Chris' Poetry

What I can do in these days.

March 11, 2025

poetry

A poem of resolve.

I feel the urge to sidestep the hatred lane on life’s road
It’s already clogged don’t you know?
Another spleen vented is a brick of hatred cemented
Fermented by falsehoods that tower rises higher and higher
We must aspire to simple acts, truth, kindness
And show the fortitude to do more than endure, to ensure
The tower falls for want of attention.
That is my intention, my hope and perhaps my desire, my entire being
Holds my vision forward to the light.

Chris 2025

1 comment on What I can do in these days.
Self Pity

March 4, 2025

poetry

A poem

I found
today nothing
profound
to say..
except to feel
that hollow
sadness
seeping in
deepening
delving
into times
vast vaults,

In my passing
no shadow
was cast surely
nothing of
mine
will truly
last,
nor should it
be so!

I was just
in
the
tight grip
of suffocating
self pity
and doubt.

Chris

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Red ties

March 2, 2025

poetry

A poem

I see Red ties

on white necks

straining

with hate and spite..

Veins

bloodless faces

no traces of intelligence

only cunning,

Red ties for rats

to build

rat empires and rat real estate,

rat deals made

with red ties rocking

back

and forth like a noose

on a gallows..

Red ties made by slave labour

to tell lies,

Nightmares are the latest

Lullabys.

Chris

2025

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We woke

February 27, 2025

poetry

A poem

We woke up to find
decent folk
left far far behind,
their protests
faintly followed for
a short while..
So we sailed into
renamed seas
not agreeing, no never!
just being quiet
and discreetly clever.

Chris Papps

2025

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In between

February 25, 2025

poetry

Times were always a’ changin.
A poem.

Lavic Lake Fault, San Bernadino, California. via web

I’m caught
in between,
being seen
and unseen
drifting midstream.
awake
or is it a dream?

I’m in between
right
and wrong where do we
belong?
in a poem or in a song
some sang
decades ago

I’m holding
the rail
tightly today,
chasms
can appear
suddenly
catastrophically
irrevocably

I’m in between
living
and dead, the dread
of the void
can numb like Novocain
an active brain.

Chris Feb 25

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When the quiet ones get angry.

February 21, 2025

poetry

A poem.

Art by Albert Tucker

I hear the stirring in the wind, something begins

even from afar in foreign lands I hear the repressed moans released

When the quiet ones get angry, when the centre bends

maybe this is where the hatred ends.

Chris

1 comment on When the quiet ones get angry.
Oh Wind

February 11, 2025

Poetry

Authors own

A poem of longing

Oh wind,
turn south
for me
whisper words to
soothe
or prove
my senses are correct,

We advise,
or direct
walk past grace
blithely
we are unwilling..

I am leaking
like a
sieve
holding
no living water

Oh wind, turn to me
kiss my brow
attentively
as limbs
on aged trees
sway so peacefully.

#poetry

Chris

2025

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I met myself for coffee today

February 10, 2025

poetry

A strange encounter

I met myself for coffee today, though at first we didn’t have much to say!

Pleasantries and weather chat, complementary about our choice of hat, we felt the moment slipping away so we both had to say it once and for all,

We love you, each other, closer than a brother, my twin perhaps? with no difference in the genes or DNA we say goodbye in better shape, agree to see other people if we must but coffee with myself is still a viable option,

Others may have noticed my solitary conversation but I am beyond salvation from the approval of the crowd, if allowed I would shun my fellow man, but I reminded myself to stay engaged so that tiny rivulets of reality can still flow.

I met myself for coffee today, it was a start some would say of something more serious or some would just sigh to see a grown man talking with himself.

Chris

2025

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Heart of a human

February 9, 2025

Poetry

A poem

Two Fridas. Frida Kahlo

What lies within the heart of a human? I only see the red or the blue,

Beat on heart while callous crowds gather convinced of their truths,

What lies beneath righteous rhetoric? I only hear the cry of me, me, me

I look into my pond some days and see it grows less clear, murkier as if the air itself is saturated with sin..

Human hearts beat regardless of the worth of the vessel, or the deeds done with a treacherous hand held to the chest, proclaiming we are the best, truth is ours alone.

What does it mean to be human? If I could guess it may be better to act it out rather than stare at the sun.

What lies in my human heart? That is where poetry starts.

Chris

2025

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What strange Gods we follow

February 5, 2025

poetry

A poem

The omnipresent one Temu appears ordering me to purchase an outboard motor cover, I pause heretic as I am to dare question the plan.

I don’t have an outboard motor, yet now I feel less than I did before the voice of Temu spoke through its oracle Lord Instagram.

The pantheon never pauses, it watches us all day, a vigil to remind us to spend spend spend and appease the algorithms, just browsing no longer available to Google or Shopify they know I need a different device to make me feel nice?

Oh what strange Gods we have today! they accept After pay never take a day off and see more clearly our innermost thoughts and needs (available in most colours and varying speeds).

Temu I must defy you the outboard motor must remain a dream, I can only dream of when I’m on the sea again.

Forgive me my sins, and my predictable pins and you know I’m a devoted follower of fashion, food and technology that’s modern theology.

Chris

2025

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