A poem
No comments on Her Resting Place
-
time to say yes
I sat in my wallflower suit refused to dance
even though
I said music was my most beloved muse,
dance and music
music and dance
Indivisible to each and every grounded
culture,
I needed to drink then
in my private house, gyrate and shake my
body to a tune,
Now I think I should have said yes, banished
my shyness
to feel that seed of connection take root
toss away that wallflower suit.
C.
-
A poem of grief
We woke and, in our waking, we found a loss most profound
in the earliest hour of morning, she passed
never to be heard to laugh lustily over long luncheons again
dear friend, this ending
it may be too soon, to compose, or sit in repose to contemplate
vicissitudes of fate, it is the steep cliff we foresaw
now plunging we seek handholds in the cruel cold stone of death
it may be too soon…For C
Chris Adelaide 2025
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poem for swing
I ask what, my dear, would you like to hear
on this fine Sunday morning?
Jazz, she replies, I’m enjoying the horns, how
they sing and sweetly siiiigh
hello and goodbye, OK, my dear, let us embark
on that melodious sea
you and
me,
I find my mind being left behind in time
to pops on the vinyl, Dixieland
on the tube, never Coltrane or 5/4 rattling my door,
I swore the slops on AM radio
make you sick in the very soul
sure, poetry nuts are born not made
Dylan never fades far from my view,
bebop on vinyl from my local shop (Diz and Bird how absurd!)
took me to the tippity top dig it!
imagining a scene, I had no right to visualise
suits and skinny ties,
Slowly surely, I descend into Sunday morning, sans amens
my repertoire from the stream
of algorythmic swill still tantalises and teases
my teenage self
listening to Nighthawks at the Diner
nothing finer, or the sweet Wes on Bock to Bock
put some swing in the strings!
(octave finger stretch in private I failed)
but right here, right now
Sunday morning jazz prevails.Next week it could easily be
new wave or Krautrock,
but my wife she gets first shot
on Sunday morning.Chris
-
A poem
Come and see
the broken mess of me,
come and see
spread out for all to see
come
and see the mess of me.
Chris P
-
A poem
Some sadness descends on our hearts,
the week starts in weariness
as the tide turning tug of life’s ebb and flow
has more in store for us,
No, not for us but for her, a generous soul
who lies on the brink
of what has been, and now, into the unseen…
while we fight back our tears
making gestures in dialogue with the cold winter air.Chris
For C
-
A poem
I shall not be bitter today,
I shall not be sad today,
no not today!
I shall not, for what does the world
owe to me ? to me
nothing no nothing at all,
rise and fall, stocks and bonds
autocratic leaders
advice dispensers, false pretences
broken fences,
I shall not despair, no not today
there’s a black dog
at the door and he won’t go away,
I shall not let it in
no, not today, I whistle an ancient air
to keep my demons at bay.
Chris 2025
Image author’s own.
-
A poem
I’m combing the beach of my mind
flotsam and jetsam
memories of moments, some treasured
some best left behind,
I use my toe to turn a bundle of weed
washed up in a storm
from my nightmare that battered my coastline
last week, it doesn’t speak
only invites me to keep combing for hope
the greatest of treasures.
Chris
Author’s own image. -
a poem
I wake from sleep, more like a stupor when I think
of the wasted hours, like a dead sea
stretching time into an eternity, when I think…
that is the crux, the very marrow of it!
I sit and sit, waiting for it, deliveries or even mail
failing to feel the stir of a distant wind,
the doldrums have a hold beyond lack of movement,
at least for me, it is the stagnation of life,
job, home and all the distracting demands of it,
I read of men who just got up left never to come home again
as if they were aliens to our conformist race
I fear the fierceness of passion, trying to fashion my art
in some domestic context.The doldrums are lifting, life is gifting me a reprieve
trust in the pilot, believe and let the journey
unfold as now I grow older and older, winter seems colder
when even to move feels like an imitation of youth
we measured life in cups and empty glasses
strewn on the dining room floor.Chris
Adelaide August 2025 -
A poem
Do not let me a burden be
out of duty, nor necessity
look only to reflect on my gift
to ease your grief if I may
on that day when all is in upheaval,
you will find my mind expressed
in words I already addressed
many times before, in my sunny days
so look to my directives,
do not let me a burden be.
Chris
Chris' Poetry 