A little poem of place.
My hometown, deemed dreary or too pious
by those in the know,
it always puzzled me, as if it was a choice where we are born
scrolling through the great cities
in the ether,
I pity the shallow soul whose pride is founded on a name
that small step towards exceptionalism,
although we are by no means immune to boast
of our medium size city on the gulf
often flown over by the big-name stars, mocked for its piety
where churches vie with bars for our souls,
all I really know is I was born here, on an arid dusty plain
where the cool change keeps you waiting,
vines and olive trees prosper as immigrant flora banishes
majestic gums,
people here before are still here, they have a reverence
for place rooted in dreaming deep and pure,
we built over their sacred places, while our pink faces
sweated with toil,
my hometown, I love the ground I understand, that is all
we can ever control.
do not extol or laud what you cannot afford, mansions by the water,
rather, turn and embrace son and daughter
in this place, medium sized and often surprised by itself.
Chris
Passion soon passes.
In the twisting coils of coital connection
he finds himself climaxing, the very pinnacle of his idea of love,
tenderly touching her very core with his longing…
Passion soon passes.
His pulse stabilizes restoring that pervasive sense of self,
righting the ship, restoring that all-encompassing need to be right,
which ultimately banishes desire into flight,
Passion soon passes.
The unregulated roller coaster of grandiosity and shame restores relationship to its homeostasis, a series of sustained minor conflicts,
Her low calm tones mock his lofty flights of deep desire, which was once paramount,
now as he dismounts, he returns to the cooler climate of everyday married life, he walks away satisfied in himself…
Passion soon passes.
This ebb and flow, this tide of combatant and lovers, a duality deeply enmeshed, entwined, defined ultimately
by decades of conditioning, entitled by his mother’s embrace, her forgiving face, “these times” he sighs.
Passion soon dies.
chris
A poem
Confined in this desert of dry skin
a soul finally begins to stir
within…
no
fanfare or acclaim from Peter or Paul
we are all fundamentally,
as was he or she who wrote
it all,
the same,
he or she contained within confines
of the human skin.
Chris
Poetry about poetry
Sometimes poetry
lives in your dreams
it doesn’t whisper, it screams,
Sometimes I doze
deep into the space where I conjure
from unusual places,
I need to express
I need to explore
otherwise what is life for?
Sometimes poetry
is right there before you,
if you took time
to look in places in between
sights unsee,
in the weirdest dreams.
Chris
Sewn in the shower
I stand under the stream like I’m in some strange dream
all the night I sailed unusual seas
in my wake memories surface behind me,
Memories of misguided youth, assumptions rashly made
after six decades that arrogance will hopefully fade,
I know now, I’m no nearer the truth
perhaps this coursing stream will renew my sense of hope
wash away the layers of doubt and fear
perhaps…
I pause now; the ever-busy world intrudes, stealing focus
tripping me, snares of delusion,
I’m not unaware of the tactics of my mind, just too weary
to take up arms again.
Chris
Adelaide South Australia
A poem
He planted seed in his fields
of memory,
dormant desires, extinguished fires
lines of poetry
there budding in long furrows,
he rested…
his plough blunted by resistance
his existence
sprouting weeds and wild grass,
wild
as the child who once ran here
free from burden,
alas, his time has long long passed.
Chris
Stepping into the stream, testing if it is warm
feeling the water firmly coursing
forcing sighs of sensual delight!
A warm shower in the morning, world take warning! I feel alive again,
Musty sleep runs down the gurgling drain and the mimicking of rain
A refrain that never tires, I sleep to its digital version, immersion in sound,
Anticipation of the warm embrace of joy.
Chris
a poem
I worry for my children,
my life
has worn me to a nub
blunted
my blade, as I fade into night
I worry for them,
decisions and turns in the road
seen or unforeseen
world events, barkers in circus tents
drawing in the unwary
scary men in dark dim lanes,
because my fears
have been my most loyal companion
I worry.
Chris
Poem
Some mornings I feel deep despair,
falling
falling I know not where,
down wells
or
staircases winding down into
dark places,
Some mornings
the heart
is heavy
from the accumulation of cries
proliferation of
lies.
Only so many why’s!
Some mornings
I decide
I’ve been too long
on this ride
yet
my light is not done
not yet
some mornings
I feel
the cold in my soul.
Chris
Chris' Poetry 