Alan Bruce Thompson Poems

It was myself I saw sitting there,
As I looked down at the sitter motionless in a chair.
I looked tired with a face full of care,
My eyes look lost, with a lifeless stare,
...

Certainly not a holy man, definitely not a saint,
Maybe just a writer wishing he could paint.

Waiting for the idea to gel, going around the thought,
...

Around the corner and up into the air,
I pull myself upwards faster than climbing the stair.

Sometimes I blow gently, down the book, across the page,
...

Even Albert had to work in an office,
The genius Einstein needed to show some service.

The ideas for relativity came in between,
...

Just glimpse the black stockings climbing the stairs,
The type that wanton men want to have in their affairs.

Balanced atop each mincing heel,
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Wellness and luxury are my privileged right,
To bathe in oils and be perfumed each night.

I deserve continuous loving care,
...

The souls are not lost when they sail through the air,
They circle endlessly till Halloween comes once a year.
The ghouls, the ghosts, the spirits, the skulls without hair,
Come to their annual meeting at the end of October.
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The joints are stiffer, I arch my back,
The tummy is flabby, the muscles are slack.

My bones are fragile, my skin is not soft anymore,
...

I told an untruth, a little white lie,
Now it’s blown out of proportion, a mountain high.

The first lie was really nothing, just avoiding the question,
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I can get what I want if I stamp my feet,
If I make enough noise, I get what I want to eat,
Exactly what I want, very colourful, very sweet.
...