In your heart,
can you sit with the grieving,
see what they are feeling,
and grow some compassion?

Tears from a stranger,
a mother’s exhaustion,
wearing the body language
of those who’ve been broken.

No hugs allowed,
no warm faces to comfort,
no one to hold,
no matter how much we want it.

In your mind can you comprehend
what all this pain is doing to them.

Instead of being activated
by what you hated
you got isolated,
so you wouldn't be triggered.

There were photos of
human agony on foreign streets,
bombed out buildings,
bleeding children,
and parents weeping.

Instead of getting outraged
by what you saw,
you went to your safe space,
so you wouldn't have to face
any troubling thoughts at all.

People softened the discourse,
slightly dulling the edge of the sword
they use to cut the safety cord
we call human rights.

The bad things kept happening
while you were napping comfortably.

You should have been
an exposed wire
sparking an arc of heart fires.
Instead of highlighting
that which was frightening
you went into hiding.

While those who were fighting
didn't get the option
to ignore the horror.

Busted up and ******,
tear gassed buddies bruised
while you used that excuse
of not wanting to deal with bad news
cause you might get triggered.

The world is on fire so,
melt that snowflake heart sister
and brother
we've got no time to waste
in helping each other;

Look and see these tragedies
and get motivated;
Rise up in outrage,
get ******* triggered,
and get to work son.

Cause anger gets **** done!!

I stand at
the last divided capital in the world and it confuses me how the land I am from is still being owned by greed and discrimination
we sit at the cusp of the border and an elderly man sells us ice cream
I sit in your lap on the metal chairs,
admiring the history that lived before me
this man was watching knowing his life was in an echo of a torn country

complacency

he moved boxes around, cluttered in old ornaments and memory
the other side of us there were  children in a violin lesson
so unaware
of the wall
their parents wait for them in small conversations
an officer in blue parols with eyes that are hungry and glowing like a fox in the strangeness of night, preying,  feral, searching.

I get to know him,

simply by watching his ways –


of hiding himself.

Eyes pass me with a greeting
eyes hang still in the streets
and shopping lanes, eyes fly

around the earth
eyes are watching
around important bodies

alert eyes
that protect, willing
to restrict others

I defend myself
and ward them off
with the hand on my heart

an eye for an eye
beware, I look back
even when I'm not looking

Hello everyone, for those that are still here I'd like to inform you that I have my first poetry book Before It's Too Late published under Amazon Kindle! It features many of my poems here, ones I wrote in the past but not posted and some afterwards of my hiatus here.  To all of those that have supported me since I began my account, thank you very much for the fervent encouragement and being very welcoming. This project is dedicated to all of you.


Much love and thanks,
Peter

I’ve been looking,
through glass windows,
reflecting city lights
of the night life.

Strange phantasms
pass like distorted
carnival glasses,
mind mirrors broken
from the harsh words
spoken.

I’ve been searching,
seeking the smiling hearts
of brave angels
who face hateful strangers
that are full of poison,
and spitefully spitting
sick syllables,
possibly contagious,
as they go
instantly viral.

I’ve been watching
cops stopping
particular people,
seen one to many
real life movies
that end in tragedy,
and in observing
the hurting
of children
and elderly folks
I have fallen
to tears of rage
and anguish.

I’ve been wondering
if in my wanderings
seeing this sideshow spectacle,
of disrespectful,
cruel, and hateful
authoritarians,
have I found the true face
of America?

Mirroring for my bridal song.
Opaque reflecting.

Confine my white, blue and yellow or
Yuzu fruit underwater.
The slice of life's parrot.
They sing
The flight, they might be
Waiting at the traffic light.
Narratives speaking out of features.
Features of the strange signature of a left hand.
Explaining is the evermore expectation.

Even when a movie plays
It is not just watched anymore.
The evermore explanation.
Left hand shaking striving in time to help the right.
As it always has been.
Perhaps it had not been seen.

Looking at straight lines like shoots.
The sunshine of restart
Falling slowly.
Tiny windows through a
Favourite scene when the weather is weary
Like watching a movie.