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.

Poets – a perspective

No, no!
A Poet never rests.
Where would the suffering be in that?
Feet up? No pen in hand, no racing ideas?
No tumult or anxiety? 
Or racking of the brains?

Poets have at least two brains.
One creative
One destructive.
Some have another thorough, 
Dead normal, brain.
If is is present, it is never used.

Cognitive complacency is rare.
The poet is opinionated
And withdrawn.
Forever moving
Like a mouth organ.
(Noisey harmonicas are often kissed). 

The Poet fits the face
And the gloved hand,
With bespoke lettering,
And a welworn desk.
The Poet is stark.
The Poet is best.

If a Poet coughs
The world is replete
And their words do not fail.
The theme is the thing.
The lover and the scheme
The reason and the being.

Life is in all their verse,
Be it blank, dank and irreverent.
The end, the beginning, the continuum.
Aloha, Omega  and Alpha.
Nothing is sacred or sacrilege.
Everything is better loved.

The tapping finger of love,
The sentence of oblivion.
For most Poets the jury is out
But the work never stops.
The craving to speak
Keeps the voice on the page.


© 2018  Christopher Thompson. All Rights Reserved. Written in England.

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