Skinny arms,
Freckled skin,
Still buried by the clothes I’m in,
Still looking younger than my years,
Still selectively hearing ears,
Am I changing,
Changing?
Still sweet,
But not naive,
I see in shades of grey nuance,
Still loving,
But know the world sometimes does not,
Still hopeful,
In a world hope forgot,
Not a chameleon,
But those blue eyes
Have seen a lot,
Steadily growing,
Stealthily changing.
Tomorrow night, I’m performing poetry at the ‘It’s a wrap’ closing of the Egypt exhibit in the Manchester Museum while they transform the museum. I thought I’d share this poem about how the word ‘Egypt’ has fascinated me and still does…
Egypt,
The very word sounds mystical,
Magical,
Conjuring visions of an antique land of gold buried in sand,
Where animals and gods combine,
Temples and sun align
Pyramids as old as time,
Egypt,
The word brings an antique glow,
To a young mind.
If I had the wings of a bird,
I’d fly to you.
Unrestricted,
Through the atmosphere,
The only limit, the stratosphere.
I can fly here, here and here,
Without fear.
Flying over international borders,
Defying the orders
of men.
Over the narrow Channel,
From Berlin to Tallin,
Swooping over continents,
Baking deserts.
Over mountains,
From Jerusalem to Bethlehem,
Over concrete barriers,
Without walls,
This earth just one great ball.
I could make my Home anywhere,
Anywhere, anywhere
Passports of any colour irrelevant,
Visas irrelevant,
Right of abode,
Right of return,
Permanent.
Travel free as free could ever be.
If I had the wings of a bird,
I’d fly to you,
Wherever you may be.
A poem to commemorate 500 years since Martin Luther nailed his beliefs to the church door and began the Reformation.
In the beginning
Was the word,
Reformation,
Condemnation
Of corruption,
nailed for all to see.
Excommunication,
The weapon of the Holy See,
Threat of flame for heresy.
In the beginning
Was the word,
Reformation,
Printed in the common tongue,
Spread from nation to nation,
A king searching for marital bliss
Seized on this,
An answer sublime,
Where church and state combine.
In the beginning,
Was the word,
Painted over ruined images.
Broken beauty,
Ruined churches a plenty
Bloodshed, gore,
Execution,
Persecution, war,
Two tribes set Europe aflame,
All in the Almighty’s name.
In the beginning,
Was the word,
Reformation.
A crusade turned
Civil war in the name of faith,
Brother against brother
Over divine grace,
One word caused
Apocalypse,
A new world, Genesis,
Reformation became a bloody revolution.
A poem about mental health, it’s ok not to be ok and to speak help.
It’s ok
It’s ok to feel so down,
Where nothing seems to lift you up,
Where everything you do is an utter balls up.
To rant off and off about god knows what.
It’s ok to cry,
To scream with such emotion,
Like a hysterical eruption
It shows passion.
Its ok to ask for help,
To ask, what can I do,
What can I do,
To ask you, you and you,
It’s ok to lay everything out,
bare all those demons,
emotions, fears,
doubts, self loathing,
Lack of hoping.
It’s ok
to throw off the mask and say,
I’m not ok.
I
One rocky isle in the open sea,
A safe haven for people who flee,
The desperate, hungry, refugees.
Part of a whole greater than itself.
Before the dark times came.
When there’s a loss in prosperity,
There can be a crisis of identity.
Demagogues on the prowl,
Whipping up,
Finding someone to blame.
‘Let’s get back control today,
Let’s go it alone,
Let’s do it our way’.
So to the ballot box they descended,
Consensus they ended,
And yes, they went their own way,
Banners flying for Independence Day.
Isola nation,
Newly born,
Viewed outsiders with scorn.
II
Old agreements null and void,
So new arrangements need to be made,
Going far and wide to sell our wares,
For any price,
To anyone there.
Meanwhile back on the Isle,
Poisonous ideas were on the rise,
Who fits in and who doesn’t not,
‘Be gone,
be gone,
be gone with them,
Let’s make Isola great again.’
III
Brain drain followed,
For them not the cold of this barren rock,
One by one they left, they left,
Leaving very little, little left.
They went their own way, they did of course,
But no nation is truly an island.
Much diminished this cruel island became,
For shame,
Isola Nation,
The clue was in the name.
Ramble,Ramble,
Over words I sometimes stumble,
Talking about anything, nothing,
Sometimes I just talk for the sake of it.
A hilarious memory remembered,
In conversation resurrected,
Politics debated.
For those minutes you are in my power,
While I ramble,
Ramble,
hoping to connect,
And stay connected to you,
I ramble,
ramble
As I don’t want the silence of being alone.
Long ago there was a garden,
where flowers, trees
and plants grew row on row,
Watered by 4 rivers that gently flow.
It was left to two brothers,
It was a bequest,
a promise,
with a request to share.
The brothers went forth and multiplied,
raised a nation of offspring with their wives,
but conflict arose from their stubborn pride,
for the garden they swore to share.
Rather than commit fratricide,
Sadiq took his family to a wilderness exile far from there,
beyond the garden that was promised,
the bequest
with the request to share.
From the fruits of the land,
Yoni’s children thrived,
but were watched by many jealous eyes,
Strangers invaded
and forced his children from their land,
whilst they watched their tents burn,
they vowed one day to return,
to the garden, the bequest
with a request to share.
The children of Sadiq came back home,
To a land left desolate and alone,
Trees were replanted,
Seeds were resown,
The garden, which had seen such strife,
Slowly began to return to life.
For centuries the children of Yoni continued to roam,
Showed nothing but hostility,
Spared no pity,
But they never forgot their garden home,
The bequest, with a request to share.
They were butchered, they suffered,
Such malice was shown,
So from across the sea
they fled back home,
To the garden promised,
The bequest, with the request to share.
But the children of Sadiq and Yoni quarrelled,
Anger boiled from words to deeds,
To conflict over their claim,
The promised land in blood
made profane.
So this is our story, General,
We both wanted a piece of paradise,
But we have paid a bloody price,
How much blood and tears have been shed,
Since hatred reared its ugly head?
Put down your gun, take my olive branch,
Let us forgive,
Let us learn to live in peace,
In this garden that was promised to us both,
The bequest, with a request,
to share.
Among the stones,
I gaze at the past,
Contemplating the future.
How long the darkness will last,
On the darkest day,
The sun finally rises.
A human has the right to live,
The right to love and be loved in return,
The right to grow,
the right to learn.
A human has the right to be safe
live free from fear
The right to live
without flows of tears.
Your rights are their rights,
mine.
Deprive them,
Deny them
you deny yours and mine.
Rights are rights ,
be it in the remains of a bombed city,
A refugee camp
Or the streets of Britain.
BumbleBee- the poet Anthony P 