A shaggy dog story. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

Kindness and eagerness, that’s Admiral Nelson

The Burmese mountain dog

Willing to please, dislikes being ignored

When out and about no burrow is left unexplored

He carries his sumo wrestler body with grace

Ambles, yes that’s about his pace

Suits his master fine…

He’s at the stage in life where learning new tricks is a bore

Admiral Nelson rolls over for a belly rub, he knows the score

He loves the word ‘walkies’ detests the word VET.

He offers you the sad eye that says am I not your pet

Perhaps he remembers back when he met Cleopatra

A beautiful jet black Great Dane

That was for him a life changing experience.

Once he is warm and fed he feels safe and happy

Much like his master, age is a great leveller

Rituals, now he performs them religiously

He can’t settle down without doing what appears like a rain dance

At night he snores and dreams about who know what?

Cleopatra most probably or come morning, leaving his mark on the centuries old oak tree. Then breakfasting.

© Chris Black. January 2019.

#Mansbestfriend #AdmiralNelson #BurmesemountainDog #Poetry #amwriting


Would I tell a lie? Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

The sound of the train, clickity clack, clickity clack

As it hurtled along miles of railway track

Roaring through tunnels, darkness, silence, silence, darkness

The lady in the adjoining seat reading, dozing, dozing reading

The chattering classes, endless conversation

The arrival in the carriage of the food trolley

Brings the rummaging for change

The half turn of some in their seat

As they extract notes from purse or wallet

Husbands with wives sit bolt upright

Open their kindle and mobile phone

During a two and a half hour journey, hardly a passing glance

Lovers cling tightly to each other

While husbands with someone else’s wife does likewise

And of course vice versa it must be stated

A soft child cries intermittently for the entire journey

Of course you have the lap top kid

Ear phones turned up full volume

Make that annoying hissing sound, which they can’t hear

Train journeys an interesting way to commute and observe.

One can form all sorts of opinions on life

Then transfer those to a blank page

Leave others to judge whether they are facts or falsehoods.

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

The Big Match.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Back in the time of the crackly wireless when I was but a chap and summer was summer.

They gathered in granny’s rose garden to listen to the big matches, lying off, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

The voice of Michael O’Hehir could be heard crackling in far off meadows.

All Ireland football and hurling final days were great days of celebration.

The excitement and discussion leading up to the ball or sliotar being thrown in was all about who was the best player, who might win and by what score.

It was made all the more exciting if the county colours or that of a neighbouring county was involved and if there was the odd skirmish.

The window in the parlour was propped up by a broken chair leg

The crackly wireless placed on the sill, volume turned up full tilt.

Tea and gur cake was laid out for all at half time, when the excitement of the first half was talked about loudly.

The conversation could go like this, that full back sure he’s built like a brick wall and, God blast that forward anyway he should surely have scored from there, the referee should be wearing that teams jersey. Yes the conversation could get quite heated.

Bottles of stout, they could be swallowed off any time during the game.

As a chap ear wigging, I learned a lot of new choice words, these men really knew their onions grandad told me.

Once the whistle blew for the second half everyone had retaken their place.

The power of prayer was the main topic coming up to the full time whistle.

Pray harder John Joe they would shout at grandad we could do with a draw for another day out.

Electrification and age soon put the kibosh on those happy times.

Once the scattered community got their own wireless they stayed at home.

The only ones who socialised in the old fashioned way visiting for the big matches were bachelors and widow men.

© Chris Black. January 2019 #Poetry #shortstories #amwriting

#I understand this is very parochial and will make sense to very few, it came to mind from an article I was reading about the late great #Michael O’Hehir a famous Irish sports commentator who also covered the funeral of President Kennedy.

It is fiction with a smidgen of fact. Feel free to comment and or ask questions.

Even if he says so himself.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Some of his poems are evocative

Others wordy painted pictures

There is the odd passionate poem

Measured poems

Poems full of sadness

Real and imaginative journey poems

In the mix also, rubbish poems

Odd rhyming poems

Tuneful poems

Out of tune poems

Walking, talking poems

Poetry on the elements

Factional and fictional

Animal poetry

Domestic poems

Day, night and seasonal poems

Haiku, acrostic, sonnet and villanelle

Pub, grub, and coffee poems

Story poems and prose

Dream poems

Prayerful poems and careful poems

Poems from where he can, from himself extract the Michael

In the poets Man Shed many words are weaved.

