Tank Man
Lad’s plastic bags against the tank,
in fits and starts, by few degrees,
direction change, avoiding crush,
unwieldy caterpillar cranks,
which he would morph to butterfly.
For he takes steps, shifts left then back,
to stop that mighty clank in tracks -
makes stand against that turret gun,
one student facing arm of fate,
the innocent and naïve boy,
with insight into what is right.
As massacre was state’s revenge,
denied that younger brave had died,
memorial, that such deprived.
It was humiliation’s turn,
power wielded ineffectively
before the world, its camera whirl.
The poly bags, his dance with death,
who brought the column to a halt,
in choreography of dare,
that held the stare of all the earth,
as carried what we’ll never know?
Some books, a loaf, a letter home -
new freedom’s food, a taste to come,
for little red, the thoughts of Mao?
That long Long March of many miles
seems less than paces near the Square;
for there that lad ‘a gangster’ blamed,
the lie of land, Tiananmen.
The unknown rebel, Tank Man named
that shook the world as captured, filmed.
What icons missed, the lens not there?
Just lad, those bags, but taking stand.
Jan - a protest martyr
I doubt you’ve ever heard of him,
mere footnote, nation’s history,
a martyr, cold war, distant past,
in black and white, even the flame,
but I was adolescent then.
Jan Palach, student, name burned soul,
self-immolation, Russian tanks,
and Dubček pale, a hook-nosed Czech,
with Breshnev, bear, so long ago,
but I was adolescent then.
Too, Father Popieluszko,
assassinated Polish priest,
or hooded, wired, Time magazine,
a cover story, different sort,
where were the adolescents then?
Perhaps you have your own parade
of greater age or nearer years;
or maybe you don’t have a care,
save I-phone, ap, or whales and green -
there are some adolescents here.
Amendments strewn across the floor,
with lobby this, lives matter there,
but first the Jews, then blacks, then gays,
and then there’ll be no voice for you,
though well past adolescence then.
Write a story or poem inspired by an unsent letter discovered in the pocket of a coat at a thrift store. Who wrote it, why was it never sent, and what secrets does it reveal?
Red
An overcoat just hanging there,
like spare part wear-rôle cast away;
I bought it, fabric, someone’s past,
not knowing owner passed indeed.
For note to Father scribbled there,
recording what he could not say,
despairing words he could not pray,
explaining why, where, when and why.
His Dad confessed to silenced priest,
but what confessed he dare not say -
that secrecy of box betray,
though cost continued, falling prey.
But now the teen would have his say
by giving broken body up;
that priest should know the wherefore, why,
the post too late to interrupt.
Enveloped, in the overcoat,
and chance, before the post-box site,
he crossed that junction, through the red,
before the trucker saw ahead.
The overcoat alone was spared.
First published Spillwords, June 2025
Honestly
A closet life until my wife,
the cloister monk, set single sex,
11+ Grammar, Boys of course,
until Advanced, then year off course.
Gap YM, see a hostel year -
females banned beyond the stair -
thence to Cambridge, male college days.
There were no femmes, fatale or not,
except my sisters - didn’t count.
No such peerless amongst my peers,
nor lip service when unscene seen.
Free love sixties, or flower power
were more of Nam, house rising sun.
I wasn’t there, that Woodstock gen -
for I was Shakespeare, Kubla Kahn,
and captivated Gerard Man.
What girl wants Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats,
which boy befriends the poet swot?
So hear, this nil return is mine,
for cannot write of what don’t know.
You think it strange, naivety?
I count it blessing, no disguise.
So take me, others, as we are,
Judaeo-Christian, sheltered lives,
primed by poets, and so thought strange,
but pride in age, creatively.
Fiction is not my métier;
so please forgive my honesty.
Another failure to conform;
I only take me as I am.
Sixties Child
Do you recall that naked girl,
she fleeing fires of village, Nam,
as napalm flames consumed her all,
for freedom named, the USA?
Or My Lai pillage, slaughter, rape,
by freedom fighters of wild west,
against that domino effect,
of reds agin the stars and stripes?
I see the copters, rising roof,
escape for those, green dollar proofed.
I know that torture, every side,
the table shape, how many sides -
but sixties teens quick to decide,
hypocrisy the vibe of all.
So Woodstock, Hendrix, flower power,
free love as drug, to scape that pall;
establishment had proved its power,
a weak and ineffective shower.
I’m thankful for May ’68,
revolting students, tower Eifel,
for all who marched, like I, against,
apartheid, Springbok rugby tour.
It was then good to be alive,
to wear those flowers in our hair,
or plant them, barrel of a gun.
You may ask, what did it achieve?
A stand ’gainst Agent Orange, for
that girl who’s fleeing napalm burn.
First published Fevers of the Mind, May 2025
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
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