Poems For Bob

Bob Moran has been a refreshing beacon of light these past few years. Fired from The Telegraph for doing his job as a political cartoonist, his artworks seem to have reached people in a way that conversations, protests and other means of resistance haven’t quite managed.

He’s still going strong even now. And while so many of his pieces offer brilliantly scathing satire of the manipulative agendas at play in the world landscape, some of my favourite pieces have been those that offer a vision of hope amidst the darkness. For my poems this week, I’ve picked three of those pieces that have resonated profoundly with me and used each of them as the inspiration for a poem.

He has plenty of other pieces that I could have easily picked, so if there are any poets reading this who fancy their hand at doing the same, I’d love to see the results in the comments below.

Without further ado, here are the ones I have chosen.

The People You Love

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedNow we're old and grey from awakening,
Nodding at the pyre of the old world,
Partly reminiscent of how it twirled
When deep shadows kept our eyes from seeing.

Despite all we did to share our glad grace,
How many scorned our attempt to find truth!
Our pilgrim souls who remembered our youth
Reminded us to never lose this place.

The woodburner splutters. We don't lose sight
When stomachs of others flutter with dread.
Planting our flag on the mountain instead,
For love, we won't give up our starry night.

Mama

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedYou messed with the wrong mama bear.

Thought you would make a rug? You dare!
You messed with the wrong mama bear.

You cannot shackle paws and claws
Needed for her little one's care.
You messed with the wrong mama bear.

You thought you could run this circus?
The joke's on you; you have summoned
A mother's brunt you cannot bare.
You messed with the wrong mama bear.

Changing Channels

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHe always found the thing peculiar;
The ancient portal-box of rust, shattered.

Evil intentions, it used to transmit,
And demons would make their nightmares come real.
Mother would speak of ringwraiths narrating,
Their chants unlocking Solomon's Seal.
The Hell-envision, she'd always call it.
Fake heroes with kerosene gaslighting
Helped tortured spirits project out their doom,
Encouraging everyone to submit.
For the true angels who lit up the gloom,
How must it have sounded, all the wailing?

Distracted by an insect at his ear,
Fearless, he watches a chirping bird.

Thank you Bob for your artistic service to humanity, and thank you, dear reader, for making time to be with these pieces. If they resonated with you, please consider sharing them with someone else who may benefit from reading them.

With gratitude,

Tom

More Like This

The Painter's Song

This piece is a “song” after all, so here’s a rough demo I put together while visiting family in the UK. Listen along as you read, if you wish:

Tom ShawTom Shaw

The Revolution Was Already Televised

Tom ShawTom Shaw

Pity The Newsprint

Tom ShawTom Shaw