Silence is Deadly

The silence of a belt loop
before it cracks

The silence between violence
Before she shouts back

The silence in a young boy’s heart
That’s aching

Once the bully’s smacked him round the face
And everyone’s watching

The silence in longing
For a girl who doesn’t feel it

The silence in the lies
Of a friend who doesn’t mean it

The silence in your father’s voice
When it’s hard for him to speak

And the silence in your mother
When she’s broken and weak

The silence in a hurt man’s heart
And the silence before the torrent

When another breaks another down
Without any warrant

The silence of history
And those deprived of a voice

And the silence of the desperate
When they don’t have a choice

The silence does us violence
And the hurt just circles round

Like sharks around a wounded whale
Before the vortex pulls it down

There’s so much blood in the water
I can taste it on my tongue

Please, raise your head up, speak your mind
Sing your beautiful songs

The Story of Us

I was a hurricane,
although I thought I was a ship,
to give passage, to give
a romance trip,
where instead there was
a swirling gyre
of loneliness
trying to hold her
within my eye;

She was a typhoon,
blown far from home -
she was fun, she was exciting,
she was wild,
and she thought I was her man -
she judged this at a glance -
but I was still a child.

All our winds fed into
each other -
we were fast, we were fleet,
we were crazy for each other;
she had me beat.
But in all the chaos
of our situation,
blown hither and thither,
I made empty on the promises
she hoped I’d deliver.

Yet we were married
in the maelstrom,
and we sired a child -
in the middle of our tempest,
blowing raging and wild.
And she was a beauty,
she was perfect,
she was the nectar of the gods.
But she was borne into our storm -
and those are terrible odds.

We thought we were sailing,
we thought we could be happy,
not seeing all the heat
was feeding so heavily
the thunderous towering clouds
which circled our heads,
which darkened our eyes,
which rained on our bed.

Our child grew older,
we loved her so much.
Then we gave her a brother,
another she could touch.
And the storm seemed abated,
the squall quieter in our ears
and we tried and we tried
to work hard, allay our fears.

The radio was playing -
she liked pop songs
by young women;
I was silently rehearsing
It Ain’t Me, Babe
by Bob Dylan.
And the whipping winds blew in,
whipped wildly the shutters
and the music was steadily drowned out
by the water, inching higher up us.

There’s no rest out on
the open sea,
so expansive, so huge;
and all the problems
which once seemed like steady rain
seemed now a deluge,
and they came, and they came.
No use pitching out this vessel -
it will just sink again.

The boat we thought we’d captained
was rocked and was worn.
We looked back on all the heartache
and realised we were the storm.
All along, we fed each other
in the worst possible way
and where we needed sunshine
all we had to give was rain.

Yet we see now,
through the other side,
through the calm inside the eye,
that it’s possible to ride this out
if we work together - really try.
And come out of the haze
to an endless blue sky,
rainbows festooning the heavens,
tall grey anvils far behind.

Sure, there will be dark skies ahead,
and beneath us we’ve left wrecks,
but perhaps the things that haunt us
can rescue us in the end.
Perhaps we can shake the trembling hands
of the ghosts which fill our pasts
and meet them as our friends,
our friends, at long last.

Lives Matter

When you’re poor
stealing’s always on your mind;
when you need some dishcloths
or a scrap of food to feed
your kids, you’ll find
that impulse calling more and
more.

It doesn’t matter if you’re black
or white -
we all have that need
for self-preservation
and to fight.

And yet I still find myself 
on a train platform
with a young black man,
unconsciously thinking
keep an eye on that bike, and
keep an eye on your
prejudices, if you can.

I’m guilty, I’m guilty - cry shame. 
I sometimes cross that line, 
I swore, I promised.
If it glittered gold enough,
would I even pinch
my own moral compass?

I came very close to taking something
which was never mine.
And yet I can unconsciously judge
a stranger -
is that normal and fine?

