Poetry about poetry
Sometimes poetry
lives in your dreams
it doesn’t whisper, it screams,
Sometimes I doze
deep into the space where I conjure
from unusual places,
I need to express
I need to explore
otherwise what is life for?
Sometimes poetry
is right there before you,
if you took time
to look in places in between
sights unsee,
in the weirdest dreams.
Chris
Sewn in the shower
I stand under the stream like I’m in some strange dream
all the night I sailed unusual seas
in my wake memories surface behind me,
Memories of misguided youth, assumptions rashly made
after six decades that arrogance will hopefully fade,
I know now, I’m no nearer the truth
perhaps this coursing stream will renew my sense of hope
wash away the layers of doubt and fear
perhaps…
I pause now; the ever-busy world intrudes, stealing focus
tripping me, snares of delusion,
I’m not unaware of the tactics of my mind, just too weary
to take up arms again.
Chris
Adelaide South Australia
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
Chris' Poetry 