A poem

I can hear, if these suburban sounds abate, voices lost on the wind
swirling, whirling around my straining ears, sincere and soulful
calling out to me.

I write wistfully to honour the possibility of a world I cannot see
where all those who loved, laughed and lost are tossed on waves
of the endless air.

I don’t know if I craftily conjure these whispered entreaties
as I sip my morning coffee, mystery has its’ allure, I’m sure
if they see me then they would cry.

I sit and drink on in that reverie, knowledge seems so uncertain,
shadows of life and death a thin lace curtain blowing in the wind
like my room welcomes cool air after heat.

If we meet dear friend in that evening light, we may pass by silently
caught up in thought, unaware of how close our life strands are
seeking to connect, always connect.

Chris Papps
Glanville 2025

A poem

Ancient Romans found use for this grey volcanic ash
the mixing, meticulously mending, never-ending
uses for this fine powdery dust,
We make canyons of from it, our pavements our feet
pounding on concrete, like my heart cracked
in crazy eccentricities, but patched up and held together,
I am deemed serviceable, functional.

Walking these streets often, pavements can testify
trees might notice me passing by birds’ flitter flutter away
dogs bark, I skip half a beat in surprise,
my eyes on the cold callous concrete at my feet.
Rome preferred a more ornamental path a mosaic
even a bare earth path beaten smooth by multitudes
here it is denser, more immense yet my street
my living street is quiet as the graves of the long passed,
we have withdrawn into the dark of the modern,
plenty filled, glutted and impotent to stir, concrete will suffice
for the dull soul rushing again, late for the train.

Chris P