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 http://www.chrisblack2012.wordpress.com/poetry/weekly 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


A Bolt From The Blue.

C. J. Black

The rain has eased, the wind has dropped, and the sun has got his hat on
All the seasons bundled together, summer appears long gone.

Dress this morning, khaki trousers, and short sleeved shirt
Went for morning constitutional – had to quickly put on a spurt.

In this part of the country – it’s greeted as, soft day praise the Lord
Dripping wet you nod agreement, you could greet it with a stronger word.

Except there is no point, you can’t change your circumstance
No point being forlorn, chin up, chest out prepare to go the full distance.

It’s a great topic of conversation – the weather
Meet a stranger – undoubtedly it will be, sure we’re all in it together.

Good job we don’t have control of the weather-vane
Or for sure we’d be awash with reasons to complain.

I’m a bit like the weather myself, wet behind the ears – I know I should rehearse
Or I never will be poetry, I’ll continue to be doggerel verse.

C. J. Black©β
Tuesday, 12 August 2014

There is a subtle difference in breathing heavy and heavy breathing!

C. J. Black
“Carpe Diem” did I hear you say?
Honestly, I’d much rather seize the day.

Acting smart using dead language
Do you think I rode into town on the last stage?
Playing around with the Mother tongue
Is not just something reserved for the young?

Us old fogies can be quite adapt?
You must agree and equally accept.

If that first line didn’t capture your attention
I’ll have to look at the wheel again – now there was an invention?

So must I return to my poems opening line?
Perhaps some are not strong enough I opine
Someone may just revisit and again peruse
Perhaps disagree or equally, enthuse?
If you wish go to it, then your thoughts release
Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Sitting here with a Laurel ‘n’ Hardy pose, thinking of an intro-
Again thinking, that’s another fine mess you’ve got me into
Then, with an air of expectation, watch me venture forth
OK I may just fall flat on my face, I always was a hopeless flirt?

Most poems I guess do follow a particular trend
But with this one the rules I intend to bend-
Tangents are vehicles you are meant to go off on-
Every so often, am I right or am I wrong?

It’s wonderful indeed when a plan succeeds
I am easily satisfied once it meets my needs
Unlike the Rolling Stones I get great Satisfaction
A nod of approval to me, is Positive Reaction
Love is all I need, so Please Please Me, Love me Do
So I can Stay Forever Young, and Go Waltzing Matilda With You.

I do realise when you are reading this that it’s Five O’clock Somewhere
So Dance, Dance wherever you may be, A La Rogers and Astaire.

C. J. Black©β
Monday, 11 August 2014

Cork or Screw Cap?

C. J. Black

Hic! Look at the time it’s already half past wine o’clock, time to talk some bull?
Makes little difference now whether it’s glass half empty or glass half full.

As the saying goes laugh and the world laughs with you
Cry and you cry alone
Human nature being what it is there are times when we will be blue
We can’t always be King and Queen and in charge of the throne?
For there to be Kings and Queens there must also be minnows
Giants among men and women, be they bear like or flamingos.

Looking at the world through topped up wine glasses
We sit and utter total gibberish, comment on the social classes.

Those who never partake of the juice of the grape
How do you pass your leisure time – how do you escape?

I like the occasional coffee, I’m partial to my tea
But there is only so much you can imbibe – agree or disagree?

Don’t think now I’m encouraging you to go and pop a cork
Each one to their own poison – I wouldn’t dare pass remark.

It’s coming close to the end of my Chardonnay
So I will finish off this poem as I have little more to say-
Except to thank you for your company if you have followed line by line
I’m off now to celebrate, Hic! Open another bottle of wine.

C. J. Black©β
Sunday, 10 August 2014

A Head Scratcher?

C. J. Black

‘Someday’, now there is a time that will lead you nowhere
No doubt on your arrival you’ll have lots of time to spare
For some, seven days in a week is not long enough
Still they spend lots of those days doing unnecessary ‘stuff’
I think, illogically to my mind I stress to say
That necessary ‘stuff’ can be dealt with efficiently ‘someday’.

