A poem
He planted seed in his fields
of memory,
dormant desires, extinguished fires
lines of poetry
there budding in long furrows,
he rested…
his plough blunted by resistance
his existence
sprouting weeds and wild grass,
wild
as the child who once ran here
free from burden,
alas, his time has long long passed.
Chris
Stepping into the stream, testing if it is warm
feeling the water firmly coursing
forcing sighs of sensual delight!
A warm shower in the morning, world take warning! I feel alive again,
Musty sleep runs down the gurgling drain and the mimicking of rain
A refrain that never tires, I sleep to its digital version, immersion in sound,
Anticipation of the warm embrace of joy.
Chris
a poem
I worry for my children,
my life
has worn me to a nub
blunted
my blade, as I fade into night
I worry for them,
decisions and turns in the road
seen or unforeseen
world events, barkers in circus tents
drawing in the unwary
scary men in dark dim lanes,
because my fears
have been my most loyal companion
I worry.
Chris
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
Chris' Poetry 