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  1. C. J. Black


I’m retiring now to my palace of wisdom?

Intoxicated by words, not at all tongue tied

Perhaps we could all assemble and create our own Fiefdom?

Probably a daft idea on my part – I’ll leave that for you to decide.


Writing I believe is as complex as you make it

Or am I being too flippant by making such a remark?

Once you put your mind to it I’m sure there is no limit –

To what can be achieved once you ignite the spark.


Never having been coached in the art of writing

I often wonder if I had been, what could I have achieved?

Perhaps I could have written something Novel or exiting?

Retiring now in my palace of wisdom, feeling quite relieved.


  1.    C. J. Black©β





Inspired by a poem.

C. J. Black

I dreamed one night that I might-
Write a piece of poetry to delight-
Delight, just me alone
Before words evaporate and are gone.

Disappeared into the mist of time
To be swallowed up in a fog of rhyme
Time is of the essence so I must press on
Before I awake from my slumber and find my poem has flown.

Quality not quantity is what the reader wants
None of your flamboyant writing, none of your fancy fonts
Re-read what you have written, to myself I continue to preach
Yet I know this rule of thumb I continuously breach.

Not the easiest thing to do – teach an old dog a new trick
A solid base is what is required, then build it brick on brick
Then mysteriously it will evolve into a form of verse
To get it right remember – rehearse, rehearse, rehearse.

Attempting to write outside your comfort zone
Something in technicolour instead of plain two-tone
What was in the mind of Samuel Taylor Coleridge – really what was his initial plan?
When he sat down and penned the immortal ‘Kubla Khan’

Did his words ebb and flow like that *sacred river?
That opening line – *In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, etched in the mind forever
A master class in poetry of which I can but dream
A man whom I much admire and hold in high esteem.

Perhaps one day when I go to *that dome in the air
Not that it worries me – not that I despair
That someone might remark – in his writing he took cover
So be careful where you tread – who knows where his ghost might hover.
*Words / lines from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem Kubla Khan.

C. J. Black©β

Expose yourself to the reader.

C. J. Black

Words should flow freely through my quill
I should not be writing against my will.

But that is how it is this night
Is there comfort for my plight?

My den can be such a lonely place
I must write something to fill this blank space.

I know once I set my mind to writing
Something will emerge, it may not be overly exciting.

If it were, now there would be a plus
This would leave me feeling quite nonplussed.

At this point, with the candle melting slow
Filled with what could only be described as an inner glow

A burning desire you might say, to satisfy this need
Failure, not being part of my vocabulary – means I will succeed.

So, now as I sit – a word in your shell like ear
Never allow it enter your head – that dreaded word called fear.

Words will flow freely through your quill
You’ll write with confidence, not against your will.

With this proverb I am at one –
“Well begun is half done”

Cha Sara Sara.

C. J. Black©β
31/08/2014 22:23:35

A Continuum.

A Continuum.
C. J. Black

I would never class this as solitary confinement
Sitting here with quill in hand, I find unspoken contentment.

Surrounded by familiarity will never breed contempt
As for other duties or obligations I can never be exempt.

It is not as though you’re seated anchored to a chair
Finding it difficult to get words to fit – never do despair.

Your creation will evolve of that there is little doubt
And when you eventually cross the finish line
You can shatter the sound of silence by giving a loud shout out
Showing two fingers, to the elephant in the room, retire contented with your glass of wine
Or perhaps you’re a coffee person or maybe you enjoy your green tea
Whatever is your tipple, it’s deserved don’t you agree?

After a little R&R, rest and relaxation
Following partaking of your favourite libation.

If you are like me you will return and once more take your seat
Write upon a different thought, an entirely different drum beat.

Mentally, I suggest there is a certain thread we follow
At some stage the spool will run out, I just hope it will allow –

Me, to find a way to bring this poem to a conclusion
If not believe you me, in my head will be absolute confusion.
So that’s it now in its raw state, my arms I now extend
I’ll close the book and walk away, could this possibly be the end?

C. J. Black©β post

A Shining Light.

C. J. Black

Wonderful feeling? Another night to sit and write
Working away until it breaks daylight
I thoroughly enjoy being a night owl
Going silently in search of words – always on the prowl.

I guess everyone who writes has a different approach?
Some like peace and solitude, others don’t mind if on them you encroach
They more than enjoy the ‘interruption’ say it helps their train of thought
While I work best in total silence or else I become nervous and distraught.

Whichever formula you apply – it was designed to be-
Once you’re comfortable in your skin, with this would you agree?
Putting pen to paper continuing to engage-
Watching your words mysteriously spill and fill a blank page-
Writing nothing, as a writer to you is of little benefit
So continue putting pen to paper – re-read and then edit.

C. J. Black©β

I once knew a Jenny.

C. J. Black
Bird watching (Of the feathered species of course).
That’s where I was at this particular Friday morning.
Sitting in the conservatory sheltering from the blistering sun.
Watching swallows do a merry dance, crows lined up on telegraph wires watching perhaps, a murder of crows ducking and diving high above in a cloudless sky?
The dog, also bird watching, as the young from nearby nests swooped down feeding no doubt on little insects which would be hardly visible to the naked eye.
While birds, those large people carriers left vapour trails behind them as they jetted off to the four corners of the earth.
All this, quietly observed by this impeccably dressed magpie, who sat motionless on the roof of the annex for what seemed like an age.
The phone rang shattering the silence, and frightening the magpie.
I answer, remember me the voice at the other end of the line queried, it’s me Jenny.
Ah! Jenny lovely to hear from you it’s been quite a while how is life treating you?
I sat there, phone on speaker while she went on and on about this tragedy and that tragedy, the operations she had, the marriage breakdown, the family emigrating.
I tried on a couple of occasions to intervene but she was on a roll, like there was no tomorrow and she had to lay it all on me.
I let her talk away while I was in the kitchen brewing up a strong mug of coffee.
Returning, I picked up the phone, Jenny I said I’m so sorry for all your troubles but where do I know you from?
She said why, John is that not you? No I said this is Maurice here – voice at the other end of the line, Oops, wrong number and hung up.
A bird of a different feather I thought as I replaced the HOT phone back in its receiver.
C. J. Black©β