A poem
When I nod my head in mute assent
when others shout
in rage at the outrages, and I silent sit
something dies
to no surprise or alarm, my courage
needs air
to revive that dying animal inside
beneath my
oblivious ancient hide.
Chris.
A poem
I went midnight swimming, clear midnight
hot dry November night,
naked and free like a newborn me, in this pool
a child free of shame.
My form took new shape under the glassy surface
lighter in limb, vertical light in fingers found
me in midnight clear light of soul
swimming unashamed,
A moment stolen from the dreary dialogues of day
at night whispers are melodies
meant for you and me and a cool clear pool
to hear in private, to recover
the arid cracks of cruel unforgiving sunlight,
I took a swim at midnight.
Chris 2025
A poem of passing.
Times I’ve seen
seem more like a dream
a documentary
on the screen that didn’t
feel real
or that I had ever lived through it at all,
Do we paddle
while others swim?
Seeing only glimpses of the wider sea
just beyond our proximity,
Convention shaped me
a product,
data shows working-class roots
aspirational, own a home
get a job
and stick with it for life,
Do we wish
do we dream?
if we saw these times
were we not disturbed or alarmed?
did we doze off
to humanity
edited then aired on tiny screens.
Chris
take note
I’m sending myself a reminder
perhaps today
I could be kinder, more generous
less cruel,
I’m reminded that cruelty begins
when self obsession
wins.
Chris
words matter to me
The tree I loved has fallen now
its dead limbs
stark reminders of the past,
I thought it would last until I passed
it by no longer,
Winds were stronger and it succumbed
my heart sank for its loss,
Now the tree of battered democracy
is under assault from winds
laden with hate and the pretence of logic
besiege and strip its leaves,
such delight in every one that falls!
We must all stir and gather,
in my way I write and blather on in the dark…
One thing I know friend
is that words matter to the tree itself
we must keep writing
singing, marching on until it is safe
and then only then we may
sit idle in its shade.
Chris
A poem
Excuse me
lately I have been like literally low key
riding lazily along
those least travelled roads,
Excuse me
dear friend but every heavy heart
needs to mend
itself, and then, reluctantly stutter and start
all over again.
Chris
time to say yes
I sat in my wallflower suit refused to dance
even though
I said music was my most beloved muse,
dance and music
music and dance
Indivisible to each and every grounded
culture,
I needed to drink then
in my private house, gyrate and shake my
body to a tune,
Now I think I should have said yes, banished
my shyness
to feel that seed of connection take root
toss away that wallflower suit.
C.
A poem of grief
We woke and, in our waking, we found a loss most profound
in the earliest hour of morning, she passed
never to be heard to laugh lustily over long luncheons again
dear friend, this ending
it may be too soon, to compose, or sit in repose to contemplate
vicissitudes of fate, it is the steep cliff we foresaw
now plunging we seek handholds in the cruel cold stone of death
it may be too soon…
For C
Chris Adelaide 2025
poem for swing
I ask what, my dear, would you like to hear
on this fine Sunday morning?
Jazz, she replies, I’m enjoying the horns, how
they sing and sweetly siiiigh
hello and goodbye, OK, my dear, let us embark
on that melodious sea
you and
me,
I find my mind being left behind in time
to pops on the vinyl, Dixieland
on the tube, never Coltrane or 5/4 rattling my door,
I swore the slops on AM radio
make you sick in the very soul
sure, poetry nuts are born not made
Dylan never fades far from my view,
bebop on vinyl from my local shop (Diz and Bird how absurd!)
took me to the tippity top dig it!
imagining a scene, I had no right to visualise
suits and skinny ties,
Slowly surely, I descend into Sunday morning, sans amens
my repertoire from the stream
of algorythmic swill still tantalises and teases
my teenage self
listening to Nighthawks at the Diner
nothing finer, or the sweet Wes on Bock to Bock
put some swing in the strings!
(octave finger stretch in private I failed)
but right here, right now
Sunday morning jazz prevails.
Next week it could easily be
new wave or Krautrock,
but my wife she gets first shot
on Sunday morning.
Chris
Chris' Poetry 