A double sorrow.

Talk, talk about your worry
Not walk, walk away feeling pain and sorrow
For a mind in turmoil not an easy thing to do
The mind of those in turmoil with nowhere to turn
Is their one and only thought
I have just this bridge to burn.
(c) Chris Black. April 2018


More commentary than poetry?

Before breakfast there were visions and revisions
Satisfaction, hours away it seemed
As indecision followed indecision
My morning measured out in spooned tea leaves
I sit and ponder afraid, afraid there will be no nend result
Yet that fear drives me on, follow not what is a dream
What will become reality
Tomorrow again I’ll be at my table of words
What better company could the writer in me wish for
Silence, a fresh ink well, vellum sheets a steaming hot brew
In solitude as night decends
Poem, concise full bodied, in my eyes complete.
(c) Chris Black. April 2018

What is it about?

Marrying words
Introducing them to each other
Hubbub in the mind
Creates life, death, afterlife
Stirring the senses
Encouraging the reader make their decision
Sentence after sentence
Whether they are reading fake news or otherwise
Take Five musically a la Dave Brubeck
Bockety words suddenly straighten
Poetic medium opens the imagination
To whole new world
For both author and reader
Theraputic in every sense
Lose yourself in another word world.
(c) Chris Black. April 2018


Lost in the country
A living coffin
Family, buried within
Showing frown, smile, some showing nothing
Upright, slouched, douveted up
Tip toeing, stomping, keeping time
Monotone, raised, whispering, shouting, grumbling
Happy, sad, down, highs and lows
The head of the household
Busying herself in the kitchen
Poet, cocooned in his quarters
Keeping a lid on happenings
Master of seclusion, delusion.
(c) Chris Black. March 2018.

Partly real, part dream writing.

Poets, theirs is the teaching mind
Where they allow perceived thoughts unwind
They teach unknown to themselves
The beauty of keyboard, of pen.

We, like sponges soak up the knowledge they express
The true feelings some confess.
Variation is the spice of life, would you agree?
Whether you read the varied works of Thomas Hardy or Charles Bukowski.
(c) Chris Black. March 2018.

A rain filled day.

Later, ate again
Watched through a patio door window
Rain drop fall on rain drop
With pen in hand wrote a little
Ate again
Looked out at leaden skies
Listened as wind whistled through chimneys
Ate again
Interior bright turns to interior night
Landscape the colour of death
Ate again.
Ah! Springtime.
(c) Chris Black. March 2018.

Modern times?

The bus shelter has its tenant again tonight
Bedded down inside a rucksack and black plastic bag
Rain sleeting down, running off the inner window of the shelter
The soup run conversation, similar to last night
The night before and previous nights
Gave very little insight into how he was
Health wise or mentally
He would just say, thank you for the food and if the Lord spares me
I’ll see you tomorrow night
The murmur of those passing by must sound like the volume
Is turned up to the highest of decibles
The orange street lighting beaming in on him
Makes life that much more intorable
From his bed for the night
The yacth club, no more than the lenght of two olympic swimming pools away
Hopping with the sound of party revellers
The emptiness, the hunger for life outside the shelter
Comes once 6am arrives
Life at this time finds him under a nearby bridge
Waking to a world unchanged from
Yesterday, yesteryear, the squalk of gulls
Rats doing what rats do
In this town full of voices, nodding heads
The only constants in his life
Fear and the chime of the 24hr town clock.
(c) Chris Black. March 2018.