The Dragon breathes.

That volcano in his head

That word explosion


The scent of roses

Manna from heaven

His wounds now soothed

He was to have a clear passage

He had a purpose in life

That vision said –

You are a writer

There are stories to be told

Poetry to unfold

Choose your subject matter carefully

Plot and plan

Take notes

Ask questions, not just of yourself but of others


Close the door on your comfort zone.

Challenge yourself time and time again.

From open wounds words blossom.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

C.S. Lewis, Yeats and an Intermediary

Mere Inkling Press

yeats and lewis.jpg

Among Irish writers who left large imprints on literature, there were a peculiar pair who failed to impress one another when twice their paths crossed. William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) and C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) met in Oxford, and both found their encounters less than inspiring.

Obviously, when the two of them met, Yeats was an internationally renowned pillar of poetry, and Lewis was a young man with a trifling reputation. Oddly enough, they were introduced by an American poet.

[Editorial Note: This is a longer post than most, but it is a fascinating subject that demands more comprehensive discussion.]

William Force Stead (1884-1967) had served in the United States Consular Service. Upon being posted to the United Kingdom, he studied at Queen’s College in Oxford, and was ordained a priest in the Church of England.

His religious life must have been curious, since he apparently explored some of the spiritualism common…

View original post 3,090 more words

It could well happen you know.

That day he found himself off line

You could not see his eyes for tears

What am I to do loudly he sobbed

Read your book was the blunt reply

That won’t solve my problem

In a mumbled voice he replied

My friends

They will think I’m ignoring them

I don’t want TO READ A BOOK


Well we are sorry for your troubles

The boy was just aged nine.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

Clutter is not just “stuff”

365 And Counting

A friend of mine is selling her house. In preparation for putting it on the market, she has been purging for months. Going through every closet, drawer, shelf, cupboard and pantry, getting rid of everything she no longer needs, wants or uses.

I’m smiling, somewhat sheepishly, as I’m writing because it’s something we all go through — usually when we’re about to move. That’s when, after years of accumulating and stockpiling and “saving,” we suddenly spring into action — because the thought of packing it all, unpacking it all and trying to find room for it is more than we can bear.

We went out for dinner last week — my friend and I — it was a catch up of sorts. We’ve both been caught up in our own lives and, although we text and talk on the phone all the time, we haven’t had time to get together…

View original post 259 more words

Taking his leave *(Sequel)

Claire who was from a neighbouring village

And 18 months his senior

First set eyes on Jaimie at a local hop

They got on famously from the first time their eyes met


Jamie’s other best friend was ‘Baa’ the family sheepdog

They would spend hours on end

Walking through meadows fair

He could tell ‘Baa’ all life’s secrets

Knowing they were safe with him


Jaimie was being groomed

For a life which was indeed alien to him

Even though he had just past his 18th year

In his heart he knew

This farming life was not for him


Schooling and mixing

Outside the family circle

Gave him a glimpse of what life

Could be like in the world outside


He was an only child

Mothered and smothered


Living in isolation

In an isolated part of the country

Hoping against hope

His parents tried their living best

To keep him at home


That Christmas,

With extended family gathered

At the ‘Last Supper’

He felt distanced from all conversation

Picked at the feast placed before him, hungry only

For what lay in wait


His mind made up on what his next move

Would be

He wrote that note


Close by neighbours unaware of his actions

Under cover of darkness, took his leave


When eventually the boat docked

A whole new world opened up for him

Felling nervous, excited and breathless

At the thought of being free

Of thumb and apron string


He left his sea legs on board

Back pack strapped firmly in place

Left down his suitcase with a firm thud


They stood for what seemed an eternity

Lost in each others arms


Claire had left home sometime before him

They were far from strangers


Their families left behind

Ignorant of this couples intentions

They were to put matters right in the days following


His mother

Now a broken woman

Left it way too late to show her inner feelings

Father, unable to do so at any time


She visited his room nightly

In its silence



All he left her was that note

Which had an added PS

Those apron strings were choking me


Love Jaimie.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

*Thank you Marie Hunter Atwood –

I hope the your prompt for a sequel worked.

Taking his leave.

All was quiet before the light was quenched

He only picked at his supper

Then, no one noticed his slow gait


The only remark passed was


Nice way to go though


They whispered as one voice


Not really knowing what to say.


He had packed his bag earlier.

It was a simple note he wrote

“The boat leaves early

I don’t want any fussing

I’m just not cut out for this farm work”


He said his goodbyes before boarding

There was now no turning back

He knew in his heart

it was not going to be an easy transition.

They were a very close knit family

who would not see the twisted pain in his face.

(c) Chris Black 2017.