Good Morning Monday.

It’s taken just seven days for you to return and the world is a changed place.

There has been a major bridge burn since the last time you were here.

The armies around the world continue to have a go at demolishing the fragile peace the civilised world longs for:

It really is getting too much to handle, it’s becoming a total blur.

News bulletins are becoming something you want to miss, hiding your head in the sand.

It is not going to go away, you know, if you believe differently you’re at nothing.

Let us hope that the person in charge steers well clear of that RED button.

(c)Chris Black.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Composed back in 2016, published in my book of poetry and short stories Same Train, Different Track.

I was reminded of it earlier this evening by a blog post from Fransi Weinstein – 365 and Counting. If you are not familiar with her weekly post do check it out always interesting.


While a dog barks at the moon.

Lulled by faint breezes of a summer eve

We strolled hand in hand along a glassy beach

Waves lapping the shore line

Sun setting


This evening born for lovers

We glory in its being

You, I and the rising moon

I wish I could buy you tomorrow


As the stage curtain falls on another day

Wending our way homewards steal a kiss

Sleeping on a feather bed

Sigh, nothing happens, no one cares.


When we awake, morning shining

Bird song fills the air

An angel arising to comfort the world

All now well and God is in his heaven.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @





Following years of waiting.

Many years ago she said

What turned out to be goodbye;

Now alone I sleep in my double bed

And cry


So I, as I grow grey and old

Must find someone else to woo

Rolling over, the right side feels so cold

Someone who will be true


It came to pass on a bright summer day

In a coffee shop we both frequented

To her friend I over heard her say

That man there, with him I am tormented

I cast a smile across the room

Our friendship was cemented.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Of another time.

As night time falls, during a writing break

I sit with just my thoughts

At my table of words

We do not speak to each other.


Filling my pipe, striking the match

Relaxation hovers over me

In silence I smoke my pipe

While a fox nearby raids a hen house.


The inner relationship I have with

Thought, pen and paper

Far out weighs the relationship

Of farmer and fox.


After readying the pipe it is again

Time to plan another attack

Back to the drawingboard

Strip back words written, taking no prisoners.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

The Meters : Mardi Gras Magic – They All Asked For You

Check this out, get into the groove

The Immortal Jukebox

This week it’s been school holiday time here.

So, you hope for blue skies, warm winds and sun kissed picnic afternoons.

Dream on!

From dark and glowering daytime skies fell apocalyptic rain.

Scouring winds shook the trees which at night stood spectrally shrouded in deep mist.

Though we had never heard him before a mournful dog, let’s properly call him a Hound, assaulted our ears with low moans interspersed with window rattling barks.

Nothing for it but to dream of a different clime filled with balmy magnolia scented breezes and the appetising aroma of crawfish boils.

Nothing for it but to dream of a City, The Music City, filed with rambling musicians and revelling crowds all in thrall to the rhythm.

The Rhythm.

Time to reside in the City of Dreams.

Time to take a Streetcar named Desire.

Time to sing and dance abondonly in the streets and on the…

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