Alan Bruce Thompson Poems

The world began with me, there was nothing before,
History what's that? Your past is a bore.

What's here is here, before it was simply not there,
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Diplomacy I know is something I should find,
Because people don’t like it when I simply speak my mind.

I find it quite dishonest not to speak the truth,
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The Euphoria of Cloud Nine without a sound,
In love, floating weightless above the ground.

Entwined, uplifted, spirally upwards swirled,
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She stood there pouting, adopting a film star pose,
As her curvaceous virile body, pushed shape into her clothes.

She perched on her stiletto heels, threw back her blond hair,
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The thoughts go continuously around in my head,
I listen too carefully, to distinguish what is said.

I follow each idea, around and around,
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It's a bit rusty at the edge, falling apart at the seams,
Its times are past, its hopes, its dreams.

From inside our glass house, its easy to scorn the past,
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I always say 'Yes', can never say 'No',
Swallow all hurt, let no feelings show.

He insulted me badly, called me the 'Son of a Bore'
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If you look another person in the eyes and they look away,
Then your soul is free to look another day.

Don’t look a dog in his eyes, because you’ll never be free,
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I hear your voice sometimes now,
It's in the wind when it blows right through.

I hear your voice daily now,
There's no mistaking that sound quite true.
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In the time of the almighty Moors
Granada had open windows, open doors.

Together were the crescents, stars and crosses,
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