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.

Two to the Power

Human love.
Of all matters that are human,
The substance of living is love.
Is it in residence?
Not too sure?
Then look into your heart.
If you find someone,
Someone special
Who is not you,
You are alive, because you have love.
This is the hidden figure of life.
It is not in X or Y,
It is to the power of two.
It  is within your shell,
At the source of the mind.
The source of you.
©️2019-20 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.

Like I had a Map of Love

Finding which way to go,
I once was a man
Who, whilst stepping on some stairs,
Was taken up in my life, yet,
Was forever climbing down to death.
As a sphincter of a man
Watching through my blind muscle,
And peeping as I went
I found which way to go,
Yet  gained no advantage.
In a life dogged by fairness.
Bleeding on the traits of Columbus
I ranged on his flat waves.
And, posed as one among stars,
When looking into the eyes of Eve.
Always I tried to live like I had a map of love.
And was a herald of gentle breath,
Even as I defended my course to death.
I searched and discovered
All along I had no breadth.

© 2014-2019 Christopher Thompson.

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.

My Lake

My Lake,

Is not of a Wet Brain.

For neither the bottle

Nor the Bar Stool

Any longer compel me.

I am too, a while since,

Scorched dry of my images’ slake.

And being now trifled properly;

I abide these days steady

And without a drunkards’ penny.

Yes, I do indeed have a lake.

A lake that is filled with words.

And these words, like water

Are Duel, they are entwined,


Having two intents.

They take life; they give death.

Acting on some

Like it’s their final breath and Rattle.

Their last gasped chance.

Defiant of the Doom bot.,

Whose habits lie beyond being ghostly,

Whose death is intellectually Final.

Whose words spread forth their danger;

Are soft on the tongue, like a  whispers nurse.

And in others vice versa;

Acting like birth pangs or stones,

Granite solid.

These other words

Harbour love.

Wherein, and across the vast expanse

Of a life time,

Within and throughout which

Many minds may timely,

Earth and quake.

There threads a temporal sense,

Of all being well, so all is well,

In echo of, a given,

A simple understanding;

Even a comfort.

A slither of contentment.

Against which to blither with rapid fire,

Some words to seek to explain;

Some words to redefine not blame.

Some effort in works to try to inflame.

And these dice-like rhyming triplets,

Once tossed, having hung at their pinnacle,

Descend to a chancers phase.

Then dance, spilt to a halt, are still now and revealing,

Yet, uninterrupted are requiring to be read.

Words for which I am to be fined,

In my case, for being that, of questionable character.

A clumsy life, lived with a quartered deck.

A harvest shuffle and my most singular curse.

A writer with a cloak of verse.

© 2018 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved


Reblog v0.1

In Anamnesis – This Time (Will Never Leave You).

In Anamnesis. This Time (Will Never Leave You).

If the first thought was of love
The second must be of obsession.
There is no getting rid of these feelings
Liking or loving or contentment,
Neither is harmful,

You are not alone,
Or are you?
Love needs to be reciprocal.
You are living your feelings
So you are definite.
Most probably.
And the eyes have it to the right.
Now where is your head,
Where are your heels?
Submerged, you may forget to breathe.
Do not panic.

It’s just like palpitations.
Then there is the force,
Or rather the drive to consider.
You need to talk.
Don’t begin at the beginning
You will be a bore.
Just be like it is,
Countenance is measurable
Just be real.
Do not burst open,
Just blow your flame gently.

Rise up, but also know your limit.
If falling over your words
Causes laughter,
You are like a Prince, and charming.
Do not grip your heart
In a steel gloved hand,
Rather offer it openly as your gift.
You cannot lose
That which you freely give.

In truth your love is always present.
Be patient.
Love wonders a meandering path.
Your route to anothers’ heart is understanding that.
If you land on deaf words
Relax and touch your own heart.
Firstly you are misunderstanding your situation.
Secondly you are at cross paths.
You are kind but you are mistaken.
So leave your love to go.
Letting your lover go.
Is the hardest way.

In anamnesis, this time will never leave you.

© 2014-18  Christopher Thompson All Rights Reserved

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