I look to images from across the ocean
and see black children
with rubber bullets
pointed at them
because of a notion

that’s torn the deepest fissure
through the centuries:
that white lives matter more.
You don’t believe me?
Check the penitentiaries.

It’s the same notion that seems
friendly, see this, say that,
we’re all caught in the maul.
You see that black conductor
and a single thought flashes:
‘You make that Southern cap
look cool’.

The Boy in the Bubble

Did you hear the one 
about
the boy in the bubble?

He coming bringing joy
and bearing
trouble:

he saw visions of
perfection
but left mounds
of rubble.

Rome was slow to be built 
and quick
to be burned;

such excess can be fitted 
in the
tiniest urn,

and the wheat
in the field 
dries to stubble.

‘Quick my boy, run!’
your hot brain
shouts at you

but your skull stays
heavy - be still,
stay true.

Boy, oh boy,
it’s hard, getting
harder.

The fruit’s rotting in
the orchard, there’s
nothing
in the larder.

‘Harder! Try harder!’
demand
the dead.

‘Burst that bubble.
It’s the one in
your head.’

Could you lend me a blade,
could you strike me
a fire?

Could you offer a shoulder,
boost me up
higher?
I tire.

I’m trying, I’m trying.
It will all work out
for the best.

I’ll keep fighting on
like I’m fighting
for rest.

All my life I’ve been a bubble
blown hither
and thither,

a flimsy coat of film
surrounding a pocket
of air,

for any odious mouth
to pass on
and make quiver

something you make out
that’s not
really there.

Now it’s time to break
the shivering walls of this cell
I’ve made my home.

It’s empty here, though filled
with comforts, and it’s time
all that was gone.

The Angry Young Man

He's an angry young man,

his name ain't important.

What is important

is he's angry as hell.

He's an angry young man,

but what are the causes?

There are many things to consider,

some of which I'll tell.

He's an angry young man

who's addicted to porn.

He can't get an erection,

Now he's weary and forlorn.

He's an angry young man.

He plays Call of Duty.

It's fun to shoot people

on a computer screen.

He's an angry young man,

he'll be joining the army.

It takes valour to kill

on the battlefield.

He's an angry young man

looking at a tsunami.

Some of the friends he makes

will be shot and killed.

He's an angry young man

and first girlfriend, Sarah,

told him that he

had to get a grip.

But he weren't being told

by any bloody woman.

What do they know?

He gave her the slip.

He don't dream of babies,

he just dreams of bombs.

Percussion beats of bullets,

fragments of IED songs.

He once dreamed of fireworks,

bright in the sky.

Big, brazen, beautiful,

like the 4th of July.

The fireworks now

are ugly and red.

And everyone watching

ain't gasping - they're dead.

He's an angry young man

he don't like what's expected

of him - too much, unfair,

feelings, talking, loads.

He's an angry young man,

and he's always running

head-first into danger.

That is his code.

All he wants is to be manly,

He just wants to be a man.

But all he ever is is angry.

And he'll be dead before he understands.

All, say a prayer for

the angry young man.

All, give a hug to

his mum and his dad.

As they exit the church

and the funeral song,

they're all so broken and lost,

they don't know where it went wrong.

But the angry young man

is still out there,

still fighting the ghosts

in his head.

A sad little boy

who became

an angry young man.

The thousand sore tears that he shed.

Magdalene's Message

Merry Christmas, everybody.

It's a wonderful time of year.

Giving, loving, community,

a time to way lay fear.

You know, I knew Jesus.

He was just a bloke.

A very special bloke.
All wisdom, love, and jokes.

He told me I was God's child,

despite that I'm a girl:

he said that men tend to spoil things

because they think they own the world.

He told me he had a wound
from where his kindness came;
he told me the source of his wound
was his Father's pain.

He told me he loved man,
woman, child; every living soul.
He said all he wanted to give us
was a chance to be happy, and whole.

He told me that God

means whatever it means to you.

God could be a kiss,

or a bible bound in blue.

