Of Autumn

The living room window depicts a tearful eye,

Mourning the demise of the summer season

As the cold wind outside drives the rain towards you,

Trying to reach you for an unknown reason.

The cozy feeling of safety and security warms you

As you hold your loved one close,

Wrapped in a warm blanket, sipping hot chocolate

Once you’ve finished the hot, buttered toast.

Chick flicks on crisp nights, lighted by a

Pastel-pale moon.

Tall buildings, only partly visible through freezing

Mist, bear witness to the fact that winter is coming soon.

Speaking Life, Speaking Death

I’ve discovered that,

My brain is a place that knows no bounds

Of expression,

A magazine containing thoughts of live rounds

That lock themselves

In the chamber of my mouth

As my tongue cocks back,

Hammers forward and spits them out.

I’ve discovered the irony

Of saving a life while taking another

Like shooting the gunman

Holding a pistol to the head of my brother.

That’s gossip.

And then there’s the speech that ‘wasn’t meant that way’.

Idle words, that equate to a

Negligent discharge and still count as foul play.

I guess that’s why it’s best

To gently squeeze the trigger, staying in control

Because idle words can easily

Embed in the holes of someone’s soul.

You know. Holes caused

By bullying, holes caused by rape

And holes caused by words

Spoken against someone’s colour, sexuality or shape.

Holes caused by

Experiencing, witnessing domestic violence

And holes caused by the

Self-harm of those suffering in silence.

Holes that, when blocked

By a tongue that’s out of control,

Induce the flooding

And drowning of a weakened soul.

And consider,

Words spoken today in light-hearted jest

Could, tomorrow, become

The noose tightening around a heavy-hearted neck.

You can only curse or bless.

Are you speaking life or are you speaking death?

A quick acknowledgement.

Sticks and stones may

Break my bones but words will never hurt me.

But I think we’d all take a

6 weeks heal-time over years of a mind muddled murky.

You know what I mean.

When you question if what they said was maybe right.

And I speak from experience

Because I know I’ve had those sleepless nights

Where inward frustration,

Caused by a lack of knowing why,

Caused outward tears.

Sometimes, so sad even my tears would cry.

But that’s another conversation.

From these times

Of Death came the lessons of speaking life.

Unlike a phoenix from the ashes,

We LEARN speaking life from peaking strife

Because speaking

Life is LEARNED, it doesn’t grow wild

Like untrimmed brambles.

Thorns and berries, harsh and mild.

There’s purpose

And a focused intent in one direction

And I found that the

Speaking of life is found in the Resurrection.

The Resurrection of Christ.

You see his last WORDS

On the cross were, “It is finished!” but then he rose

So He couldn’t

Have been talking of the end of life so we know

Death has a certain end

But life, life, through the death of Christ, always goes on

So, to speak Christ is

To speak life and die without Christ is wrong.

I said ‘His last WORDS on the cross’

Because, after that came His actions, the verbs of the cross

You see, you can’t SPEAK

Life if you don’t DO life, the verbs of the cross.


When you speak and do

Love, you speak and do life, not death.

So die to self

And speak Love into lives until there’s no death left.

Do You Love Her?

Do you love her?

Do you love her?

When all is weighed in the balance,

Do you love her?

As men, it’s easy to dive into

The idea, the woman being subject to the man,

Often forgetting that there is

A need to love, and not just lead, when you hold her hand.

Don’t be so hung up on

Ephesians 5:22. You bring it out of context

Because three verses down,

The situation is made as simple as we make it complex.

Love your wife with the love

Of Christ and keep this memory to the touch.

When asked how much He loved

He opened His arms on the cross and said, “This much”.

Do you love her?

Created from our rib,

To demonstrate she can support as well as protect

Our weaknesses and

Deepest emotions when life, like the tax man, comes to collect.

Created from our rib,

So, when you feel a stitch, you know it’s time to care.

A gentle hold

A little closer just so she knows you’re there.

Do you love her?

And is that love a love situational?

Where you don’t really

Give it all and keep it probational,

That ‘almost’ love.

Where you give all of most

And most of all but never just all.

That’s part-time effort,

Wanting full-time pay, a.k.a. Pride before the fall.

Do you love her?

You see, love earns love.

But it needs to occur between complete hearts

Because those broken and reserved

Can only give and receive from incomplete parts.

Which leads her love

To the point it is unsatisfied, unrequited

And the fact you can’t understand her tears

Is a reflection on you and your heart, divided.

Do you love her?

When you look into her eyes

And say I love you, is your heart complete?

Or is it that ‘almost’ love?

Because ‘almost’ means she’s not within reach.

Do you love her?

A Pondering on Women…

I wonder why it is that,

Some women work so hard to be chased

That they forget to flirt

With the idea of being caught and embraced.

I wonder why it is that,

There is such a need to fight against male reliance

That the lines become blurred

Between independence and defiance.

I dare say, I see a need

A need to realise it’s ok to be homely.

Because it’s easier than realising

You’re not independent, you’re lonely,

Before moving on to

Blame men for the choices you made

And handing an IOU to all men

That you feel has never been paid.

There are some women

Who will drop the cliché, “I’m different”.

So far removed

From other women. Just different!

But, in those ‘different’ eyes,

All men fall under the same umbrella,

Meaning that there’s no room for you

When life decides it’s time for stormy weather.

And another thing

Music and Hollywood don’t portray men.

They portray ideas that make money,

Money that makes them.

So men wonder why

There is love for R. Kelly while he pees on young girls

But divorce is an option

Because he sometimes fails to comment on curls.