I guess we are all guilty of this if the truth be known
Let they who plead not guilty, be the first to cast a stone
Let their actions be recorded, I’ll watch it on replay
Maybe not tomorrow but I promise I will ‘someday’.

C. J. Black©β
Saturday, 09 August 2014

Tracing Footsteps.

C. J. Black.
Pushing in the half door it was as though I had accidently started the old gramophone in the corner of the small hallway – the tune followed me throughout the house.
I often think of home Dee-ol-ee-ay
When I am all alone and far away;
I sing an old refrain dee-ol-ee-ay
For it recalls to me a bygone day.
The clock on the mantle showed the exact time twice daily.
Cobwebs moved gently in the breeze that passed through the place where once there were glass panes.
There were stories aplenty within the four walls of the dilapidated building.
It takes me back again to meadows fair
Where sunlight’s golden rays beam everywhere
My childhood joys again come back to me
My mother’s face in fancy too I see
The old rusted Raleigh bicycle lying against the weeping wall, tyres punctured, child’s seat on the crossbar – where are they now?
A walk through the parlour, wallpaper hanging off the walls brought me into the kitchenette, small round table, three legged stools pushed in underneath, the small open fireplace an old kettle still hanging from the crossbar.
In the only bedroom the most spacious room in the house, a single bed, two matrasses on the floor with springs protruding, one window looking onto an overgrown lawn, a wardrobe in the corner with its door hanging on just one hinge, on top could be seen two old round battered suitcases one showing a label stating cabin class while the other had the name Mary O’Hara Cobh attached.
It was my mother taught me how to sing
And to that memory my heart will cling
I’m never sad alone while on my way
As long as I can sing Dee-ol-ee-ay
On the wall hung the Sacred Heart picture its red light long extinguished.
Beneath that picture hung a family portrait and the words of THAT song –
Though years have come and gone, dee-ol-ee-ay
And though my heart is young my head is grey
Yet the echoes ring, dee-ol-ee-ay
And dear memories forever stay
This song will bring me visions full of light
And sweetest dreams throughout the darkest night
Of all that life can give, that song is best
I’ll take it with me when I go to rest
And when at last my time on earth is o’er
‘Twill ring more joyfully than e’er before
For up to heavens I will take my lay
The angels, too, will sing dee-ol-ee-ay.

C. J. Black©β
Friday, 08 August 2014
Credit for the words of the song (The Old Refrain) in italics interspersed throughout this piece goes to composer Fritz Kreisler.
Born: February 2nd, 1875, Vienna, Austria.
Died: January 29th, 1962, New York City, U.S.A.
The song is from the musical “The King Steps Out” (1936)
The Mary O’Hara referred to in this piece is totally of my choosing and does not refer to any specific person living or deceased.

In Memory of Rhyme,

C. J. Black
I had this thought, perhaps now is the time
To write a piece of poetry in memory of rhyme
What if rhyme died without an obituary?
To write in memory of rhyme seems to me to be obligatory.

I know for me if rhyme had not been invented
In the larger schemes of things I’d be less contented
For how would those who relish writing poetry in rhyme
How would we honestly continue pass the time?

Questions such as these are posed just to prove-
That once rhyme lives we will be in that groove
Once rhyme continues to be nurtured there is little risk-
That the art of writing in rhyme will be put in jeopardy.

The poetry garden will, given time
Once we continue it to nurture, supply us with rhyme
So let us continuously reap what we have sown
If we allow rhyme to die ’twill be too late then for us to mourn.

This may not be the perfect piece, written to honour rhyme
But it clears my head it must be said by accident more than design
Perhaps in the poets graveyard in some far off distant time
A line from this piece can be inscribed In Memory of Rhyme.

Poem = a thing made, thanks to the ancient Greeks-
We have this form to play around with, us poetic geeks
It’s way too late in the day to begin to philosophise –
Perhaps someone more adept would care to exercise-
Their grey matter, and in their own time
Write a solemn obituary, something quite sublime.
With these words this piece I’ll close
Leaving the door ajar for those who write prose-
To take up the baton and without further delay
Write your obituary for prose, let us hear what you have to say.

C. J. Black©β
Thursday, 07 August 2014