A Cob and his Pen.

That rippling sound, easy on the ear

How I gloried in it, not a tear I shed.


The lake mirrored your reflection

Silence, the sound of your nearness.


Reeds swayed in the gentle breath breath

of the following zephyr

touched my soul, its beauty.


Needing comfort the lake is my first port of call.

Never feeling alone.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

Pictures from the mind (14)

The bicycle would be parked

Leaning against the mesh fence

Granny would mutter, mind my roses

While granddad would say

Ah the man with the sealed secrets, put the kettle on.

Everyday at noon the postman would call

He didn’t always have letters but he always had news!

The fresh loaf was cut, strong tea brewed

The postman was the only one we ever saw

Pour whiskey into his tea.

Nothing to report today he’d tell granddad

They’re all above ground

The weather is threatening rain

Hope it holds off for the next couple of hours

Everyday the conversation took the same line

We’d sit in the corner whisper the conversation to each other.

Once the tea was done he’d say

I’ll be off now John Joe once I get this head of steam up.

It never ceased to amaze us

How he held the pipe in his mouth

With just three teeth on top

And no bottom teeth.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

Pictures from the mind (13)

Granny was meticulous where household chores were concerned

Take for instance the mundane job of freshening beds

Each day mattresses would have to be turned

Sheets, pressed by hand, never ironed

Pillow cases changed

If the corners were not tucked in properly

The whole process of bed making would have to be

Carried out again and again.

When we questioned this with –

Sure the beds are going to be tossed again tonight

Her reply never changed

Her mantra was

If something is not worth doing right

Then it is not worth doing at all.

This advice stood us in good stead

As we grew into adulthood.

We so looked forward to those blissful times

Holidays in the country with granny.

We believed she was the only person in the whole world

Who could tell stories

She amazed us with tales from the old days

We would lie in bed out loud thinking

Granny must be so old?

Also we would sit for hours in bright sunshine

Watch as she readied her plot

Sowed seeds and young plants which graced her table

Both with fresh flowers and vegetables.

Just part of granny’s life story.

Treasures to hold on to.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

Pictures from the mind (12)

Holidays were never lame duck days

We were greeted each morning with a warm hug

A mug of hot milk from the cow.

While the cockerel continued to greet the day

Chickens clucked outside the half door.

The sounds from the hen house

Let the household know they had fresh eggs for breakfast.

Wafting throughout the house

The mysterious smells of the farm yard.

The sow house and cow house hives of activity.

Too soon the dog days of schooling returned.

All now long past, yet a solid memory

Which has no idea of time.

Yet for some such memories fade

Like the photograph exposed over time to sunlight.

(c) Chris Black 2017.



Pictures from the mind (11)

The watch in his waistcoat pocket

Kept time as he stepped his way home

His wife of some 50 years fingered her rosary

Praying a safe return.

The poet in us imagines voices

That once were real

Writes words for those who no longer speak.

Words, should no longer be strangers.

A comfort to those who mourn passing.

Hollow only was the chair in which you sat.

(c) Chris Black 2017.IMG_20170622_185257IMG_20170622_185939

Innocent times?

That of ‘Shake Rattle ‘n’ Roll

Kiss curls ‘n’ Brylcreem

Bill Haley his Comets, The Killer

Forbidden Music.

The Devils Music.

Two of its many attractions.

The passage of time

And the ‘sounds’ of today

Make us ‘Oldies’ appreciate even more

The euphony of yesteryear.

Transistor radio, Jukebox

Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent Et Cetera

Yes that eureka moment

Lives long in the memory

45’s 331/3’s

Magic numbers.

(c) Chris Black 2017.


Lying in wait.

Lying in wait, to capture words as they arrive

This will assist greatly the writer in keeping the story line alive

It will not of course be instantaneous

But will happen over a period of time.

Not always guaranteed that each line will rhyme

Only consolation though on which he can depend

At some point in time a poem will be formed.

Once the juices begin to low

The poet will gain an inner glow

Carry on with the task in hand

For that is how his poem is formulated.

(c) Chris Black 2017.