Thundering breakers.

Yesterday beach side the sun shines
Down by the seashore seagulls hovered

Today a totally different scenario
No geoligical chit-chat
Shredded sunlight

Waves beating, hearts beating
Seagulls scouring
Haunting the seashore

Standing breathless
Breath being frozen
The elements, jewels
In the crown of nature.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.


An omen.

In search of inspiration
In utter desporation
Walking inside himself.

The black scrying mirror
Poured out spurious information.
He froze, was struck dumb
How could he fortell what was to occur
The mirror knew.

Look on the bright side
Don’t allow your dark side dominate
Avoid those who mess with your head
Don’t allow people drain you.

Choose wisely
Think big, but
Remember it’s the little things that matter
You can’t recover the stone after the throw.

A mind at ease with itself
Is a tangible thing
Taking time to shape your poem or story
Is beautiful in its entire.

Finding that space
Which allows the thought process develop
Brings forth gems.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.

Artistic digression.

Words, hidden in the mind of the poet
Give off a warm glow once placed upon his canvas
Mother nature and Father time intermingle
To take the breath away.

Easier it is to write a poem
Than walk between raindrops
The poet likes to saunter in a field of words
Watching rain awakened flowers come alive.

Once the indentation is made
Words are coupled together forever and a day
As raindrops slide from a leaf
The poet returns to the quietness of his thoughts.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.

Fallen Lilies by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

We will surround you with silence

Like the voices of our children never to be heard again

We will surround you with fallen lilies

Like each of one our children cut mid bloom

We won’t ever know what to do

With a hypocrite’s thoughts and prayers

We won’t ever find anything

In a hypocrite’s concern for our grief

But we’ll not match the hardness of such hearts

By hardening our own

We will not meet such hearts with violence

We know too well that path of sorrow

So, we will meet you in silence

Like the voices of our children never to be heard again

We will meet you in fallen lilies

Like each one of our children cut mid bloom

Unlike you

We will do what must be done

Unlike you

We will remember and continue to find days to be thankful for

Mothers rocking babies rocking mothers


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The voice still speaks.

As if rinsing the darkness from his hair
Old age appeared to freeze his body

What once was a curly mop top, now scarce
A marathon runner, now learns of walking aids

Engaging you in conversation, he says age is but a number
Appears mine is nearly up?

My hair may be greying, I’ll not allow the grey matter
Follow down that path

Yes I have lots to grumble about, but what is the sense in that?
Energise your mind and body, not search out excuses

Nothing can stop you from growing old
So be brash, be bold

You may have lost your youthful looks
Live the gifts that you have been given

The path you trod is now winding
But think, did you always walk the straight and narrow?

Live for today, celebrate tomorrow.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.

A composition of words.

As the clock ticks
The hours lead him further away
Further and further away from his thoughts
His thoughts like silent strangers
Silent strangers writing on water
Writing on water washes out with the tide
With the tide rising
Mentally his thoughts wash out to sea
Out to sea where the sun and moon shimmer
On the horizon
On the horizon rogue poems surrender themselves
When this occurs, you realise why birds desire to fly.
(c) Chris Black. Februrary 2018.

The sound of ice cubes

Plonk, plink, plonk
Into her glass of alcholic drink
The tall glass sweetened on the rim
Topped with red cherries
A multi coloured straw umbrella
Long black straw to assist consumption
Following the patience taken by the barman
To mix her drink, the waiter placed it down on a coaster
Following a brief exchange of words
He turned and left the table
She sat for a brief moment admiring her drink
Then with a swift hand movement
She dismantled her drink
Removing all the added extras
Placeing them in the nearby ashtray
Wiping the sugar coating from the rim
She sat back with a glow of admiration
Sipping her gin and tonic contentedly.

The disconsolate bar man remarked
Dust in the wind, my thoughts at times.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.