He taught me God forgives a sin

but he holds good acts in high regard.

He won't drag the sinner down,

but he lifts a hero up.

You can be a hero, you know.

But first, you gotta save yourself.

Because others look to you,

that's how you save somebody else.

With la-la-la-la-love.

Sit around the table, eat, feast.

Fill yourself up with life.

Too much death makes man a beast.

And who am I, you ask.

I'm just a woman. A woman

who loved Christ. A sister to him,

a friend, confidante, lover, wife.

And, so, Merry Christmas.
Let's remember why we remember,
and try to live each day in peace,
not just on one day in December.

I am

I am a father.
I am a son.
I am a husband.
I am a feminist.
I am a vegan.
I am human
and animal,
higher
and lower.

I am a lover,
but I am capable of hate.
I am capable of fear,
anger,
pain. But
I have a higher brain,
and I am more
than just my weaknesses.

I hold myself back
so others don't have to,
but I am breaking these chains.
These self-imposed chains.

There is too much love in me
for me to warrant
hiding myself.

I am me.
Similar to you.
Similar to her.
Similar to it.
Similar to them.
Part of something bigger
than just myself.

I am not alone.

I am.

Fathers and Sons

There was once a wall of fear,
with father and son on either side.
It was a wall of anger and division,
but no one saw it - they'd just hide.

It was like East and West Germany,
soldiers patrolling the border.
Men in watch towers; under, squirming,
small people trying to see over.

What would it take to bridge the gap?
It seemed just like so much,
when all it took was to learn one's history,
replace walls with human touch.

But to this day, on either side,
father and son run.
One planting a flag, the other
extending an olive branch,
which the first mistakes for a gun.

There is no resolution
when loving acts
are taken as threats,
when men all live in anger,
when walls are all they erect.

Fathers and sons are distant,
distant as neighbouring stars,
whilst mothers are kindly Suns
light-kissing those in their charge.

What would the world be like
if we all shared one heart
and one mind?
I think we already do,
we feel so much.

Then why are we so blind?

Sixteen steps

Know your history
Let in the mystery
Live blissfully
Kiss kissfully

Always be honest
Try to read sonnets
Be hasty, like sonic
Be aware of your phonics

Give to others
Be kind to your brothers
Help one another
Don't hide under the covers

Seize the day
Use your brain
Bike or train
Be nice, keep sane

Hailey

There was a girl

at school

called Hailey.

I dead fancied her.

She was beautiful,

in a boyish way.

She was dead good

at gymnastics.

Once, I'd brought these

chocolates

into school.

We all must have been

eleven, or twelve.

I was standing at these doors

open slightly,

peeping out the gap

at her and a couple of her friends

surrounding her

standing on a verge.

Hailey saw me, and whispered

into one of their ears.

The girl came over to me.

'Robert, we all know

you fancy Hailey.

Can she

have some chocs?'

Of course I obliged.

I felt thrilled!

I also had the sense

of feeling a little used.

And a slighter sense

that this trend would continue.

But never mind that!

She must like me!

These days,

I wonder where Hailey is,

what she's up to,

who she's with,

got any kids?

Her partner might be

a right arsehole.

I think what it might be like

to bump into her.

Oh, hi, Hailey!

Robert?

Yeah! So, how are things?

Well, you know, kids

blah blah blah. You?

Me? Oh, pretty good!

Maybe she'd sense

that now I had

more than just chocolate.

Something she really wanted.

Needed.

Maybe I'd withhold it.

But you know what?

To behave like that

would be no better

than that eleven-year-old girl,

that breaker of sensitive boys' hearts,

and no better

than the grown woman's

imaginary

piece-of-dirt partner.

Truth is, I don't think much about Hailey.

But I hope she's happy.

She can keep the chocolates.

It was a nice memory.

Just something that happened.

One of those things.

You learn from 'em.

I'm still learning.

Still growing up.

I'm getting there.

