In The Protectorate Of The White Adult

The soldier wears his face
Expressionless; his body
The unimpassioned tool
Of a government, his self
Hidden deep, but watching
Immobile, as the rolling news
Archives refugees in their movement.

White faces wear white masks
While the multitude are naked.
If you could see the lips speak
Behind the West’s veil,
You’d hear these words:
We don’t want your disease

Or your brown, unwashed skin
Unless sanitised in servitude:
A cocktail offered by a waiter
On a faraway beach –
Given to the money flushed king,
Sweating in the midday heat.

Don’t you know:
Migration is a one way valve
And impoverishment a birthright.
Remain in your grubby seat
For you are the brown child
In the white adult’s protectorate.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Migrant Crisis

For fifty years
The shining west
Broadcast the abundant dream
In films and on TV sets,
Sold their gloss of golden
Paving and streets opportune,
Livelihoods so plentifully clean:
Advertising the job lot
To the chink in the human heart
Where wishing spills out
From wanting’s germinated seed.

And now all the world desires
A piece of the unreal dream
And comes, unstoppable,
In tide of need’s imbalance.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Point Of View

The sum
Of all that you are:
Your loves,
Your hurts,
Your truths, beliefs, perceptions,
All that you have learned.
Your dreams,
Your feelings,
Your heart,
And all the spanned divides.

Remember
There is no argument:
Another’s point of view
Is an equation
Unknowable as a distant star,
With strands of reason and belief
Meshed and matted
As the synapse brain
Is thus complexly wired.

There is no argument
For personal right
Is derived from what arrives
To the matter of the mind,
And in that
We are all paradoxically different
Yet siblings side by side.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.