Walt Page an artist with a pen do check out his work he in turn will engage.

Walt's Writings

Though we are separated by distance
Our hearts and souls are friends

We all live our separate lives
And meet here
To share the gift of our writing

Though the distance is great
The friendship we share is greater
No distance can keep us apart
In our minds, in our hearts
Or in our writing

The bonds we share are everlasting
And in our hearts
The distance disappears

©Walt Page 2018 All Rights Reserved

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I shall go mad in a minute
How to stop this from happening
Make a smart decision sit, write
Suddenly the dark cloud will lift.
I’m devoid of detail as yet
What I do know though
I could reach out and grab a sunbeam.
Invisible words are making their presence felt.
This poem as yet incomplete
Showing signs of becoming more than fantasy
A ray of hope so the writer in me must push forward
Some days the pen will sing, toes will tap
So must I play the cards I’m dealt
Who knows if I take my seat at the Steinway I might knock out a tune?
Truth is not always black and white nor found in the written word
Naturally it’s best not to think about the bigger picture or is it?
(c) Chris Black. May 2018

Dressed in primary colours

By the old mill stream below the bridge

Frogs perilous on lily-pads, wild flowers blossom

Ducks and drakes add to the spectacle.


Gazing down on waters

Flowing beneath those birds

Peering at the rippling reflection of life.


Seeking a theme for a poem

Nature is the great benefactor

Being a landlubber has indeed its benefits.


An hour or a cloud later

“Music” fills the air from a nearby hostelry

The Rock ‘N’ Roll years are being turned back.


A zephyr twirling pink petals from a cherry tree

Patrons enjoying their coffee and cigarette

While shooting the breeze at a nearby coffee shop.


We live so much of our lives without talking to people

Freedom to write about these fleeting moments

Is in itself an experience.

© Chris Black. May 2018


Evoking emotion.


In the poets room today

Not a place for dreaming but being

Being in this place of silence

Drifting in and out of wordy thoughts

Mind being pierced by inquisitiveness

Solitude in a garden of remembering

Having sought for happiness everywhere

It was found in a corner of the poet’s room

With a book filled with inspiration

A book cannot kill nor cause war?

© Chris Black. May 2018

Homage to Spring – John Spillane : The Dance of The Cherry Trees

The Immortal Jukebox

To everything there is a Season.

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring.

A time to be born.

A time of juice and Joy.

A strain of Earth’s sweet being in the beginning.

A time to laugh and dance.

A time to embrace and love.

A time to rejoice and do good.

To everything there is a Season.

Spring is a conflagration of green fires – a blaze of growing.

The bull-frogs are sounding!

The Swifts are back!

All things flash and flare!

Scimitar upsweep.

Fireflies ascending.

Time is the fire in which we burn.

Time to throw open the doors and windows.

Go wherever your boot heels are ready to wander.

The Earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.

Hearts run over.

Run over with dateless expectancy, tongueless promise, indefinable desire.

Something gathers.

Gathers in the throat.

In the chest.

Something blinds the eyes.

The air is…

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Today it rained words.

Where does real poetry come from?
Inspiration or perspiration?
Once the writer postpones writing down their thoughts
Their writing implement cools down.

The poet brings something to the blank page
Which didn’t exist before?
Some poets write to make some noise
Others rhyme for fun.

The economy of the poet is at times questionable
This of course is not always true but worth mentioning
Dwelling in the cathedrals of the imagination
At times brings to light just, once upon a time.

Then again from once upon a time
Did there not come great writers?
What a skilled writer can do with a pen
Is write because they have something to say.
© Chris Black. May 2018