Whipping it into shape.

Started out as a matchbox, ended up a tea chest.

C. J. Black


Life being a one way street

We should be kind to all those whom we meet.


Enjoy it while you can, try and stay on the right track

Life; is a one way street and there is no one coming back.

It’s quite alright to party and have a real good time

But it’s very hard to write a poem when you get stuck for a rhyme.

Only these few lines in already and it appears that I am lost

Yes some days; I’m the dog, some days I am the lamp post.

No point in getting discouraged, sure it’s just words on a page

No one except yourself will know of your feeling of sheer outrage.

It really is gratifying to know that no one will ever know

Of the bother that you went through to put this poem on show.

They probably think – he sits there and writes words at will

Like the artist painting a race horse – He still ends up with a still.

I know I will never be a proper poet, no matter how hard I try

So don’t attempt to follow me – there are many better poets then I.

I will finish off with this line, I am not saying anymore

Except, those to whom nothing is impossible, never tried to slam a revolving door.


  1. C. J. Black©β

Thursday, 30 July 2015


Something borrowed something blue.

A Doll called Peaches.

  1. C. J. Black.

The voice at the end of the telephone line

Faceless, continued the weeping and crying

He thought he could read me like an open book

The tremor in her voice left me totally dumbstruck.


I tried my utmost to calm the situation

I knew not who the caller was, nor would she reveal her location

Explaining to her that her call was not in vain

And that I would listen for as long as she wished – once it eased her pain.


He had beaten her to within an inch of her life she said

All was good the night before as we laid on our wedding bed

Suddenly, as though taken over by the devil

My husband turned from lover into a man of evil.


The more she talked the calmer she became

I told her who she was talking to, she revealed her name

An hour had passed or maybe more

When a loud banging could be heard on her bedroom door.


Raised voices could be heard coming down the telephone line

Recognising those voices she assured me – all now will be fine

Just then the line went dead – there was no more I could do –

Be assured, this has been a fictitious poem – not one word of it is true.


  1. C. J. Black©β

Wednesday, 29 July 2015




Just for the fun of it!

Red Top Station.

Seated here on the thunder box

Trousers down around your socks

A room to sit and contemplate

To watch the world go slipping by

Read your morning paper

Study the sports pages

Suddenly – knock upon the door

Hurry up your in there ages.

C.J. Black©β



The BIG sneeze.

Streaming eyes,

Running nose,

Symptoms of flu

What to do?

Pill pop,

Hope to stop

Cold sweat,

Sickly feeling

Head thumping

Major sneeze

Some ease

Hot toddy

Straight to bed

Duvet up

Cover head

Next day throw a sickie

Then recover – one flu over.

C.J. Black©β

Tuesday, 28 July 2015


I know my sheep and they know me.

Inspired by an old photograph.

  1. C. J. Black.

It’s not easy being old

Even on a sunny day my body feels the cold.


Sitting alone, longing to talk

This arthritic body to sore to walk.


Sitting in my favourite armchair by an empty grate

A mug of tea to dunk my biscuit in, now that would be great.


Rain beating against the window pane, makes an eerie sound

Fetch me my pen and paper Dear – in my head these words go around and around.


But I am all alone now – you’d think after all these years –

At the memory of her passing – I’d have no more salty tears.


Yes we were friends and lovers – 60 years we were together

We travelled many a long and winding road – it’s nearing time that I joined her.


The family deserted me when I became a burden

I’ll never know of their reaction when they draw that final curtain.

“Fear not for when I’m gone be ye not deterred

There will be another shepherd elected to take charge of the herd”

  1. C. J. Black©β

Monday, 27 July 2015




List of Paying Lit Mags/Journals from Poetry Has Value

Trish Hopkinson

Poetry Has Value is a blog by professor and poet Jessica Piazza. The blog description reads:

“Recently, I was inspired by the poet Dena Rash Guzman’s personal challenge to send her poetry to paying markets in 2015. I was so inspired, in fact, that I decided to spend the next whole year submitting poetry ONLY to paying journals and markets, and recording what happens in this blog. I also decided to use this space to simultaneously explore deeper questions of poetry’s value and worth (monetary or otherwise.)”

There are several interesting posts from other authors on the site, including one from friend and fellow poet E. Kristin Anderson on her experience with a speculative fiction mag. The articles explore issues whether or not poetry is a commodity, why prose pays more, etc. Jessica has also added a great resource for all poets looking to submit to paying markets and…

View original post 100 more words

Opposite of sinistral.

Do give it a quick shufty.

  1. C. J. Black.

Today, I’m setting out to write this poem in rectos

Just for clarification for the reader – this is what I propose.

