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  • The Barking Crowd

    May 21, 2026
    poetry

    A poem for the noisy.

    I fear, if allowed, I might join the barking crowd
    free from the tedious trappings
    of reason and rhyme,
    I’m dedicating my remaining time
    to loudly bark at life’s ludicrous passing parade,

    I know in my aching bones the pain of loss
    both long ago and recent, the indecent waste of good folk
    at the expense of the bloated and vile,
    who splutter and stutter all through the day
    spewing filth in their wake,

    It is an entitled privilege to scorn politics
    to roll one’s eyes to empty skies
    puzzled by the rising groans and chorus of “whys?”
    so, if I bark, I’ll bark for justice,

    I will yelp at the fascists and the smug
    I will bark at AI slop
    the vacuity that never seems to stop,
    I’ll cock my leg on a SUV,
    I will bark, bark loudly for my humanity.

    CP 26

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  • My plot of land.

    May 21, 2026
    poetry

    a poem.

    I see the landscape so clearly now
    that hectare I was allocated
    my lot, my gift,
    Weeds run wild here, unchallenged
    my intent to begin
    once again put off for another day,
    my words so carefully sewn
    all overgrown…


    Because I failed to maintain it
    my plough lost its edge
    it opens no new ground now
    nothing deep or profound,


    Crows circling overhead know this patch
    is dead ground,
    My legacy is carrions chorus, nothing grown
    all idly left to run wild,


    Squandered gifts
    of a promising child, golden haired child
    praise given without cause
    mild shy child behind Mothers skirts,


    My land, my legacy….
    no cause to weep
    we cannot clearly comprehend the manner
    or means of our own end,
    only the soil will say, let us hope
    for better days
    with one who tends with loving hands
    this patch of land.

    CP26

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  • Besieged

    May 7, 2026
    poetry

    A poem

    I think it makes sense now, these waves of assault
    at my age folk often speak of,
    feeling overwhelmed by the relentless pace of change, the ever circulating complexity
    of business, of airing every thought out loud,


    I think of it, dear friend, as being besieged because
    after all, when under siege we put up walls,

    Nostalgic for a past conjured from AI reels
    where like-minded folk concealed
    their thoughts and feelings under the veneer
    of polite sterile civility, only a few
    aberrations slipped through the nets, from poor upbringing of course,

    The besieged boomers like me, retreat en-masse
    to caravan parks where only familiar faces are seen, ageing tanned like leather
    couples, all white,

    spending all night watching TV
    portable generator humming away on petrol,

    that valuable elixir so recklessly
    squandered by massive vehicles you need to visit the mall,

    So…
    dear friends, heed my clarion call
    lower the drawbridge let in the new, discard the fear,
    leave the nostalgia to inoffensively stew,
    let your soul be born and renew.

    Chris

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  • An abandoned house

    May 7, 2026
    poetry

    A country clothes line,
    unfinished bottle of red wine
    dust particles dance
    in pure white sunbeams,
    Wooden table and solid chairs
    the hearth unswept
    grey flakes of ash on the slate,
    all is quiet in a human sense
    birds sing and animals call,
    this house itself feels absolutely cold
    all life here got up one day
    perhaps yesterday,
    walked away closing the gate
    behind for the very last time.

    C

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  • What will we do?

    May 5, 2026
    poetry

    A poem

    What will you do

    with the time you saved

    using AI, did it

    open any door for you to explore

    to feel cool wind on your face?

    This time you saved

    is it in an account you kept

    or was it just another lie

    you so willingly and easily

    accept.

    Chris

    #poetry

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  • Prayer

    May 3, 2026
    poetry

    A poem

    We pray for something
    we just can’t say,
    I think it is our soul bargaining
    for one more day.

    chris

    No comments on Prayer
  • King of Nothing

    April 30, 2026
    poetry

    A poem

    Regard my kingdom, vast and limitless
    for nothing can be contained
    or calculated by the clever or the clueless.

    I am King of nothing
    regal in name to try and claim some shred
    of acclaim in a game
    with no outcome or result, only certain doom
    a kingdom of gloom.

    Depression is a term used daily to describe
    the price we all pay
    for conscious thought, we are all caught
    in times tight net.

    To be honest your fate moves me somewhat
    more than it should,
    we are together are we not? Yet at the closing
    of my lids I call on God on my own.

    I depose myself now, anti monarchy feels appropriate for my soul,
    the title was only ever a metaphor for one who only lives in his head.

    I crave bread, cheese and wine, olives and pastry
    but my body is a broken factory
    unable to process anymore, overworked and abused by a mad king.

    Nothing to see, or do anymore now I’m so very unsure of what to focus my final years on,
    perhaps the clue lies in the leaving behind of what you used to always do.

    I am a passing shadow on the dark land of nothing.

    Chris

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  • Where?

    April 21, 2026
    poetry

    Where?

    Where is the outrage in the main stream?

    the wide river rages at its’ edges

    left or right bank foaming with a strong current,

    yet in the middle

    the mainstream where the greatest obstacles

    land, the river flows on, unconcerned

    by strife, wars or hate

    the mainstream must flow it only knows

    that truth

    even the most polluted waste is accepted

    without a ripple

    Where is the outrage? Poets perhaps, writers

    on the fringe

    can only weep as the oligarchs plot plan and

    creep

    into every former sanctuary.

    Chris P

    No comments on Where?
  • Everything

    April 19, 2026
    poetry

    Everything

    A poem

    “Everything was better when I was young

    people were taught history”

    the women in the waiting room spoke to the couple opposite

    “Every child today doesn’t understand history, no one reads”

    “I read, I was in business you know,

    I don’t like the man personally but you have to admit he gets things done”

    she went on and on,

    Opposite me a man, a fellow silent sufferer

    slowly stood and in moving away

    from that grating wheel, he gave me a nod

    in quiet solidarity,

    I thought of all the silent ones in rooms and in cars gritting teeth

    while these entitled creatures, right wing preachers

    belch their racist remarks,

    Maybe it’s time to stand up and say, that’s enough for today.

    Chris

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  • These Times

    April 12, 2026
    poetry

    These times,

    When Google algorithms

    are the catalogue of our fears,

    when the monsters

    live on top of the bed openly aware

    that monsters are the norm,

    when flakes so intricately formed

    are mocked for fragility!

    the hearts of many beat only day by day

    honesty rewarded with minimum

    pay,

    these times

    perhaps no better or worse

    than any where tyrants feel free to rule

    unopposed.

    C

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Chris' Poetry

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