Dreaming of pillars?

Shadows followed as colours faded

Sky blue into grey into burned black night

Gale force winds beating rain against window pane

Eerie feeling as power lines are downed.

 

Admiral Nelson however snuggled up in his comfy kennel snores

Oblivious it seemed of this weather watcher

Yet still he will stir as leaves rustle on the outside.

 

Dog with a soul, faithful friend

Dreaming,Waiting for the Dog Cafe to open

The Menu – never changes

Dried nuts, fresh water, then walkies

Sniff here, pee there

Woff Woff conversation with fellow lead pullers.

 

Master, well he thinks he’s master

Chats sideways to other dog walkers

While expletives are barked at a tom cat.

Ablution done, exercised for the day

Dog treat, kennel time. Dogs life.

(c) ~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

Hear a spoken word version @

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Word formation.

In some remote corner of this evenings sky

Poetic words are placed for eternity

They don’t ever have to see the light of day

Poet satisfied, mind cleared of disarray.

 

Relief palpable.

It is then this little voice pipes up

What is the point hiding your work under a bushel?

Banish this bottom drawer syndrome.

 

How else are you going to get your work out there

Let the world know you have something to declare.

It need not be a poem that will bring the world to a standstill

Heaven knows, it doesn’t have to rhyme.

 

Of course it has to be somewhat coherent

Or else your time will have been wasted

‘Wasted’ erase that word from your vocabulary

Irrespective of what you write, you have succeeded

In some remote corner of this evenings sky

A poem has indeed been transcribed.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

Hear a spoken word version @

 

“Corvus”

Watching, as they swooped over outbuilding roof tops

Wings expanded to glide

While the wind hurtled them back.

 

Watched them climb again

Fearless it seemed against the gale

Banking airplane style.

 

Passed them as road kill

While the scavenger

Picked their bones.

 

 

Will their flock mourn them?

Would the murder of crows

Know of their plight in flight?

 

Observed them through nearby window

Balancing precariously

Engaged in on line conversation.

 

Listen to their chatter

As we breakfast

As they, scrap over morsels.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

Hear a spoken word version @

Climate Change, Mother Earth.

Weather, ever changing

Continues to hurl marl on anything that moves

Oblivious of destruction left in its wake.

 

Given half a chance

If we could go as fast as the wind

An escape route would be quickly hatched

Not to be, so we are left to stew in this ‘pickle’

 

Starved of electrification

Dining by candle light

Nothing romantic about

Cooking on a two ring gas stove?

 

Scout and Guide training

After years of turning our back on it

Appears as Heaven sent

Bean on toast never tasted this good.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

Hear a spoken word version @

Tree of Knowledge?

He sat there in the crotch of a tree

Lost in deep thought

Pen poised as if frozen.

 

What would be the end product?

He would be at a loss to say

Poetry, scrambled words.

 

Untangling, articulating, punctuating

His motivation for the present.

At day’s end hopefully he’d have a poem to present.

 

Never a challenge to sit and write

His place of composure

Assisted him compose.

 

There was a poem to be executed

Proper, not convoluted

Laid out, then computed.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

Accompanying music to #SpokenWord –

The Banks of Green Willow – George Butterworth, Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra.

 

 

 

Sorrow

The replies also make for interesting reading.

Jane Dougherty Writes

Amaya’s dverse prompt yesterday made me look up the meaning of my family names. My dad had one version, which I realise now is non-standard. I never knew what my mother’s name meant until now. Could explain a lot.

On one side hurtful, sorrow on the other,

How could I be other than I am?

From inauspicious names, a quiet fury,

With eyes wide open to see the pain,

Hands outstretched to touch the wounds,

And tongue whiplashed to deny the lies.

Pain and sorrow, in all around I see,

Ancestors who saw it all, abide with me.

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Finding Time to Write by Darlene Foster

Legends of Windemere

Finding Time to Write

You have a great idea for a book. You’ve been thinking about it for a long time, probably years. But you’re too busy with a job, kids, aging parents, volunteer work and life in general. So you put off writing the book. But it is always there, nagging you, begging to be written. If only you had time to write!

Sound familiar?

For many, writing a book seems like an insurmountable task. So they never even start. That is where the problem is, they are thinking about writing an entire book.  Like any large, time-consuming project, to make it happen the task needs to be broken down into doable amounts.

A good way to do this is to set goals – long term, med term and short term goals. These goals should be realistic and time limited. And that will be different for everyone.

A long…

View original post 682 more words

Emmylou Harris, Roy Buchanan, Tommy McLain & Patsy Cline : Sweet Dreams

The Immortal Jukebox

Somewhere East of Eden Dawn breaks.

You open your eyes to greet The Sun.

That lucky old Sun, He got nothing to do but roll around Heaven all day.

All Day.

Now, you have lots to do.

You have goals and tasks and targets.

You have reflections and reviews to consider.

You have outcomes and KPIs to attain.

You have stratagems.

Things to do. Places to be.

Youre on the case. You’re in charge.

All day. Every Day.

Until, eventually, that lucky old Sun has rolled all around Heaven to set in The West.

Now, The Moon has dominion.

Now, you need your sleep before you can face another busy, busy Day.

And, with Sleep, unbidden, unstoppable, come The Dreams.

Everybody has them Dreams.

Dreamers find their way by Moonlight.

The Captain of the Watch and his Guards are no longer at attention – in fact they are carousing in…

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“Don’t worry he’d whisper its clean dirt”

Following Grandad down that grown-up path walk

Slipping on a fresh cow pat Grandad would whisper, don’t worry its clean dirt

Hold tightly onto the aluminum buckets wire handle

Make sure to keep it on an even keel

 

Not spilling a grain of wheat meal.

The meal mixed wither water from a close by spring well

Ground by Grandads hardened hands fed both chicken and pig.

On return the bucket was filled with turf to build the night fire

 

“Waste not want not” Grandads motto.

Grandad was a dab hand with an axe

Chopping just enough wood to burn until sleep time

What thoughts we cherish of time spent with Grandad

 

Never a cross word did he utter.

Life’s lessons learned in fields of gold, by glowing fire light

As we rambled through mushroom covered fields

He would never tire of questions asked.

 

Walking solitary bohereen’s, driving cows home for milking

We strolled and dreamed in silence.

Living in this artificial civilisation, in the sunset of our years

Remembering the perfect excellence of times long past and Grandad.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

 

Night Rain

A serious piece of writing, do check it out. Reblogged on Today from the Man Shed.

Gospel Isosceles


“To imagine how the use of our resources deplete’s someone else’s — unless we develop that capacity personally and nationally, we all die. We must see connections or die. Justice is the ability to see connections and live by them.”

— James Carroll, A Terrible Beauty

The world is my prophet
turning my face to fix my gaze
upon the diaspora of my own cells
the promises that dissolve upon leaving the tongue
the prayers that never left
and the self-intoxication from their potency
and the starved faces for whom they were supposed to have medicated

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