Aspen Writes Poetry

  We built a bridge once,     didn’t we? Each plank laid   with shaking hands,   each nail driven in   with hope as the hammer.   It was rough, splintered,   but it held.   Now, splinters fly.   They tear it apart, board by board,   tossing them into the river.   The current eats them,   takes them down   where light can’t reach.   Don’t you see?   The child at the edge of the bank,   their reflection rippled,   already uncertain—   you’ve given them nothing   but stones to carry   and nowhere safe to cross.   We built a door once,   didn’t we? A heavy thing,   but we opened it,   propped it wide with our bodies,   our words, our love.   They are closing it now.   Slamming it shut with laws,   with lies,   ...

Disability Reform  They come in suits, hands clean, tongues heavy with “reform.” They do not see the tremor of a mother’s hand as she opens the brown envelope. They do not hear the silence after a child is told: you are too expensive to educate past nineteen. This is not care. This is arithmetic. This is a ledger where names are numbers, needs are noise, and dignity is a column to be deleted. They talk of fairness while snipping the threads that held us together— threads spun from routine, from rights, from the quiet heroism of just getting through the day. First, they came for the benefits. Then, the rights. Now, they come for the story itself— rewriting it so the disabled child becomes a burden, the parent a problem, and the state a benevolent blade. A child must ask permission to move, to learn, to breathe freely in a school where they might be safe. And what is that, if not control? What is that, if not a polite word for a polished cage? They call this compassion. I call it cru...

I wrote a poem in response to this article.  People who were autistic were treated in a similar way before awareness training and no one is just a little bit ADHD, you either have a diagnosis or not.  You say it's a trick, a trend,   a queue-jump for pity, a handout.   But I see them—   the ones who move like hummingbirds,   thoughts flickering, hands restless,   words slipping like water through fingers.   I know what it is to be measured,   to have your struggle held up to the light   like a counterfeit note,   to hear everyone’s a little bit like that.  To hear it’s overdiagnosed.   To hear it’s just a label for the weak.   They said the same about autism, once—   that we were just awkward, shy,   boys without eye contact, girls who’d grow out of it.   A phase. A fad. A failure to try hard enough.   Their chaos is not min...

I see your hands, cold in winter,   the meter ticking down like a clock   winding towards empty. The TV   flickers with news you don’t trust,   faces you don’t know,   and your anger pools in the cracks of the floor.   I understand.   But listen—this is not the fault   of the stranger with hollowed-out shoes,   the mother clutching her child in a doorway,   the man who speaks in a tongue unfamiliar.   They do not turn the key in the Treasury,   do not cut the funding like a butcher   paring fat from the bone.   The government keeps its hands clean,   shuffles blame like cards in a rigged deck.   You watch the numbers rise—   bills stacked high like the promises   they made and forgot.   I understand.   But don’t let them point your fury sideways   when it should be aimed up.

Shut up and listen,   they said, their voices heavy like iron chains,   clinking with the weight of unspoken orders,   of missiles, their cold metal bodies   climbing towards the stars,   ready to tear the sky open—   a wound that won’t heal,   the fragile silence we once called peace   shattered like glass in a hurricane.   Shut up and listen.   The clock is ticking, each second   falling like blood from a forgotten wound,   the hands spinning like an army of ghosts,   drumming their nails against the ticking bones   of a world collapsing under its own rage.   Look at the hands of the world—   knuckles white,   clutching the red button like a secret,   their skin stretched thin with power,   eyes glazed over,   tired of keeping the devil inside.   Shut up and listen.   ...

They’ll make being English a crime,   he said, buttoned into his suit like history pressed flat,   creased with certainty. His mouth, a red stamp,   licked and sealed with fear.   They’ll come for your teacups next,   your cracked porcelain queens,   the chipped edge of your father’s war medals,   rusted with stories no one asked to hear.   They’ll ban the drizzle, the queue,   the stiff upper lip trembling under the weight   of too many unsaid things.   Flags will be contraband—   folded triangles of treason,   stitched with guilt, blood-red threads   unraveling in the hands of boys   who never learned to question   what they were taught to salute.   They’ll rename the streets,   erase the echoes of empire   tucked neatly under cobblestones.   Your voice will be evidence,   your ...

