A poem
Get out of the house!
Do something!
move yourself off the couch
be something!
do something!
see something!
or
just curl up and die
They found him in the
foetal position
clutching the manuscript
He never
finished,
he had never written.
C 25
A poem of promise and hope.
There is something significant in small moments
so subtle and satisfying it is to pause.
Invitational and relational each leaf that flutters and falls,
you may say it doesn’t matter at all.
The altar in nature’s church is a living loving thing, it brings
joy to the solemn seeker, and to this speaker.
I shuffle along leaf strewn winter streets marvel at the movement
all around, how spiritual! and how deeply profound.
There is something superbly simple and significant right there
in small moments, find them dear friend if you can,
Perhaps there will be a small revolution, or revelation
internally even perhaps eternally.
Chris P
2025 Winter South Australia
A poem
I wonder
when my last breath
is drawing near
what will I share?
I wonder,
on that ledge will
I turn and
pledge undying faith
or just yield
to endless space?
I wonder
if I will even recognise
it is time to go.
I’ve never been
a great judge of timing,
perhaps
we drift away insensate
to time
wrapped in our cold
skin, change begins
to what?
I wonder.
Chris 2025
A poem
See the man in the porcelain shop
crashing bashing,
carelessly destructive,
says he “admires beauty”
littered aisles testify otherwise,
He only pauses to blame
the porcelain itself for being so delicate,
so unattainable!
and on and on he goes when he’ll stop?
no-one knows.
Chris
A poem
Her music
is not for the faint hearted
someone said,
not for the faint hearted?
My ears started,
pulse raced
my hibernating soul stirred
but my faint heart
kept beating
disproving the notion
absolutely
entirely,
faint heart be damned
my ears
are crammed.
To P J H
Chris 2025
For John
We all move, instinctively, to melody, rhythm
that moves me, moves us,
we sway, stomp we glide,
Transitions when seamless allow opportunity,
to intrude, break through,
allow our heart freedom, profound
to glide, to sway on this sacred ground.
If you picture the scene, we mean
humans move between all the places we’re meant to be
places we know, if we are unhurried, unsullied
by the stab of stress and woe, we may glide
an economic expression of spirituality.
Aspirations invite review,
we have many platforms on this line
passengers know this station
seamless integration,
from carriage to platform and carriage again
gliding like my hands over silk
pleasure in the moment drives the destination
an aspirational devotion.
Chris 2025
A poem
My veins clogged with sugar and fat,
who is that?
Looking in my direction.
I pant from increasing my pace
his face looks wild.
Lungs bursting from smoke and grime
is it my time?
I will repent, become an apostle Lord
if you spare me a day.
Suddenly the sun breaks through cloud
the man brushes by me.
Oh, was I too hasty? I reward myself
with pastry, black coffee.
Who will know? I withdraw my offer
to the heavens.
Let me sit on this bench, catch my breath
don’t fear death, until you see him, I guess.
Apostle? perhaps tomorrow if it is fine
or perhaps the world may end, anyway.
Chris
A poem
I’m listening to P J Harvey,
(my good fortune)
falling in love a little
(one day there’ll be a place for us)
her voice so achingly real,
I am stricken
falling in love with any sensual soul
who soars and turns
in flight, the sheer accomplishment
to be above it all.
The litter of my life clogs my brain
ephemera, the stuff
always hinting at what my identity
when she sings, oh my heart
(one day there’ll be a place for us)
pictures us walking side by side,
It is a lie
fantasy paralyzing enticing
distracting always seeking diversion
no pain no gain!
forget the gain, the pain will come
but now I’m just in love
a little bit right now
(one day there’ll be).
Chris 2025
a poem of narcissistic self-loathing.
petulant me, petty me, pity me please please please,
projecting me, pathetic me, poor me me me.
all the places that know me, they know me, they show me
perhaps me, positive me, painfully aware yes yes yeah,
self-loathing drones never seek a target, it hovers
all day and all night, perpetually, predatorially over me me me.
Chris 2025.
A poem
Some may say you wasted your days, wasted minutes and seconds
Months and years all wasted
Some may say things
to hurt
OK.
Then there are those I suppose who waste
the world, wantonly
malicious men
my time wasting, small sin perhaps cannot console
their all consuming greed.
Chris P
Chris' Poetry 