Poem
Some mornings I feel deep despair,
falling
falling I know not where,
down wells
or
staircases winding down into
dark places,
Some mornings
the heart
is heavy
from the accumulation of cries
proliferation of
lies.
Only so many why’s!
Some mornings
I decide
I’ve been too long
on this ride
yet
my light is not done
not yet
some mornings
I feel
the cold in my soul.
Chris
She knows him, a poem.
One day
he walked out,
screaming
they say
he was doing over 100
when he
hit the tree,
Her tears
were genuine
mingled
relief and grief
mixed
she knew she was free…
In death
he was a champion
praised
to the roof
good man, good father
her bruises
knew better!
yet for the children
she bows her
head,
to herself
she is glad he is dead
they’d never
believe her anyway,
she can’t pray
anymore.
One day
when
all the toxic waste
has been
cleared, she may mourn
for the past
wasted in thinking
she was
the problem.
Chris
For Don
Let your soul sing at this scarlet sunset
in this garden, a sanctuary you love so well,
steeped in evening’s half light lingering
you hear secret voices singing to you
in tune with rock and limbs, all in harmony
in the garden you know so well.
It grieves you to turn away to where fluorescent lights hold sway
where the day is measured in increments
and firm foundations in cement,
You were not meant to die slowly indoors
where desperate people cling
to what conformity demands, you understand that sanctuary needs to be purchased, paid for in kind.
If you could mark a place to hold your remains, then this place
under the azure eyes of nature, would hold you close and restore your body
to the elements of mother earth itself, no marker required, rest now friend assured
there will be many more days to enjoy,
let us mark the sunset with silent
prayer.
Chris
About my poetry
Poets are the best liars
Socrates said,
he’s long dead poor man
so he can’t
question me, that is to say
none of this poetry thing is planned!
I don’t understand
it either,
All I know, it just needs to flow
so wherever it does
go, don’t worry.
Chris
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
Chris' Poetry 