 "Because I have common sense," he said,   lips puckered like the peel of a bruised orange,   words slipping slick, oiled with bravado,   as if truth were just a trick of the tongue—   a game of catch with facts, dropped,   left to roll under the couch with yesterday’s lies.   The sky cracked open, metal teeth gnashing,   bodies falling like prayers unanswered.   But no—don’t look up. Look here.   Watch his hands—big, bigger,   gesturing to nowhere,   shaping air into castles of blame.   "It wasn’t that," he insists,   as if grief could be rewritten,   as if equality were a suspect in a line-up,   mugshot smudged with disbelief.   A shrug, a smirk, the practiced squint—   common sense, he calls it,   like a badge pinned crooked on his chest.   Remember the bleach, the sharpie hurricane, ...

In today's media-driven world, where headlines often blur the truth and political narratives twist in the hands of power, it's vital to pause and critically assess the information being fed to us. A recent controversy has arisen around a politician's description of a significant conflict, labeling what some perceive as genocide simply as war. This comes even after Israel has openly admitted to the targeted killing of the leader of Hamas. The discourse around such issues demands our attention and discernment. When they call genocide a war, when they minimize the cries of the lost to mere casualties of conflict, we find ourselves at a crossroads. It's in these moments of obfuscation that we must stand firm, speak the unfiltered truth, and advocate for those whose voices have been silenced by deceit and political maneuvering. The power of language cannot be underestimated. When leaders openly admit to certain deeds yet cloak them in softer, more palatable names, the respon...

Hello,  Today, I stumbled upon a startling fact: 0% of those claiming PIP and Attendance Allowance aren't actually disabled. It's shocking to realize that the system, designed to support those in need, makes us jump through hoops for mere existence. The statistics show that the fear of fraud is overshadowing the reality of genuine need. It feels as though the regulations are doing more harm than good, preventing people who truly need these benefits from receiving them, all for the sake of avoiding a tiny amount of fraud.  Here's a poem to express this frustration: Another story, the same old tune,   Where the truth’s dismissed far too soon.   Zero percent, but they call us fraud,   While they sit on top, kings of the hoard. They point the finger, sell you the lie,   “Benefits drain the economy dry.”   But it’s not about fraud, or where the money went,   It’s about control and in our heads a space they rent.    T...

They say you are thieves,   Stealing our bread,   Our roofs,   Our air.   But they don’t see   The haunted dreams   Of the journey here,   Or hear the whispers   Of lands left behind.   Your pockets hold, Not the riches of nations,   But a meager £8.60, Doled out like crumbs per week, From a table too tall.   They claim you burden us,   But forget   The weight of the world   You carry   In silence.   You,   Who have crossed oceans   And borders of the heart,   Arriving with nothing   But hope.   The myth of theft   Is spun by those   Who clutch tightly   Their overflowing plates,   Turning eyes away   From your empty hands.   Yet your strength   Blooms from the cracks,   Resilient   Like wild...

First-time dreams Nestled in a heart's corner  With walls of hope  And floors of sacrifice  Labour's savings  Our precious crumbs  Scraped from years  Of silent toiling  We reach for keys  To a door we've painted  In our minds  A thousand hues of tomorrow  But taxes stand tall  Like unyielding shadows  Pressing our fragile hopes  Into corners of doubt  We save and save  Each pound a seed  In a garden where  We long to plant roots  Yet the system  Demands its share  Its hand heavy  On our aspirations  The numbers don't add up  To the sanctuary we seek  They subtract  From the dream's very foundation  We are the architects  Of modest ambitions  Building castles  From the remnants of our sweat  Oh, if only love  And effort were enough  To erect walls  That keep us warm  But we stand  On the brink of desire  ...

