A poem of longing
Oh wind,
turn south
for me
whisper words to
soothe
or prove
my senses are correct,
We advise,
or direct
walk past grace
blithely
we are unwilling..
I am leaking
like a
sieve
holding
no living water
Oh wind, turn to me
kiss my brow
attentively
as limbs
on aged trees
sway so peacefully.
#poetry
Chris
2025
A strange encounter
I met myself for coffee today, though at first we didn’t have much to say!
Pleasantries and weather chat, complementary about our choice of hat, we felt the moment slipping away so we both had to say it once and for all,
We love you, each other, closer than a brother, my twin perhaps? with no difference in the genes or DNA we say goodbye in better shape, agree to see other people if we must but coffee with myself is still a viable option,
Others may have noticed my solitary conversation but I am beyond salvation from the approval of the crowd, if allowed I would shun my fellow man, but I reminded myself to stay engaged so that tiny rivulets of reality can still flow.
I met myself for coffee today, it was a start some would say of something more serious or some would just sigh to see a grown man talking with himself.
Chris
2025
A poem
What lies within the heart of a human? I only see the red or the blue,
Beat on heart while callous crowds gather convinced of their truths,
What lies beneath righteous rhetoric? I only hear the cry of me, me, me
I look into my pond some days and see it grows less clear, murkier as if the air itself is saturated with sin..
Human hearts beat regardless of the worth of the vessel, or the deeds done with a treacherous hand held to the chest, proclaiming we are the best, truth is ours alone.
What does it mean to be human? If I could guess it may be better to act it out rather than stare at the sun.
What lies in my human heart? That is where poetry starts.
Chris
2025
A poem
The omnipresent one Temu appears ordering me to purchase an outboard motor cover, I pause heretic as I am to dare question the plan.
I don’t have an outboard motor, yet now I feel less than I did before the voice of Temu spoke through its oracle Lord Instagram.
The pantheon never pauses, it watches us all day, a vigil to remind us to spend spend spend and appease the algorithms, just browsing no longer available to Google or Shopify they know I need a different device to make me feel nice?
Oh what strange Gods we have today! they accept After pay never take a day off and see more clearly our innermost thoughts and needs (available in most colours and varying speeds).
Temu I must defy you the outboard motor must remain a dream, I can only dream of when I’m on the sea again.
Forgive me my sins, and my predictable pins and you know I’m a devoted follower of fashion, food and technology that’s modern theology.
Chris
2025
Poem for patience
Trams on Nicholson street
traffics swirling sounds, I’m bound
to their mad wheels
I want to heal
I can’t write today..
My malaise is bound to my DNA
have you tried to pray?
Not anymore, the silence stilled me
God was on hiatus..
I felt the veins in my neck beat
in that oven heat
my feet tired from treading asphalt
No
I can’t write today
will my window open wider to wisdom?
Oh who are we to even think
my weak words sink
Pebbles in a crowded pond
I am beyond..
No, I can’t write today.
Chris
Melbourne 2025
A poem
Each day that ledge looms large
chasms cruel mouth
ready for my slightest lapse in concentration
waiting in certitude for my fall
the one I dread,
She said it was stress and anxiety
that stole my proprietry
my equilibrium another delusion
confusion of a child’s fear
Is it near?
It must be close
I’ve had more than most people I knew
those who had so much
only to fall so fast
dizzy descent into the inert
cold dirt,
The fall I dread is near
its breath on my neck and a hand
grasping for me,
The chasm doesn’t care or concern itself with details
pass or fails, my sail is torn and I’m
losing direction
drifting with little connection
we all fall, that is all..
Chris
A poem
The behemoth bleeds
contaminated
blood seeps into streams
manipulates minds
corrupts dreams
Some fled the vile canal
to shield themselves
the rough beast crawls on,
Yeats words resonate
the centre will not hold..
Far away I
feel it’s incessant roar
inescapable
I am not interested anymore.
Chris
As a child
his Mother dressed him,
As an
adult male
his pale wife dressed him,
after she passed
as an old man
his tall pale daughter
dressed him,
they blessed
him (at his end)
proclaimed him
as the epitome
of a self-made man.
Chris
#poetry
A poem
I am, of course, early for my appointment
despite decades of experience
I think perhaps today some luck will come my way
my hope is my weakness
Yet in distant lands
children
with severed hands
wave bleeding stumps
to the sky
We are beyond why..
My privilege is like a suit I was born with
and we gripe about waiting
If I may offer some feedback to the staff please consider a public tv station
Ok, running late
of course I am happy to wait
I wonder what that bleeding means?
My blood
their blood
all the same
it leaks
if we don’t care
or some drone
hovers overhead
I am what you expect, no more or less
poetry is no passport
to lasting fame or financial success
The Dr asks “how are you today?”
Stupidly I say, okay
I wait with the best of them I give credit to my compliant soul
born of a timid strand of lesser DNA
Have a great day.
Chris
2025
A poem
They chide me those dead poets!
British males
Corduroy crumpled reeking of pipe smoke
twisting words like curlicues
of the finest shag from their
high street tobacconist, they insist
on being read
but being dead I can ignore them
and late at night
I might surprise one with a read perhaps
even a recitation to a screen
to prove my erudite personality,
maybe boost my profile’s popularity
I hear them..
Don’t fear the voices of the dead
they live between worlds,
where poetry and pipe smoke linger
all their future
is in the dread of an untouched page
the one they never made,
Dead British poets
I have a friend who knows you all
Every scrawl
he is erudite in the purest sense
we mended our fences
sharing the view of the road ahead
when we both will nod
in deference to the dead in their stuffy
enclosures (sending no post
or literary review), friend now
It’s just me and you.
Chris
2025
Chris' Poetry 