Mother's Earth

In the dead of night she births a son.

Prays he won’t do evil unto one.

The product of her body’s nurture,

Will his innocence go further

Than his juvenile days,
Or will he take his father’s ways?

Even when she was racked with violence

Her body betrayed her fight for sense.

From such an act of violation

Her womb converted to creation.

Gendered roles, for when men take,

A woman can still make.

If desecration is the prerogative of he.

Earth’s blessing is pure. It is she.

For Whoever...Whenever

wow....just shocked myself looking at some of my old poetry.
All I can say is that since writing it, I have been truly blessed.





To the one.
Wherever you are now hun.
To my saving grace
To one who’ll look behind my gaze.

To the one.
Here’s to sun
Blazing down where we both had rain.
Love demolishing both our pain.

To the two.
You know that’s me and you.
Standing tall together
Strengths combined forever.

For the two.
Hold tight through
The down before the rise
Holding sanity in each others eyes.

For us both.
Past lessons causing growth.
Life before not regretted
But most certainly now much bettered.

For us both.
This time a certain oath.
Not born from youths naivety
Experienced hearts are speaking freely.

For two souls
Combined til old.
Never judging.
Forever loving.


For two souls
Fully whole.
No matter what strife is waiting
Locked together no hardship we’re taking.

So how will I know when I meet
The one who’s gonna make me complete?
Is it someone I already know
That out of friendship things will grow?
Or someone round the corner waiting
That I can only dream of dating?

I’m cool just knowing for the first time in my life I’m worthy.
If she plays ball, I’ll wear her jersey.
If she writes poetry
I’ll know her next line before she.
If she sings to me
My mind will hear every harmony.
An entrepreneur
I’m gonna love her.
On the dole
I’ll make her whole.
A single mother
I’ll be a father.


Yeah….there’s things to do before I reach you
But know my heart can’t wait to greet you.
Been pained too long to deny I meet you
Responsibilities in my life to introduce to you.

So be cool with things in my welcome pack,
A few things from years living on my back.
But know when you accept all and everything about me.
My love, trust and faith in you will surround you completely.

My personality is what you see.
My emancipated soul runs free,
You see it in my poetry,
A man who learned to love he.

From no stronger position can I offer you
Love in its most complete form….true.

Cuts

Funding cuts but whose excesses?

I still see a nation that oppresses.

Before government dictates a cure

I’d like to know for sure

Who took the credit?

Did the poor debit

The rich?

Did we wish

For bankers, war mongers and politicians

To steal futures from children?

So many questions unanswerable,

So many with power unaccountable.

A war that can’t be justified,

Civilians die, I’m mystified

That we can’t see ourselves as a foreign invader.

The cross of St George: from Crusaders

To football fans to zealous patriots,

But it’s the same flag that was waved a lot

In not forgotten Christian onslaughts

From times that school history taught

Richard the Lion heart’s hero tales,

(That’s the same education that paled

Slavery to insignificance).

And where is Jesus’ relevance

To fighting violently in His honour?

Would He have held sword or dagger,

Assault rifle or sat amongst sandbags

Behind a mighty machine gun?

(As seen by Prince Harry and David Beckham).

We make boys to men from PS3’s

To the same games with killing machinery.

This blood for oil reaches

Far. Ejaculating onto Louisiana’s beaches,

Polluting lives in West Africa,

Choking a planet we should nurture.

And still I wonder.

Who controls this agenda?

She runs

She runs…

An escape to who she is.

A zone that gives

Her time to be

The beauty she is, set free.

Solitary in the moment,

Measured in miles and minutes spent,

Her pace is hers to set.

Stress she forgets.

A life spent selfless

Receives wealth blessed

In what others would perceive as pain.

For her, body and mind gains.

This freedom in her soul,

A catalyst so powerful

It pulled me like a magnet…

Before she ever laced up her Asics.

Slotography

A collection of my photography can be seen here

Anxiety

ANXIETY

A stone of worry drops into a lake of anxiety.

A circle of over thinking ripples across the mind

Until calm descends on troubled water

And you find your true self once more.

This reservoir is not of our own making,

As we are how we were made.

Best not to throw negative pebbles in the first place,

See the good, not the bad

Potential in situations,

And create tsunamis from hurling positive rocks.

Bloody Liberals

1st draft of a piece.....

Let’s here it for the non-racist liberal.