 Well 5,538 days of Tories being in power is over now, including the coalition. I thought I'd write something for the occasion.  They said it would last forever,  The iron grip of policies  That tightened around us  Like cold winter air.  5,538 days of watching dreams  Deferred, promises turned to dust.  Yet we endured, holding onto hope  Like a lifeline.  Now the sun peeks over the horizon,  A new day breaking,  And we exhale the years of struggle  Like breath we forgot we held.  The chains have fallen away,  And in their place  The fragile wings of possibility  Flutter, ready to take flight.  We rebuild with hearts  Unbroken by the weight of yesterday,  Because even in the darkest days  We learned to believe  In the power of tomorrow.

The calendar Sits heavy on the wall,   Whispers of change   Filling every hall. A date circled in red   Like a heartbeat’s call.   Through the streets we walk,   Voices that sway and hum. The power lies in our hands,   In the hands of the many,   Not the few.   The old stories fade With every new mark.   Each footstep a promise,   Each name a dream   Etched on ballots That flutter like leaves   In the summer breeze.   In every home,   A quiet hum. Discussions at the table,   Debates over tea.   We weigh our future   With bated breath, Hoping for a better tomorrow,   Casting away the shadow   Of yesterday’s sorrows.   All through the house,   A gentle reminder: Our duty,   Our privilege,   To shape the world. To vote,   To speak,   To be hear...

They tell us, to keep our chins up, as if despair can be, brushed away like dust, from an old bookshelf. Their promises fall, like brittle leaves, from a dying tree, each one, a reminder, of the decay. We’re asked, to be resilient, while they hoard hope, in locked rooms, and golden vaults. We clutch at crumbs, while they feast, and preach patience, as if hunger, is a lesson, we must learn. The weight of their words, sinks us deeper, into the shadows, where dreams, wither and fade. But in the silence, of our shared pain, we find a voice, and in our unity, a spark. We are more, than their indifference. We are the storm, that will cleanse, this house of lies. We rise, because we must, for in our struggle, we reclaim, the light.

Transphobia is a virus, That spreads in speeches, Coated with the sugar of tradition, Masking the poison within. The grey vote sought, With promises whispered,  In hushed tones of nostalgia, While denying others breath. Silent nods to a past unkind, Clutching to ghosts that blind, Blind to the vibrant present, Where truth seeks to unwind.  In shadows, they conspire, Lighting a fire of fear, Hoping to burn bridges built, By hands intertwined in hope. Yet in those hopeful hearts, And hands intertwined by hope,  A different song sings,  Stronger than any wrong:  Where love knows no bounds,  And every soul belongs.  - Aspen Greenwood 

No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I hold my grandmother's necklace, A gift from her mother,  Who worked hard to buy it. Who saved every penny. So that I could wear a piece,  Of our history, Around my neck. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things.  I touch the books on my shelf, Each spine a story, That belongs to me. Each page a world That I can enter, Whenever I choose. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I look at my home, Each corner, A reflection of who I am. Every photograph, A memory, I am free to cherish. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. They tell me, Sharing is caring -  But I ask, Isn't it also caring, To honour the toil, The dreams and hopes, That built these walls, That filled these drawers. No thank you, I have things, And I like owning things. I value the sweat, The sacrifice, That allowed me to: Hold my grandmother's necklace, To touch the books on my shelf, To look at my home. ...

The spectrum of ideals,  A wheel turning endlessly.   Communism whispers:   We are all equal, Brother and sister, Hands in soil, But the dream—   Often,  Diluted by the power-hungry, Utopia morphing, Into chains. Capitalism sings:   Freedom and choice, Merit and reward,  But look closer—   The promise of abundance, Is a game, Where the rich, Write the rules, And the poor, Can’t afford the dice. Fascism roars: Order in chaos,  Strength in unity.  But its foundation, Is built on fear, Of the other, Walls rising higher, Voices falling silent. Each ideology, A promise of paradise. Each reality, A shadow of control. When ideals, Turn to dogma,   When power,   Corrupts vision, The circle spins, Hope into despair,  Dreams into oppression. Each -ism,   A mirror,   Reflecting the other's flaws, The wheel never ceases, Spinning us in a cycle. We must break, With compassion, And ...