Ladies, men aren’t perfect

And real men are always rough around the edges

But we shouldn’t have to storm

A beach in Normandy just to make our pledges

Because, eventually,

The chase stops and all that is left to see

Is a lonely, defiant rock,

Being eaten by life’s cold sea.

Of Unemployment

It’s somewhat strange that the very thing

That provides a life resource takes my life away.

Gives me money to buy presentations of life

While keeping the progression of my mind at bay.

I can feel the neurons of my brain beginning

To communicate like long lost friends,

Calling from distant ends of the same community,

Engaging in song on a march of progression

Like enemies that have come together

As one to make amends.

I now find myself investigating everything

That I don’t know and questions I can’t answer.

Book-facts, places visited and making plans

For future advancement.

It’s like going back to school

But in the old skool way.

I’m at liberty to investigate ideas and avenues,

Removed from mechanics and procedure of 9 – 5 days.

But, Alas!

It’s ironic that the thing that has given me life

Is temporary just as this life is.

I have responsibilities and I’m not a believer

In stealing another man’s taxes.

It’s somewhat daunting that, having had my fingers

Fly across my keyboard, in purposeful array,

To put thoughts of my own, this night, out into the ‘Cloud’,

Unemployment is drawing to a close just like the day.

The hunt continues for that papery substance,

That replaces the worth of  grey matter,

Presenting itself as digits on an ATM screen.

Light contained behind thick, scratched glass.

Defaced beauty?


I would face every situation like a cowboy

Attending a shootout at high noon.

Rehearsed in the third person, I considered

Myself studious in the craft of Chameleon.


I was told to

Face it with my Game Face on

But, as I reached down

To draw, the Game Face was gone.

It hadn’t disappeared

It was just mixed up with the others

So now, time for the quick draw,

It’s dead like the others.

Let Me Explain

Because this is no stand-up comedy.

I’m glad to have walked away from

The idea of being a wannabe.

The idea was presented to me

Of a Chameleon.

A constant changing of the faces so you

Never knew what I was really on.

I had a face for work

And, on Sundays, I would blow off the

Dust and put on my face for church.

A character of bland.

Hitting that point where even I

Considered myself to be tasteless

And every time I saw myself in the mirror,

I was like a vampire. Faceless.

No eyes. No I’s. So there’s no me in the mirror,

I never see myself.

Like a chameleon, always the colour

Of someone else

When the dream was to shine like a

Star on Orion’s Belt,

There I was. Some cheap

Paint to buy from Home Depot’s shelf.

I blocked the light inside so no one knew

That I was shady

And I put in continuous practice hours

For grime daily, in an empty hope that grime

Might pay me.

Instead, he turned and threw at me his

Thirty pieces of silver.

Quite possibly a piece for every personality

I was able to tap into.

A situational shape-shifter, shifting opinions

And character in attempts at acceptance

That became as hollow as me.

I said A situational shape-shifter, shifting opinions

And character in attempts at acceptance.

The Chameleon.

They reside among us as the proverbial

Wolves, draped in sheep’s wool, to cover the hollow

Characters they possess so they can fit in with

Their surroundings just like a chameleon.

Personality, borrowed.

Just not real, lacking content and direction.

Happy to watch life flutter by

While posing as Emperors,

Of the social butterfly.

I’m glad to have left that cocoon.

I never even realized until that moment.

A moment of Purple.

Purple is real, Purple is rare.

Royal, defined, soft and fair.

Moments of Purple are moments that

Have to be experienced to be understood.

Epiphanies. As though one has been gently

Led to gaze in the mirror where wonders would

Come alive in a reflection of perfection,

(Meaning a perfect reflection!)

Where there is a comfort within the humility

Of a fully exposed self-perception.

Purple. The moment of realization

And a standard I intend to make my own.

Singular in colour.

No longer a chameleon.

A Thought From Mike Brown…

You would think that my final thoughts would be

Those of anger. Hatred towards a man

That played judge, jury and God and stopped me

From having just one more day of Summer.

But the fact is, I just want what should be.

My thoughts aren’t of rioting and looting.

Just one of those of which I wish could be.

That’s to have just one more day of Summer.

Petrol bombs, never designed to resurrect,

Now light up a clear night sky, that’s star-lit

But not appreciated. Let me correct

What is fake friendship and false martyrdom.

‘Friends’ fight those who swore to ‘serve and protect’,

Using the title to just serve themselves.

No more fickle friends. Let me interject!

No anger. Just one more day of Summer.

‘Martyrdom’, used and abused by my ‘friends’.

The old friends of Trayvon, who have replaced

Hoodies with hands in the air, make amends

For forgetting about him so quickly.

Bandwagon jumpers, looking to find trends

To remind themselves of the last time they

Could rely on life lost. Reason that lends

Its own life. Oh! one more day of Summer!

Lives, taken by the squeezing of triggers

Causes outrage, based on pigmentation.

Ignorance all round, and many sniggers

At fake friends who have no idea of the

Pain we experienced, and it figures,

As the lives taken look on in sorrow

To see these part-time friends embrace as ‘niggers’.

Just ignorance on a day in Summer.

My death. Reduced to mere media hype.

Opportunities as celebrities

Only seek to be in media light.

My life is a race for information.

The business that makes the media right

To expose me in the name of ratings.

My death. Reduced to mere media hype.

I only want one more day of Summer.

Dying, with burning rounds in my chest,

I never knew that I could miss an August

Afternoon.  No thoughts of anger. Distressed

By thoughts of what I would miss most of all.

Quickly thinking before eternal rest.

Mama’s love, like gentle breeze through tall trees,

Supports final breaths in this final test.

That feeling of my last day of Summer.