A poem of my times.
Was it planned that we witness atrocities on
demand?
Every mean moment piped down to a screen
marked seen…
Was this what the current was harnessed for?
I have participated
by my passive acceptance, using references
to ancients, I’m
mute by choice, well here is my voice in the
lines
I will stand up and leave the room
find a human soul and try to be
kind.
Chris
A poem
I don’t want to be a reply guy
I’ll try, to defy, the urge
to reply, to proffer pointless facts
with no grace nor tact,
I don’t want to be a reply guy,
since I got replied to
I saw, what a colossal bore I’ve been
sticking in my oar,
I will try not to be that guy, so it’s
just confessional poetry
for me, but as far as the eye can see
the men lining up
to let us know, music was better then
they used a pen, as for that car
I think you’ll find it was a 53
not the 54 which had wider doors…
I don’t want to be that guy
any more
Chris
And the world turns…
And poets pen
faint amens while writers
churn out words,
bedroom musos write songs
you’ll never hear,
And the world turns
Gaza burns
cryptocurrency corruption
at the very top
drones hover when will it stop?
And the world turns…
In the northern hemisphere
they only hear
their own voices drowning out
shouts from below
they know, they know so much
stay tuned, keep in touch
and the world turns …
Poor art is better
than the fake creations
what a time
each generation has a dictator
in the pop charts
obese with fried food grease
the poet sighs
then cries into his barista made
coffee…
And the world turns.
Chris
A poem of place.
The old suburb sits there still, seeming to me both the same and different, jarring my memory in contrast to my current reality
(notwithstanding whatever we mean by reality,) yet the feeling still exists
in me, a duality of time and place swirling in eddies in my memory’s stream.
Sidewalks seem the same, concrete cracked deeper perhaps and weeds
more tenacious expanding through the pavements’ path
as distinct from the desperate weeds of the past, clinging on
through the blasting heat of summer and sudden winter storms drenching’s all this and I’m only ten paces into my old suburb.
Trees have grown distinctly larger, throwing shade over those paves
lending a more cultured tone, as indeed many people here
have brought their vibrancy and resilience to weary streets
that now move to welcome many different feet, in my old suburb.
I strive on to my assignation; my oldest friend is waiting or perhaps
on his way down familiar roads to meet and enjoy the cuisine
that was unseen when we grew up here, now we look to dine
in fine style in chrome seats, the smile that greets us is sincere,
he is glad to be here and see us, in my old suburb.
Chris
Adelaide 2025
A poem
When I nod my head in mute assent
when others shout
in rage at the outrages, and I silent sit
something dies
to no surprise or alarm, my courage
needs air
to revive that dying animal inside
beneath my
oblivious ancient hide.
Chris.
A poem
I went midnight swimming, clear midnight
hot dry November night,
naked and free like a newborn me, in this pool
a child free of shame.
My form took new shape under the glassy surface
lighter in limb, vertical light in fingers found
me in midnight clear light of soul
swimming unashamed,
A moment stolen from the dreary dialogues of day
at night whispers are melodies
meant for you and me and a cool clear pool
to hear in private, to recover
the arid cracks of cruel unforgiving sunlight,
I took a swim at midnight.
Chris 2025
A poem of passing.
Times I’ve seen
seem more like a dream
a documentary
on the screen that didn’t
feel real
or that I had ever lived through it at all,
Do we paddle
while others swim?
Seeing only glimpses of the wider sea
just beyond our proximity,
Convention shaped me
a product,
data shows working-class roots
aspirational, own a home
get a job
and stick with it for life,
Do we wish
do we dream?
if we saw these times
were we not disturbed or alarmed?
did we doze off
to humanity
edited then aired on tiny screens.
Chris
take note
I’m sending myself a reminder
perhaps today
I could be kinder, more generous
less cruel,
I’m reminded that cruelty begins
when self obsession
wins.
Chris
words matter to me
The tree I loved has fallen now
its dead limbs
stark reminders of the past,
I thought it would last until I passed
it by no longer,
Winds were stronger and it succumbed
my heart sank for its loss,
Now the tree of battered democracy
is under assault from winds
laden with hate and the pretence of logic
besiege and strip its leaves,
such delight in every one that falls!
We must all stir and gather,
in my way I write and blather on in the dark…
One thing I know friend
is that words matter to the tree itself
we must keep writing
singing, marching on until it is safe
and then only then we may
sit idle in its shade.
Chris
A poem
Excuse me
lately I have been like literally low key
riding lazily along
those least travelled roads,
Excuse me
dear friend but every heavy heart
needs to mend
itself, and then, reluctantly stutter and start
all over again.
Chris
Chris' Poetry 