A poem
Some may say you wasted your days, wasted minutes and seconds
Months and years all wasted
Some may say things
to hurt
OK.
Then there are those I suppose who waste
the world, wantonly
malicious men
my time wasting, small sin perhaps cannot console
their all consuming greed.
Chris P
A poem
We remember when the world forgets
the details, remembers the fails
the flaws, drinking and the infidelity.
Myth making in the islands where myth
was born, waves lap, typewriters
click and clack.
He was on my curriculum, she was a
footnote, a suicide
“Tragic waste” or was it cruelty?
rushing in to
fill the void where love had grown
once,
Picture them travelling to the island
sea spray
salted their lips ready to kiss,
eager to start
somewhere both ancient and new.
I do not know them, nor do you,
all we have
are words hung out like sponges
in the harbour of Kalymnos.
Chris P 2025.
for John
A poem
I can hear, if these suburban sounds abate, voices lost on the wind
swirling, whirling around my straining ears, sincere and soulful
calling out to me.
I write wistfully to honour the possibility of a world I cannot see
where all those who loved, laughed and lost are tossed on waves
of the endless air.
I don’t know if I craftily conjure these whispered entreaties
as I sip my morning coffee, mystery has its’ allure, I’m sure
if they see me then they would cry.
I sit and drink on in that reverie, knowledge seems so uncertain,
shadows of life and death a thin lace curtain blowing in the wind
like my room welcomes cool air after heat.
If we meet dear friend in that evening light, we may pass by silently
caught up in thought, unaware of how close our life strands are
seeking to connect, always connect.
Chris Papps
Glanville 2025
A poem
Everyone has a story in them
you just have to get it out, oh Lord oh Lord
poetry is irrelevent, do something
useful, why don’t you!
if your lost go find yourself, Oh oh oh
divine energy fill me please…
Why wasn’t I gifted? I grifted, drifted shoplifted
my inspirations from many nations
many stations I chose to stay on the train
daydreaming, Oh lord
if you want to write, get a cat and grab a coffee
that’s all writers need!
get up to speed, slow down and try harder
take a day off, it will flow, if you let go
don’t lose sight of your goals, you’re too focused
my god these locusts!
they plague me, oh Lord send me a balm
my arm is itching…
If you buy these books they contain the pearls
that were his eyes, the lies
we tell ourselves, poets can make it real
they cannot be trusted, I would follow him
follow her, for the words, Oh Lord
is the water warm enough in heavens ponds
I am shy, I show off in crowds
quiet and then loud, sends me some harmony!
we all have a story in us….
Send me rain Lord, I am barren, dry and unfecund
my roots die, curling around the earth
at our birth is our death
first and final
breath.
Chris 2025
A poem
When I am lost
I ride from Bergen to Oslo
snow, sleet
tunnels, all on my screen
(I’ve never been there)
It helps
train tracks feel secure
they know
where they are going
I like to feel
transported.
Chris
A poem
I often wonder
what does it mean
to be truly human?
my friend says
we are part of
something significantly
greater,
I walked my street
yesterday
all the houses, cars
but no souls
sighted, at work perhaps?
or inside
musing on what it means
to be human.
Chris 2025
A poem
Ancient Romans found use for this grey volcanic ash
the mixing, meticulously mending, never-ending
uses for this fine powdery dust,
We make canyons of from it, our pavements our feet
pounding on concrete, like my heart cracked
in crazy eccentricities, but patched up and held together,
I am deemed serviceable, functional.
Walking these streets often, pavements can testify
trees might notice me passing by birds’ flitter flutter away
dogs bark, I skip half a beat in surprise,
my eyes on the cold callous concrete at my feet.
Rome preferred a more ornamental path a mosaic
even a bare earth path beaten smooth by multitudes
here it is denser, more immense yet my street
my living street is quiet as the graves of the long passed,
we have withdrawn into the dark of the modern,
plenty filled, glutted and impotent to stir, concrete will suffice
for the dull soul rushing again, late for the train.
Chris P
A poem
I have many books unread
on my shelves,
What is wrong with me?
Chris
A poem
A heavy coat
stifling
lead lined pockets
shoulders
groaning
no rest from the weight,
An old thing…
Ancient hates
mixed with the missed
opportunities
to be
a good man…
Ancient as resentment
the neighbour
was there
you pretended not to see
to avoid
conversation,
guilt adds another layer
unmoved
by your hollow prayers,
At dinner
last night you didn’t fight
the racist
let it slide
something inside dies
with each lapse,
Made an excuse
skipped
the dinner party
to watch
some crap on TV
then
Guilt descends, no chance
to make amends,
faint amens
fail to resonate,
A heavy thing
burden
rue the day, rue the day
it went away
when you were drunk
found its way
homing pigeon guilt,
I spilt
the beans
when I die, these chains
these chains
so heavy
so
so heavy
so
heavy.
Chris 2025
A poem
Because I want it so badly
it will be denied
because the talent dried
I died a little inside,
because elements conspired
every day I feel tired,
because my faith was brittle
my God expired.
Seeking but never knowing
not sure where or why
I was going,
because I lacked
the courage
or the virtues of my kind,
that is why
because, because and because
the tired explanations
worn out words
fail to grasp the retreating tide
or fill the emptiness
deep inside,
Because.
Chris 2025
Chris' Poetry 