S Reeson

The one, Red Block

dust settles, over carnage, as a protagonist
weeps, without a sound, just the water:
tears the size of petit-pois, pooling
round their ankles, barefoot yet bound
every contradiction of an unsound mind
twenty six seconds before, all of this
glorious block puzzle, memories of green
stacked in threes, built in opposition
piled so that this time it was impossible
to bring the structure down, is toast, as
Critical finds one, red block, tugging
pushing, forcing fucker out, because
why should they be allowed to live in peace
have, eat nice things or even just exist when
no-one else must build as well as them

every time they hide a block, somebody
comes with roasts and ignorance before
attempt is made to feed them to the mob
all they want, quiet moments of aplomb
not idiots to stand, abuse, then bomb
bored now, Critical pockets the block
walks away, and so begins a tower's slow, 
considered reconstruction, hoping as the fight
is one meal lighter it might stay, remain
intact with calm… or simply left alone

…and you are…?

Sometimes, lucky draw, protagonist
first up, whilst everyone’s still sober
might pay some attention to your cause:

except, of course, the folk they’d like
to notice are still there, propping up the bar,
waiting for their mate, the headliner.

The silence in this Zoom room chat
so deafening, it is time to check
making sure connection has not dropped:

perhaps it was stupendously amazing
that clearly is the reason no-one ‘spoke’,
whole room summarily stunned into shock.

In time, every performance becomes test
less about what they consider fine
and more around exhaling validation:

other poets smile, assure it’s coming
that moment soon to celebrate and shine;
protagonist waits, still, without a rhyme.

And So It Goes

considered rude because
of a refusal to
engage within the rules

when those were made
by her own kind
and none of them provide

opportunity to stack a deck
in any manner but to benefit

those who made the cards

and so it goes

every moment where a pattern

shows even the faintest

TERF will call me rude because
of the acceptance that
nothing here must aggravate

already Different situation
or else
all hands are lost

and so it went

as the bank was broken

my punctuation

was the first thing spent
S Reeson is 55 and a multi-disciplined artist, who has suffered with anxiety and depression since childhood. They increasingly produce videos of their work for dissemination via YouTube.

Their poetry has been published by The Poetry Society, Bloomsbury/One World, Flapjack Press, Dreich and Forest Arts plus many online indie journals, and they perform regularly in both virtual and IRL Open Mics.

@InternetofWords on Twitter

Flights, Issue Six, September 2022