This is not a clenched fist
On the end of my clunky wrist.
The grip is here
Tight on this pencil,
On the wit
On the page.
There is also a grasp,
Where there is a wider understanding.
The Universe will wend it way
Regardless of the risky philosophy
There is no unattended intention
Other than an attempt at trans-fiction.
Whether this becomes a description
Of hope or a wound
These words will remain worldly.
They are of the here and now.
And I signal my thoughts
With transcendental grace,
By an unheard of gift.
I am in grief
At the repeating pattern of life.
As I change my witness
On a whim or the wind,
Like I change my mind.
This algorithm is a challenge to faith,
This is how I write,
Though not even I
Can tell why.
©2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.
These assertions are not by way of anger.
The grip is on the tool of the scribe.
It is not a fist of fury.
Neither is the fist of an angry young person.
It is a grip on thought and the media of transmission.
It is about understanding a message.
A message which regardless any
such worth or merit will have no impact
of the doings of time and space.
It is an attempt at a description of truths,
indeed all poetry is.
Buckland Brewer, Devon. England 30/10/19