Who doesn’t see colour, cos everyone is equal.

Let’s thank them for their love for all

And compassion that they expect gratitude for.

Stop. Let me burst their bubble.

Saying they don’t see colour denies the root of trouble.

The harm is not only in the feelings that they hide,

But also in what they don’t know of their inside.

White only labels others.

Forgetting it’s just another colour.

An unwritten rule of self-superiority reigns

In side the minds of western brains.

So much goes on within these heads,

Fronted with blind eyes that can’t see the dead

Lining streets paved with the gold,

Minerals and people that they stole.

To learn to speak the truth for themselves

They have to understand that just as meat on shelves

In plastic packaging was killed for them in abbatoirs,

So the profits in their pockets came from lands afar.

But there is no comprehension of this.

As British liberal newspapers dis

France for crimes against Haiti,

It’s like they’re forgetting what made Britain mighty.

Do I have to point on a map of countries?

Not of carved up nation state legacies

From the scramble for a continent.

I’m meaning like Ashante and Yoruba before Christian settlement.

Before they were forced to meet Carib and Arawak

On islands cultivated in blood from lashed backs.

Registers held in Christian parishes

That in Britain dealt with births, deaths and marriages,

But here in a hell in the name of the Almighty,

Languages and names changed to roll more lightly

Off European tongues.

Stand among

The market in towns like St. George

And cast minds back to auction blocks before.

West African forts hold the evidence required

To smack the face of English history denied.

Power gained through conquering,

Turns to peace through assimilation.

Nurnberg hauled German crimes in front of nations,

And until we seriously discuss reparation

Leopard Britain can never change its spots.

They don’t want truth, they want it forgot.

Liberals who claim equality and colour blindness

Are forgetting that their privileges aren’t blessed

But cursed with the souls of many.

Count Britains wealth, every blooded penny.

Quaking

Aid sits on tarmac inside gates.
Haitian children left to their own fate.
Fear of violence is crippling,
But it’s just the minds of white people tripping.
Their stereotype of savagery
Is exacerbating this tragedy.
Soldiers who would risk lives fighting Muslims
Are being ordered to worry about their own skin.
Where is their warrior code that once said,
You have nothing to fear but fear itself.
Every second in crumbled cavities
A life extinguishes to neglect’s gravity.
Beds fill hospital corridors and yards,
Mattresses made of pieces of card.
Medicine, bandages and tape
Cures nothing while sitting in a crate.
Pictures filling TV screens.
Our luxury is we can switch off the screams.
Scaremongering preventing the release
Of the very things that will keep the peace.
This time donating is not enough,
We gotta give and make a fuss.
Hound the politicians and every agency.
And fight for the people of Haiti.

Haiti Earthquake, emergency appeal

Before you read my poetry, please consider making a donation to the people of Haiti.
click here to donate

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Thank you.

Peace and respect.
Slo/Rob

Eyes Wide Shut

It’s timely (forever),
She reminds me (together)
How special she is.
Not through physical bliss,
For she’s deep (my Queen)
In sleep (she dreams).
Eyes shut, yet their beauty
Still rifles through me.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

I am the love for Golliw**s
Churchill’s cigar and British bulldogs.
My definitions of multi-culture you know,
Are entwined with the Black and White Minstrel Show.
I am the recollection of a Britain that was Great,
That described those unlike us as looking like apes.
Shops selling books that sow
Seeds in images like Tintin in the Congo.
I proclaim God’s blessing with right and privilege.
My nations morality hedged
Between good and evil’s worth…
Just check the Codrington plantations connection to the English Church.
The word Society branded into dark skin,
Yet still I’m the one who wants to define racism.
I am the love of all things past.
Oh how the world changes much too fast.
There was a time we took from all.
Now minds hark back to before the Empires fall,
To glories that still infuse our psyche.
Our minds twisted by what made us mighty.
Give us this day our daily bread
And sugar in tea from West African dead.
Let’s mock the image in Robinson’s jam,
And stereotype crimes into racial bands.
The police can search 8 times more likely,
Those we think don’t belong in Blighty.
Political correctness gone mad in the media.
Check the print and the lies I feed you.
White bankers pass the buck on a recession,
To the familiar tune of the immigration question.
And if someone says I’ve got racist trends,
I’ll simply reply that I’ve got black friends.
In times of crisis, or even plenty,
I’m Nostalgia.....the blood on British society.

