Castle Cafe.

A writer on tour sips his Latte.

Venturing out through patio doors

A sight beholding to the eye

Light fluffy clouds casually drifting along

An azure sky still showing day light

Time 20:50.


Other writers, their chattering voices easy on the ear

Studiously taking notes.


Nearby cattle grazing

In fields which from his vantage point

Give the appearance of burned toast.


Not being at all green fingered

He can only sit and admire

The beauty of colour adorning flower beds

Whisper a thank you for the gardener

Who knows the difference between flower and weed.


Farther out beyond parched land

The impression of sea dividing land from sky.


Then quietness in that

The far off rumbling overhead of a silver bird in flight

Cars passing close by and bird song

Blend beautifully together

In a symphony of sound.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~




Might at some stage these ink stains form a masterpiece?

Never knowing he continues honing, silently moaning

Constantly rising from his seated position

In his head crafting, rewriting then

Watch words fall into place.

Not so much doodling as sketching

Divining, refining

In his own time the ebb and flow of

Thoughts and accompanying words

Frame in his mind a masterpiece.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~


By each second lived

By the minute

By the hour

By day

By night

By the week

By month

By year.

Life is for living

For giving


For sharing

For caring

For loving

Not loving

Circumstances change?

Life is

All encompassing

All toghetherness

All embracing

Life is

Too short

Too long?

Life is

A precious gift

Live it well.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

A name on a page.

Poets, writers in general harvest from a similar world of words

Making their own connections while meandering pathways between meadows

Drifting off into dreamland always with Spectre for company

Many consider the writer a loner

Working away in silence, laying down then bidding farewell to an idea.

He may seem distant yet is far removed from being a loner

A name on a page, laid bare warts and all.

What makes a poem work, this question has been posed many times

The fact that it had to be written perhaps?

Rejection can drive your success.

He strapped himself into the cockpit eager to face the day

Two stout friends from Columbia and Havana assist in what has to be said

Collaborators not dictators

Unknown to themselves offering the writer many lifelines

At seventy with snow on top and worn by weather

Making his own connection, meandering along pathways between meadows.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

First Aid Kit : Emmylou

The Immortal Jukebox

Some things we know to be true.

No life escapes the bitter wind.

Everybody wants to have a home and someone to come home to.

Like The Boss says : Don’t make no difference what nobody says –  Ain’t nobody like to be alone.

Two can easily do what’s so hard to be done by one.

Elizabeth and Darcy.

Tristan and Iseult.

Rochester and Jane.

Scott and Zelda.

Odysseus and Penelope.

Anne and Gilbert.

Everybody’s got a hungry heart.

Every wandering bark is in search of a guiding star.

And, once found, will sail, unafraid, even to the edge of doom.

Everyone yearns to find that voice they were meant to harmonise with.

Someone, a confidante,  who knows just where you keep your better side.

Someone who forgives your falters.

Mere speech cannot wield such matters.

Turn to Song.

To Harmony.

Find someone you can sing out loud with in your…

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