Alan Bruce Thompson

Alan Bruce Thompson Poems

The world began with me, there was nothing before,
History what's that? Your past is a bore.

What's here is here, before it was simply not there,

Diplomacy I know is something I should find,
Because people don’t like it when I simply speak my mind.

I find it quite dishonest not to speak the truth,

The Euphoria of Cloud Nine without a sound,
In love, floating weightless above the ground.

Entwined, uplifted, spirally upwards swirled,

She stood there pouting, adopting a film star pose,
As her curvaceous virile body, pushed shape into her clothes.

She perched on her stiletto heels, threw back her blond hair,

The thoughts go continuously around in my head,
I listen too carefully, to distinguish what is said.

I follow each idea, around and around,

It's a bit rusty at the edge, falling apart at the seams,
Its times are past, its hopes, its dreams.

From inside our glass house, its easy to scorn the past,

If you look another person in the eyes and they look away,
Then your soul is free to look another day.

Don’t look a dog in his eyes, because you’ll never be free,

I hear your voice sometimes now,
It's in the wind when it blows right through.

I hear your voice daily now,
There's no mistaking that sound quite true.

In the time of the almighty Moors
Granada had open windows, open doors.

Together were the crescents, stars and crosses,

Is it possible with just words to conjure up a smell,
Do the words ‘burning flesh" remind you of Hell?

And the mere mention of the breath of a lady's perfume,

Certainly not a holy man, definitely not a saint,
Maybe just a writer wishing he could paint.

Waiting for the idea to gel, going around the thought,

It was myself I saw sitting there,
As I looked down at the sitter motionless in a chair.
I looked tired with a face full of care,
My eyes look lost, with a lifeless stare,

Around the corner and up into the air,
I pull myself upwards faster than climbing the stair.

Sometimes I blow gently, down the book, across the page,

Even Albert had to work in an office,
The genius Einstein needed to show some service.

The ideas for relativity came in between,

Just glimpse the black stockings climbing the stairs,
The type that wanton men want to have in their affairs.

Balanced atop each mincing heel,

Wellness and luxury are my privileged right,
To bathe in oils and be perfumed each night.

I deserve continuous loving care,

The souls are not lost when they sail through the air,
They circle endlessly till Halloween comes once a year.
The ghouls, the ghosts, the spirits, the skulls without hair,
Come to their annual meeting at the end of October.

The joints are stiffer, I arch my back,
The tummy is flabby, the muscles are slack.

My bones are fragile, my skin is not soft anymore,

I told an untruth, a little white lie,
Now it’s blown out of proportion, a mountain high.

The first lie was really nothing, just avoiding the question,

I can get what I want if I stamp my feet,
If I make enough noise, I get what I want to eat,
Exactly what I want, very colourful, very sweet.

Alan Bruce Thompson Biography

This anthology of simple poems about daily life, I have called ' OUT OF MY MIND' Alan Bruce Thompson lives in Zurich, Switzerland with Elisabeth Thompson Huerner. Alan trained as a geologist and has spent more than 40 years as a professor and researcher. He is a passionate traveler with interests in world culture, world art, and the development of society. He is now able to devote more time to his other interests including painting and drawing, and writing fiction. Comments about his poetry on this website can be made to, some of his paintings can be seen at https: //

The Best Poem Of Alan Bruce Thompson

Free Market Economy

The world began with me, there was nothing before,
History what's that? Your past is a bore.

What's here is here, before it was simply not there,
Whether it took millennia to develop, I simply don't care.

It's all for me to steal, to take, to sell,
If you object, you will be sent to hell.

The oil, the water and even the air,
Is for me to consume and to make profit my share.

Who cares if it's all gone when I am old,
There is nothing left, it's all been sold.

There was nothing before me, an empty world,
It was mine to abuse, and I have the gold.

To slow down, to ration, to conserve the supply,
You would need to start now before we all die.

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