Call and Response

 

If it was your son,

you’d want to know why.

Wouldn't you?

What was on his mind?

Could it be predicted?  

If he became the source of a statistic often quoted,

I think you’d want to know.

 

Or would you veer away?

Never ask yourself why

he reacted in that way.

Was it deliberate?

A choice?

Did you raise your voice too often

in his formative years,

or not enough?

 

Nature versus nurture?

You’re pretty sure he never saw

or heard the times it happened

in the old house.

As a child, he was meek, mild,

manners of a saint,

would cry at silly things

and have to be reminded

to be brave.

Mummy’s little soldier,

blow your nose and wipe your face.

 

Course it all changes

when they’re teenagers.

They’re out on the streets

becoming men,

using history and face

to kick and shape their interactions.

Is violence genetic?

The grim repetition, rolling over screens,

replacing days, names, places

of a breath’s last end

makes me want to question everything.

 

So what is it to be?

Why are we not shouting?

No petitions or campaigns?

Shall we all stay wrapped in apathy,

scrolling past the two women every week,

the highest peak of knife crime since 1946?

Did we not die enough in WW1 or WW2?

Do we continue down this path with no official explanation

for the timebomb that humanity’s become?

 

Is it up to us to call

or should they just respond?

 

Napowrimo 2019

◄ Recipe for Change

Once Upon a Time ►

Comments

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Trevor Alexander

Thu 4th Apr 2019 20:41

A valid question Laura. Well done.

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Laura Taylor

Wed 3rd Apr 2019 13:28

Heh 😃 Cheers Stu - am only on here for the month and then off again!

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Stu Buck

Tue 2nd Apr 2019 16:16

aprils my favourite month as i get to read your poetry

i'm as guilty as anyone of being wrapped in apathy

great to see you on here la!

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Laura Taylor

Tue 2nd Apr 2019 12:40

Day 2 of Napowrimo 2019.

http://www.napowrimo.net/

Today's prompt: write a poem that resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

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