Chris 25
No comments on Words will flow
Category: poetry
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RIP is not available when you are a star.
I have heard it said that the camera steals the soul,
I heard that in life they courted fame, the lens came with sincere amens,
Followed by fanatics in suits and ties peddling lies
“they knew what they were getting into”
Imagine an afterlife where pinpricks of pain break through each time
each time, every time
someone posts that same image of your face recycled daily, hourly…
fans need validation basking in your long dead light,
candles don’t stay lit in the wind, they die
curlicues of soul smoke soon pass,
Let them rest, let her rest, let the image fade
we still have the films
requiescat in pace.
Chris
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To myself, a plea.
Please release my grip, Lord of the web and screen,
Held captive by my incapacity to cease staring into a void,
absurd little man child boy, all your mild fantasies are on
Repeat.
Please try my grown up voice cries, there are words to reap
lying fallow in your field.
Chris
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Darkness reigns supreme,
we are on the verge of dreams
it seems like each ink well was emptied into the sky,
My one good eye stings, brings me to tears
as my damaged capillaries strain
my unremarkable refrain is a droning inane denial of my own survival,
my essential elemental
being is barely present, in the cooling dull room of 9.45pm…
So I drift off into whatever strange current awaits me,
in the hope of morning light, we tolerate nightmares.
Chris
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Long dreary days
stretch time
twisting my mind in knots,
I wanted
solitude over company…
now
in the paradox of myself
I feel lonely
prone
to dark clouds gathering
over me,
stormy seas of me,
dead trees
of me,
nothingness of me.
This is the best and worst
unrehearsed
me.
CP -
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
Author’s own -
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
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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
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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
Author’s own -
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
Author’s own
Chris' Poetry 