Not a King,
An actor upon a newly marble stage.
Adopted by Uncle Julius,
But what’s in a name?
Constant with the annual passing of time,
Eighth of Twelve.
An actor needs a costume,
Armour makes way for priestly robes.
Warrior now builds bridges.
No to Rex,
He shall be instead
A poem commemorating the Peterloo massacre of 1819, when 18 were killed in Manchester just for seeking the vote.
Cap of Liberty
on the fields
Seeking reform, the vote,
Topped with that old symbol,
The red cap of
They came riding riding,
Just like Waterloo,
A battle against lady Liberty.
Riding down and slashing
People like you and me
18 butchered innocently,
Red the colour of the blood stain
And the cap of Liberty.
See that fruit hanging ripe on that tree,
Flame red, glowing like a ruby,
I say its meant for me, I hear it calling to me.
Who says it’s forbidden,
Who says I shouldn’t try,
who says it’s juicy pleasure I should deny?
If curiosity is a crime, then I’m guilty.
for I want to touch,
taste something real,
not live in ignorant bliss,
no need for the serpents hiss,
I wish to explore, know more,
let curiosity be my original sin.
Here is a poem I wrote last week at a workshop ran by the very talented poet Dean Atta, called ‘Unemployment’ about experiences shared by many at present.
It’s like waiting for a bus to come,
waiting, waiting, but they never come.
You feel like a book yearning to be read but constantly being passed by.
“Sorry, not today,
Not enough experience” they say,
That’s when they even grace you with a reply,
Sending off a neverending trail of letters,
applications, cv’s, no satisfaction.
Treading water, constantly swaying, staying still.
It’s like you’re looked down on by society,
No compassion, no pity, the centre of lies,
Being unemployed is a heavy yoke while waiting for a lighter one to come.