A poem
It is time
to take stock
of me and mine,
to inventory
my story,
to weigh up
press
down and take
stock
of the goods all and
sundry,
to make a list
sum up
what I comprise,
as an item
a unit
of human form,
it is time to take stock.
Chris
A poem.
Come friend as we lurch to the end, come take a deep dive into despair,
Come and hold my hand, as the cliff’s edge gets nearer each dismal day, let us pause,pray and dive deeply into our despair,
Come you and I, farewell the clear blue sky forever darkened by soot and smoke, admit that the joke was on us, all because we believed reason was divine,
OK fine, the worst now rule, so be it! I will cool my outrage in those deep caverns of delicious dark despair.
Farewell joy, hope and trust, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Chris
The tune of the wind.
If I ask for help, there is no answer at all
only fretful fidgeting fingers on my windowpane
friend of mine, the wind
rapping twigs in torments against man’s transparency,
I push the sound to one side
decide to try another more nuanced avenue
candle burns, mind turns like a starter motor screams
until the battery gives out, as flat as a pancake,
I ask for help, the candle flickers and stutters in response
what is it I really want?
I have been the fool in natures’ court; I ought to listen
to my friend, wind comes with sighs
from foe and allies, to whisper wonders and open truths
God is in the motion, through dead air
microbes and man all in the overall plan to exist
life is a prayer,
it does not care for labels, that is our obsession!
agnostic, devout, up, down, in or out…
Wise friend wind had to shout so intensely to snap my malaise
waking to what was there,
all my life,
all my,
life.
Chris
a poem of peace for a loved one.
When life’s road always seems uphill
struggle, struggle always
shifting gears, synchro-mesh straining
done explaining
yourself
to indifferent self-absorbed ears,
when you sigh
more than twenty times a day
exhaling theatrically
as if to say softly, “I’m right here
you know!”
there is nowhere to go if you don’t
see or hear, me…
Days get longer, suns fierce eye stronger
every metre stretches into
marathons of the busy beleaguered mind
left behind see
the back markers just behind you!
ready to suggest
you tried but failed the test,
then it is time, as I understand, to rest
unwind that old telephone
cord you call your vagal nerve,
serve yourself the same measure of compassion
you doled out to any stranger
struggling, juggling
life’s thankless complications,
take a rest, a vacation
from the unrelenting flagellating vocation,
take a moment
the sky is beautiful today.
Chris
A poem
It must be a hollow feeling
to produce
countless “victim fights back”
against
sneering venomous bully scenes,
then
in some snatched moments
realise
that you were, and still are the bully…
controlling
the revenge narrative, flooding us
with gun porn.
It must be a hollow feeling revealing
your truth
that freedom is the illusion
you dangle like a lure
to catch the beautiful speckled trout.
Chris
A poem
Someone I didn’t know
died today,
and yesterday as well
without a doubt
someone I don’t know will also
pass away,
That’s ok
they didn’t know me either
and on my death
they won’t waste a single breath
this is how it should be,
Every life
though lauded by the shrill crowd
is allowed
one innings, go on kid
make us proud.
Chris
A poem of my times.
Was it planned that we witness atrocities on
demand?
Every mean moment piped down to a screen
marked seen…
Was this what the current was harnessed for?
I have participated
by my passive acceptance, using references
to ancients, I’m
mute by choice, well here is my voice in the
lines
I will stand up and leave the room
find a human soul and try to be
kind.
Chris
A poem
I don’t want to be a reply guy
I’ll try, to defy, the urge
to reply, to proffer pointless facts
with no grace nor tact,
I don’t want to be a reply guy,
since I got replied to
I saw, what a colossal bore I’ve been
sticking in my oar,
I will try not to be that guy, so it’s
just confessional poetry
for me, but as far as the eye can see
the men lining up
to let us know, music was better then
they used a pen, as for that car
I think you’ll find it was a 53
not the 54 which had wider doors…
I don’t want to be that guy
any more
Chris
And the world turns…
And poets pen
faint amens while writers
churn out words,
bedroom musos write songs
you’ll never hear,
And the world turns
Gaza burns
cryptocurrency corruption
at the very top
drones hover when will it stop?
And the world turns…
In the northern hemisphere
they only hear
their own voices drowning out
shouts from below
they know, they know so much
stay tuned, keep in touch
and the world turns …
Poor art is better
than the fake creations
what a time
each generation has a dictator
in the pop charts
obese with fried food grease
the poet sighs
then cries into his barista made
coffee…
And the world turns.
Chris
A poem of place.
The old suburb sits there still, seeming to me both the same and different, jarring my memory in contrast to my current reality
(notwithstanding whatever we mean by reality,) yet the feeling still exists
in me, a duality of time and place swirling in eddies in my memory’s stream.
Sidewalks seem the same, concrete cracked deeper perhaps and weeds
more tenacious expanding through the pavements’ path
as distinct from the desperate weeds of the past, clinging on
through the blasting heat of summer and sudden winter storms drenching’s all this and I’m only ten paces into my old suburb.
Trees have grown distinctly larger, throwing shade over those paves
lending a more cultured tone, as indeed many people here
have brought their vibrancy and resilience to weary streets
that now move to welcome many different feet, in my old suburb.
I strive on to my assignation; my oldest friend is waiting or perhaps
on his way down familiar roads to meet and enjoy the cuisine
that was unseen when we grew up here, now we look to dine
in fine style in chrome seats, the smile that greets us is sincere,
he is glad to be here and see us, in my old suburb.
Chris
Adelaide 2025
Chris' Poetry 