Mineral (mine-her-all)

Leopold’s ghost still resides
In chips and sims which hide
Within mobile phones
Made from the bones
Of Congolese men
And raped women.
Minerals mined
To pleasure western minds
With material treasures
Hark bark to Belgian pleasures.
Lost hands from children line forest floors
If not enough rubber poured
Into the casts of tyres.
Hear mothers cry
As every European advance in technology
Still comes at the cost of African solidarity.
The bomb that made Hiroshima boil
Came from Uranium beneath Congo’s soil.
Millions dying at the hands of Belgium
The invasion of whom started World War One.
Britain aligned once more with evil.
And this just the prequel
To humanitarian disaster
That saw the West throw love after
The gorilla’s plight. But we missed
The fate of the humans in the midst.
Power on your cell phone, but enter
A start up message that maybe I should text ya,
With love
Blood
And tears,
From Congo for all these years.

SAY NO GO

this poem deals with sexual violence, following Channel 4's Dispatches TV programme last night "Rape in the City", which has been on my mind all day.

so please do not continue if you may find this upsetting.

SAY NO GO

Can’t say no.
Can’t say go.
Relentless pressure applied to a soul,
Viewed only as having three accessible holes.
Something so British about an orderly queue,
Waiting patiently in line to penetrate youth.
Boys so weak that they’re thinking they’re strong.
If their mother or sister, would they then see it wrong?
At maturity they’ll claim to be reformed men,
But the girl will see their faces again and again.
Muffled tears rain on concrete steps,
Blood laced briefs that were once best kept.
Tricked from friendship and circles of trust
To satisfy growing urges of adolescent lust,
A code of silence and mistrust of the police,
So no deterrent to ejaculated release.
A princess viewed as flesh and a slut,
Like a special topping ordered from PizzaHut.
Is it girls or themselves that the boys most hate?
Ask them… they don’t even see it as rape.




http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/articles/rape-in-the-city

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/catch-up#2925408

My Write

Some wonder at my style of writing,
Passionate and full of fighting,
They choose to leave my issues be,
And not talk of betterment and equality…
I respect their desire to leave my subjects
Alone, and deal with life’s sweet objects
At home. I’ll not comment on others reality,
Except for those as pale as me.
I have the right,
To judge the wrong in white.

Mother land

on the premise that all of humanity is descended from East Africans...


Many years ago
My African ancestors strolled
From the mother land.
A band
Of men, women and children
Whose looks over time and descendents
Paled to cope with cold. And as we weathered,
My people became coloured.
We settled many places
And became many shades of white races.
Our character carried this pioneer spirit that didn’t recognise
The rights of others. We named this trait “civilised”.
Our link to nature lost,
We invented religion at the cost
Of forgetting the earth
Is bound in spiritual worth
With She, our ancestral Queen, the Great Mystery.
Instead, we worshipped ourselves and called our faith His-story.
We proclaimed a God in our own image
And invented in Him our desire for rage.
Ignoring His son’s life of Peace. Without shame
We bestowed gifts upon ourselves in His name.
Gifts of green, but not of nature.
Instead the colour of ink on white-like-us-paper.
Our beliefs in God, ourselves and greed
Were able to justify that others should bleed.
Journeys began across land and sea.
Found old places and called it “discovery”.
Indigenous peoples viewed as a different class,
Yet we hadn’t recognised ourselves from our past.
What should have been a family reunion
Instead became butchery after Sunday communion.
Ships that should have united all in ancestry
Stole kin from lands and transported them to slavery.
Spread Christian beliefs across African nations,
A Caucasian Jesus inventing racial discrimination.
Beauty took form in what was white and European.
De-beautified Queens raped among sugar cane in the Caribbean.
Isolated a people that rose and beat us
So that now we even bus
White tourists onto Haitian segregated sands
Denying distant relatives the riches of their lands,
As the wealthy bathe away from poor,
More Africans hit with an apartheid law.
We created empires that butchered a family,
Then called it a Commonwealth in the name of equality,
But to member states I’m humbly suggesting,
It’s like a child staying with the father who molested him.
Wind back our evolution to the start of the tree.
Truth of the matter would f*ck up the BNP.
From Africa our ancestors were born,
And now, as white, we pass scorn
Over brothers and sisters we don’t view as equal.
When we left our Mother, we were infested with evil.