Dear mum and dad

Dear mum and dad,
I love you both so much.
You did a cracking job
raising us.
Three lovely children.
But mum and dad,
I have to ask you,
do all families have
as many skeletons in the closet
as we do?

I guess lots do.

It's just that
recently
the rattling of the bones
has got too much.
It's woken the dead.
So it's time to put them
back to rest.

Yes, it's true.

Dear mum and dad,
I know you tried your best,
and you were only human,
but why
did you have to argue
in front of us
like we were nothing?

It made us blue.

Dad, why did you have to break things?
Mum, I loved you,
but I hated it
when you would just
lie in bed.
I just didn't understand.

And I don't think you knew.

Dad, why did you have
to make me feel so scared
and so useless
half the time?
And why was it so easy
for you
to make mum cry?

I guess you could not see through.

Dear mum and dad,
Thank you
for bringing me here.
I've got my own kids now.
You know I've already repeated
a few of your mistakes.
But I have to claim this
as my journey now.

You don't hurt the ones
you love.
I love my wife, and I love
my children.

And you know I love you.

Fish Love

I've often heard people say
that they love fish.
But how can you love
something
if you've killed it?

People say they love meat,
and, in the next breath, cows.
But if you loved one
then wherefore
the slaughterhouse?

People can be thick as pigs
and common as muck
when they say
they love things
but don't really give a fuck.

Like you say you love your dog.
I don't doubt that you do.
But do you know
pigs are just as clever?
I'm sure they'd love a bone to chew.

Anybody, no doubt,
would say they love their partner.
It doesn't mean they're gonna
chop them up
and put them on a plate.

And yet many of these
same people
are the very ones
who slap them up
and drive them to early graves.

Because you can't say you love something
if your heart's not in its place.
My friend, you don't love fish.
You just like the way it tastes.

When we can learn to love others
just as much as we love ourselves
then I think the pain might dissipate
and we'd have a much more loving world.

There was once a boy...

There was once a boy.
He could have been any boy, really.
He used to look at himself in the mirror,
and pretend to be
the emperor
a soldier
a conquerer.
Anyone but himself.

He hated himself. Hated
the shape of his nose
the look of his clothes
the slant of his eyes.
He'd pitifully cry,
and the other boys would laugh.

And then, alone,
he'd rage in anger,
'When I grow up,
I'll show them I'm a man
I'll show them all
one-hundred-feet-tall I stand,
made of iron and flint and rock.
They'll all listen to me -
they will not mock.

I'll make my enemies
sweat in their sheets.
No! Piss-soaked nightmares
of my armies.

I will shake sleeping babies awake
with the quake
of my sneeze.
Whole villages of infants wailing,
parents on no sleep.

And women will respect me -
or I will make them.
And if my subjects aren't
quietly shaking
I will shake them.

Only, he never thought
those thoughts.
He thought only,
Why me? Why
am I so bad?
Why can't I
just please my dad?
I just want a hug.
I just want
some love.
For someone to tell me
that I'm a good kid.

But they never did.
No one ever did.
And now
they're all dead.

The Moment

I remember the time

I played guitar alone

on a beach in Limnos,

watching the sun rise

alone.

It was nice to be alone.

It would be nice to go

back to that moment

with you, maybe make

love on that beach.

But that moment has gone.

We chase after silence,

the clamour inside us chasing us to it,

but we can never achieve it.

But I'm close:

the thought spills a word,

disturbs the silence,

but the feeling hangs in presence,

emanating like ripples on a pond.

If there's one thing I know,

it's that there are very few

moments of perfection

in our lives, because we

do not allow them

to be perfect:

we must not snatch the moments

of our lives,

but let them be.

Learn from them,

live in the new ones -

each one a chance

to be free.

A Joke

Some people treat

life as a joke.

And then they croak.

Never woke up

until it was too late,

and by then

it was time to go to sleep

for ever.

So don't wait:

make living

your first exhibit.

Ribbit, ribbit.