vulnerable people in society. I particularly liked his phrase:
"The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,
laughs without shame or remorse".   
Marie Ryan contributed her first poem to Poetry24 with "Here Comes the Sun" an ironic title considering that the subject is the worsening world situation and containing the memorable line 
"Winter sun skis to April fools."
Nicola Copeland's poem "No Pancakes on Sunday" is a wonderfully sad poem about a British soldier dying from his wounds inflicted when he was in Afghanistan.
All in all it was a great week of poems but we had a break in transmission due to a glitch in scheduling and a low level of submissions. As Abi Wyatt said "Come on guys, it is time to shake off that comfortable and euphoric drowsiness brought on by the excesses of the festive season, time to get your backsides in gear and get down to work."   

I shall never get you to entirely understand

the distance so far between us.

A great, grand Liberal stood atop the head of a man

with no ears, mouth, or eyes.

An evil Want of post-war Britain ended

with Beveridge. But they make us want once again.

The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,

laughs without shame or remorse.

Please take it from us, take it all,

take our money, take our lives.

Cupped hands to a bowl

at the knee of the millionaire government.

But still you shall give and you shall take away.

If no money now lands in our hands, perhaps it

belongs to the men in Parliament. Taking and smiling.

It seems we shall want once again.

© Michael Holloway, 2013

 Benefits: taking money from the poor.

Michael was born in Liverpool in 1985. He completed his Masters in 2012. As well as poetry, he writes short stories and hopes to get his first novel published soon. His blog is http://thehyperkarma.blogspot.co.uk/

Mother who sweeps the floor each morning alone
Who crotchets together her failing mind that keeps her
Sleepless each night, and Mother who actually cannot believe
Any more in a God who killed her son
Wrapped up in camouflage and black boots put on his feet
By the hands of his dead comrades;

Mother of soldier, who died here too,
In a war of opinion that sacrifices you,
Mother your son is dead, taken away fighting,
Killing and real bullets tearing a hole in the heart of Mother;

Mother who weeps with a cancerous moan
Distracted by war and the governing bodies,
Killed and tortured by the bloody hands of your owners,
Who treat you like a dog, Mother, like a dog
And now, less photogenic sunsets with his face,
Lifeless in a casket now burning in the crematorium of

Your motionless son; unable to love or to care,
Mother, your country has killed him,
Fearless frightened burning with fury,
While your peers decide what to wear;

Mother hates the army, hatred of difference and death,
Hatred of feeling of loss and hate,
Hatred of disgusting vulgar green and black,
Hatred of Jack and his loyalty,
Hatred of country and honour,
Hatred of mother and son in crowds and crowds of soldiers.

© Michael Holloway

Soldier Gareth Bellingham's grieving mother 'hates army'
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Michael Holloway was born in Liverpool in 1985. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at UCLan and is currently studying a Masters in Writing at LJMU.