I understand, once written no one will know the difference

Except myself of course, understand, I can suffer the consequence.


Explanations are at times required as a rite of passage

Otherwise the reader may quickly disengage?

As the author, we must try until they reach the end

Write in simple language so all can comprehend.


Your written work irrespective of its genre –

You would hope as the finished product, will be treated with the utmost care.

While composing this poem, with words, I’ve tried to be economic

My hope is that it has for you, perceived to be seriocomic?


“This dear reader you’ll be glad to know, is a redacted poem

Its further contents, be assured will forever remain unknown

If one cannot write at times with tongue placed firmly in cheek

The outlook for this writer at least would be rather bleak”

  1. C. J. Black©β

Sunday, 26 July 2015




Passing time.

The word well is bottomless.

  1. C. J. Black

As I momentarily pause for thought

The process of thinking kicks into gear

This writing process will not come to naught

I can relax once more and have no fear.


The word well is bottomless

Which for the writer is a good complaint?

This indicates that there should always be success

The fear of failure should be at all times faint.


Writing, it need not be a lonely occupation

Your Quill and notebook are your closest friend

Keep the mind busy – steer clear of the do nothing temptation

Success will come to you, on that you can depend.

  1. C. J. Black©β



Saturday, 25 July 2015


Alphabetically speaking.

Spinning a web to ensnare someone.

  1. C. J. Black.

The silence, on entering my writing den

Astounds me again and again.

Sitting alone listening to nothing but my heart beating

Listening intently, I can hear that spider breathing!


Caught up in this web of silence

Away, miles away from the outside world of violence

By the light of the moon, watching cigar shaped clouds sail by

I heave a long contented sigh.


Situations such as this, assist the writer in me

Being honest with myself, it does not always guarantee –

A result to satisfy this being

Weaving a patchwork quilt of words can be awe inspiring?

Urging me on in my quest

To give of my very best

Each time I take my Quill in hand

Knowing I will obey its command

Can indeed be most gratifying

Expressing oneself through the alphabet is so satisfying.


Going in search of the answer is not the answer I believe

It will take a lot more than that, this poem to conceive?

Picture whitecaps out at sea for a poetic theme

This concept can then be transformed into a poetic scene

Now your blank canvas looks a lot more inviting

The prospect of the finished product now is a lot more exciting.


What started out as a monkey puzzle many lines ago?

Has been knocked into place blow by blow by blow.


“I try to be solution focussed at all times

This is not as easy as it reads when I am short on rhymes”


  1. C. J. Black©β

Friday, 24 July 2015


Treasured accessories.

Leftover from another era.

  1. C. J. Black

A pair of tan leather cowboy boots

Cuban heels, wear them now as a recluse?

Not the style of skinheads

City slickers, or those teds

Lie at the bottom of a clothes press

With a blue check shirt and jeans to dress.

None will ever see again the light of day

It pains my Achy Breaky Heart to have to say.

They have moved with me now, for neigh fifty years

To remove them now would I shed salty tears?

I doubt it, as they hold no treasured memories

But why would I remove such aged accessories?

Their time will come around again as sure as God made little apples

The wearer probably will be scoffed at by those wearing Jesus sandals?

Once when they were all the trend no remarks were passed

But trends are just that, and will continue to be in the past

But my leftovers will have a place of their own, as long as I’m around

I may just have to take them with me, when I’m going underground-

Or else for them will be found, an informal burial place

That is the reason they’ll come with me when I have run my race.

Leftovers from another era I am told just add to the clutter

But they are better where they are now and not discarded in the gutter.


  1. C. J. Black©β

Thursday, 23 July 2015



Living in the shadow of fear.

Suffer little children.

Living in this wonderful but rather weird world gives one cause to sometimes worry when so called leaders of peoples act in diabolical ways.

What causes them to create such havoc and fear in people is something hard to comprehend and quite impossible to defend it must be stressed.

Every other day seems to bring to light another catastrophic episode in the life of innocent people both young and old, the mentality of those on the ground who carry out such deeds seem not to be for questioning by parties looking in from the outside.

When they have the temerity to question it appears especially to the naked eye that the real truth can not or will not be broadcast for those on the outside to pass judgement, one must offer a great deal of gratitude to those brave medics and reporters who hit the ground running to expose such travesties at absolute risk to life and limb.

Living in my own little cocoon away far away from these happenings, I guess like thousands more I flick over newspaper pages and switch radio/TV channels away from scenes of destruction and sights of body bags and open graves, helpless as how to offer support except to offer up a prayer to which ever God one believes in for the innocent who suffer.

Let me round off by posing the often asked question and possibly starting another debate, if there really is a God why this continuous slaughter of the innocent?

  1. C. J. Black©β