Red – Yellow – Black

This poem is a repose to the death of  Mr George Floyd in Mineapolis MN. So again tonight the blackness of smoke is rising to the heavens all across America. And Heaven knows the reasons. The red is flaring, it is updated and hot. Nowhere is safer than the land of the brave and the home of the free. The crackle of flame illuminates my point. Yellow is the conflagration, the heat is being drawn. Are the people being treated like they are naturally targetable? Is it inevitable, all this black death? We saw it in horror, we didn’t believe our eyes. A person being stifled, and no doubt not for the first time or encounter. And the fire and the mayhem are a self inflicted wound, a man is unjustifiably killed openly and on the street. Everyone is suffering on the inside. This is an ache for justice. Let the scales fall from our eyes. Everyone is precious, everyone one has a life to give, everyone has a right to live. Offer an open hand to lift up your brothers and sisters. Surely it is better to be blind then to judge another by the sight of their skin? There is wrong, there are wrongs to be corrected. There are people and there are streets, there is much yet to do. The Oxygen of forgiveness and equality of truth is the simple soul solution and the way of life is love. Each in self examination needs to help bring about all that is true. Let’s replace this red, yellow and black, with a red white and blue. C G T Devon, England.


To be a scribe
Requires two tools.
One is in your head, the other?
It is like the soft sharp tip of a pencil.

It waters you down, it wears you away. 
It is not quite a buckle, but it is safe enough to be going on with. 
It is not a mere stick of wood,
To do, you have to have lead in your pencil. 

You have to hold on tight, 
You have to have a heart to write. 
Your breath is your graphite, 
And there is always a rub which inevitably leaves its mark.
Have you made your mark today? 
And so the thin dark line offers unlimited life,
It is a line which describes your story. 
Unlike a felled tree which is heart breaking. 

You explain with disappearing lead, 
The scribbled events and connections. 
And hardness becomes irrelevant 
As you turn to wind on time. 

The curly shavings fall like aspersions 
You sharpen your focus. 
Then in the next breath, you rejoin the wood,
Which has fallen to your wooden floor. 

In all reality there was never a belt to tighten. 
However here you will always find 
More paper and pencils. 
So write a new note for posterity.

And dread nought 
Other than having nothing to scratch on the paper. 
Because these tools are so easily burnt, 
And your ideas are easily lost.

©2020 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.


This is me at home thinking about some ideas. Honestly.

We Are Vapour

We are vapor, Even in our own eyesimg_0107-2.jpg, We delineate our lives to fit the time we think we have.
Never really knowing the extent of existence or the limits.
This is the chasm of reality which confounds our means of escape. Death rides ahead and is ready to act.
We are the phantoms.
The elixir is Oxygen.
The limit profoundness.
There is at least one open door in every room, which offers a way out. It is however not our decision when it should be used.
Always death is riding ahead.
Life for the present is in the present.

There will be no extension of your allotted time. Chemistry has no mind to grant extra life. Choose now as your destiny.

©2019 Words & Photography Christopher Thompson
all rights reserved
We Are Vapour 

Then I Was Cardiac Arrested.

Then I was deceived
When the black veil
The darkness of death
Descended to receive me.
Then I saw not the tunnel
With the hand of welcome
Beckoning, urging,
I was not at the edge of paradise.
Then I did not dream.
The absence was total.
A void to be avoided
Blackness unseen.
A place of no recollection
I had ventured in error.
Too early, perhaps.
Then I was not dead.
Hello God is back.

© 2014-18 Christopher Thompson

All Right Reserved

Cannock England

Love, there is no Bell.

It is an open contest
This life of love,
In which we are all contenders.

We have been in training for this.
Yet in a sense we are all cheated.
Never to be content.

If life is meant to be manoeuvres
In a dark square ring,
Then we are truly contestants of the heart.

We are all vulnerabilities too
We seek to give, yet are
All too often taken.

Love is a circle of truth,
With dark corners
To avoid.

Christopher Thompson.

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