a poem

I wake from sleep, more like a stupor when I think
of the wasted hours, like a dead sea
stretching time into an eternity, when I think…
that is the crux, the very marrow of it!

I sit and sit, waiting for it, deliveries or even mail
failing to feel the stir of a distant wind,
the doldrums have a hold beyond lack of movement,
at least for me, it is the stagnation of life,
job, home and all the distracting demands of it,

I read of men who just got up left never to come home again
as if they were aliens to our conformist race
I fear the fierceness of passion, trying to fashion my art
in some domestic context.

The doldrums are lifting, life is gifting me a reprieve
trust in the pilot, believe and let the journey
unfold as now I grow older and older, winter seems colder
when even to move feels like an imitation of youth
we measured life in cups and empty glasses
strewn on the dining room floor.

Chris
Adelaide August 2025