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
A poem for the over 60 ( me )
Boomers chat
chew the fat, over fence
in the street,
Bale up the postie and
Recall
“I worked in the post office
before shopping malls,”
Boomers chat
this and that or weather
dreaming of caravans
and healthy
life spans,
Leisurely life drifting by
over coffee (in large mugs please)
medications all organised
checking the mail
in some way trying to justify
that most persistent chore
getting out of bed
today.
Chris
2025
A poem
In the darkness
out of reach
Sleep waits for me
since I
chose to step away
from
the thoughts of my day,
I knew
deep rest beckons
Sleep is waiting
now I’m done
hating myself and the past
drifted into
the places I choose to
walk past,
Sleep waits for me
to embrace
the small boy having a bad
dream.
Chris
2025
a poem for the good people.
The good folks
shake their heads and deeply sigh
another year
passing by, why celebrate? why?
war and hate
the good folks
sitting alone, all their relatives deranged
estranged ..
The good folks
know the light is fading fast in corridors and paths
the forest falling to the axe
profits to the max, and the ocean drowns
in itself with plastic
we throw (The good folks know)
The good folks
will say they are close to walking away from family
and callous corporate cartels
they smell the decay
but hope, that ever-dwindling candle flame
holds them in this game.
Chris 2025
A poem for those who have inspired me.
Decades compress and time bends itself
around me, circuitously,
words jump from the printed page at me
just as energetically
as they did in my youthful days (long since passed)
I am the sum of myself, multiplied by many
in any form I devoured the content
my appetite was large!
the inspiration to rise or dress myself
to be bored rigid lay in those author’s caresses,
My inspirations, poor imitations, now mock me
but I to must flow or find my spirits’ stream
to follow even in my dreams, it seems to be
an essential part of me.
Chris 2024
My personal reflections, a poem
Perhaps my soul is stretched too thin
Or my heart tired of strife
That I sigh first at the mention of Christmas,
I want to run and hide
Yet voices in chorus cry “It is the time to feel joy”
I wonder why not
Every day month or week we shouldn’t speak
Of joy or looking around us more clearly,
I think of that road to Damascus
Littered with debris of war dating back centuries
Or of how the drones now threaten the manger
Or that billionaires bluster and hold the reigns
It feels as if the world is insane..
Yet in the dark, a small spark greater than all
Is the birth of hope and new life
Who would not celebrate the light
After years of the Roman dark?
The child born free and innocent
Is in us all and we must find
that road to Damascus in our minds.
Chris Papps
2024
an ode to sitting on both sides of the fence.
Jump, jump, jump
he cried as if he was in the crowd, as well as on the ledge
the edge of leaping, they keep asking
why, why, why? can I survive, I don’t think so, no no no
I am in pain, yes
heart racing, yes wildly
pulse runs wild (I was never mild)
can it be time to leap?
I dont think so, no no no
We don’t know what we know
until the table is set, the meal put out
only then will I know if it is time
to stay or to go
Jump, jump, jump
it is OK
people have all moved on, the news cycle is over
and I am still standing
on the ledge
the edge
undecided.
Chris P
after heat sweet relief
Wished for
prayed
for
hoped for
weather
map
tracking waiting
cursing
the heat
waiting for the breeze
to stir
curtains ready
to dance
sleep
possible perhaps now
we sigh
survive.
Chris P
Chris' Poetry 