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

A tribute to the word

I am so glad to have come upon this SHARE Paddy, thank you and belated Happy New Year from YES at the moment Sunny South East.


words blog 4


Like many other things which we take for granted and that go unappreciated for their value and importance are words. Simple, humble utterances, scribbles and thoughts that have been key to our development, as humans and as civilisations.

Intangible and useless to those who do not understand them, yet mighty and powerful when used in context and in an intelligible way.

A tribute to this awesome basic element of human life can never be enough when you think of how it has served humanity.  This writing is a humble attempt in trying to focus on this great little thing we call Word.

Probably one of the most glorious tributes to the Word is found in the opening of St John’s Gospel – “In the beginning was the Word: the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

Ultimately, even the sciences must bow to the phenomenon of words…

View original post 816 more words

All a ball of smoke.

~The Poet’s Poet~

As one word borrowed another.

What about yourself then he asked

Do you think you’ll chance another?

With a fat salary like yours

It is brandy I’d be drinking

What I drink and what I earn is my business

He wasn’t at all pleased with that riposte

I don’t like your attitude

Sure there you are, up in the big house

Roaming around all alone

I could have answered but kept my mouth shut

Cat got your tongue he asked

We sat in silence for a short period

Then he turned to me with that sly smile and said

Do you know how dangerous rats are?

They carry that Weill’s disease

Your man that was sitting two stools up from us

Shifted fairly smartly

Little did he know our conversation was a pure wind up

He might think twice next time about

Latching on to others conversations.

Strange things happen in public houses?

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Making a memory.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Standing on the bridge

Listening to the church bells chime

Looking on as fishermen tend their trawlers

Small boats anchored off shore, bobbing

Some covered by from the harshness of winter

Endless streams of traffic coming and going

To who knows where?

On the quay front, a covered ice rink

Swarming with young and old alike

Dog walkers, some with pooper scoopers

Some without.

11:00 am and there is a great buzz about the town

School holidays and after Christmas sales

Attract like a magnet.

Pop into the friary church, peaceful and tranquil

Light a candle for the departed souls

Embrace the sound of silence

Return a nod to a stranger

Retire to a nearby hotel, open a book just purchased.

Relax with a cappuccino.

© Chris Black January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

The ritual.

~The Poet’s Poet~

My taste buds were bursting

You stood there, temptingly

Devils brew?

NO, Golden Nectar

Pint sized

Black with a Bishops collar

Perfectly turned out

Mine, yes my pint of stout

Reaching out

I clasped you tight

Lifted you from the bar counter

Slowly I drew you too my lips


Took one more admiring glance


One large swallow

Replaced you on the bar

It may be winter

But one swallow never made a summer

A nod in the direction of the barman

A companion was on the way

Black with a Bishops collar

Golden nectar.

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #Guinness #Bishops collar a reference to the creamy head on a pint of Guinness.

Dr. Follicle he is not.

~The Poet’s Poet~

He remembers the time he had plenty

In his thirties, now he’s double twenty

A charmer they called him

When he asked them to dance

He has a shiny plate now

Which leaves him little chance.

But it’s said that God loves a trier

He has given no thought to, retire.

Oh, how he wished he’d looked after his hair

Treated it with love and care

Now, he can grow hair on his chest and his chin

Up his nostrils and in each ear

Alas on his head it won’t grow

This battle he just cannot win

So he’ll have to make do, remember the good times

He had flair and a head of blonde hair.

© Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Listen to a #SpokenWord version @

There are many curious things to show.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Poetry, makes things happen?

Still in its written form, survives.

This days “madness” now begins

As pen is poised.

As quickly as wind blew out a cloud

He wrote, wrote loudly.

Away from the maddening crowd

He, lead a gentle life.

Delving at times into his darker musings

Not always is there eloquence and beauty

The darkness at times leaves him breathless.

Great feeling though to be utterly consumed.

Thus he wrote.

Walking through the woods

In the music of wind and rain

Strange and beautiful song.

Rhythm and musical rhyme

Disturbed by a lightening flash

The leaden echo of the woods.

As clouds parted and sun peeped through

He sat beneath an aged birch tree, book in hand

Dwelling on Mother Nature and Father Time.

(c) Chris Black. January 2019

#Poetry #amwriting