Moonlight and rainstorms.

Just as the elevator doors lurched apart

It struck him

This is where this poem should start

Alien faces trooped out one by one

While those patiently waiting to enter stood aside

Some perhaps left memories inside

Those entering do the very opposite?

If you go in search of who wrote these words

Who do you look for male or female?

The ghost of times past?

A poet of the present?

Someone with a head full of ideas

Or perhaps full of sawdust

All is never black and white in the writerly world

Perhaps you won’t, never will find the culprit

Yet the writer has trust always in the written word

The door opens you step in or out

Think on the choices made and the consequences

In the flickering light apparitions sometimes show themselves

They are just that.

Once the door opens in the poets mind

It could well be the end of the world as he knows it.

Yesterday – walked through a cemetery

Dead interesting.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~


See The Tide Turn.

In the anaemic half light

He finds this time when the inquisitive mind is at its brightest

No need for alarm call

The call of early morning suffices

Looking out on the grey world

Spills words onto a white grey lined page

Paints a poetic scene

Yellow sun trying hard to brighten  Morning

Soft rain falling at a slant  Silently

Fresh coffee permeating  House

Mellow music modulating  Elbow

Stop take a moment to listen  Look around

Jolene, Dolly Parton another easy on the ear and eye combination

Spotify a welcome distraction from  WAR WAR instead of JAW JAW

Sweet Dreams are made of this sing The Eurythmics

As the anaemic half light gives way

To a glowing ball of light in a clear azure sky

Love Affair sing Bringing On Back The Good Times.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Also on


Now grab the nearest CD/ALBUM cover or more if you feel brave enough.

Rattle your Green Tambourine

Write a story loosely based on song titles/song lyrics

On Your Marks, On Your Marks Get Set, Get Set, Go

In the House Of The Rising Sun

God Only Knows

Silence Is Golden

It’s there Mr. Tambourine Man sings

He Ain’t Heavy Hes My Brother

Night In White Satin sing I can’t Let Maggie Go

While roaming the Blue Bayou

The scent of Flowers In The Rain

Give them the Subterranean Homesick Blues

As a Brown Eyed Girl Turns, Turns, Turns Whiter Shade Of Pale

When she hears a  Bird On A Wire

Whistle Good Morning Sunshine.

Angie, Me And Bobby MCGee 

Decide to check out Shiloh Town

OH Happy Days, Hallelujah

That’s Bringing On Back The Good Times chants Judy

Do you Know The Way To San Jose anybody Ruby Tuesday the Taurus asks?

While this Summer Breeze continues to Make Me Smile

I’m off to discover a New World In The Morning

After Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay

Hoping to catch a glimpse of the Elusive Butterfly

I’m going to Take Five quit the Daydream

Don those Handbags And Gladrags sing out her Simple Song Of Freedom

For this Sunday Morning She’s Not There to Light My Fire

And We are nearly Out Of Time

Instead Everybody’s Talkin’

Feeling Mellow Yellow

Some Pointing the Finger Of Suspicion

Calling out Hey Joe (You Shot Your Woman)

What’s going on One who’s an Aquarius cried out

While brushing her Hair, you can Let The Sun Shine In (The Flesh Failures)

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~


Floating Hotel.

They looked like Lilliputian people

So high up were they

Waving frantically as the vessel docked

Then scurrying off

Cameras flashing

They hadn’t set foot on dry land for a whole week!

A whole week

What did they expect?

After all it was a cruise liner holiday they had booked

Eager beavers

People weavers

Street crawlers

Window shoppers

Cafe diners

Avid winers

Pernickety eaters

A holiday of 5* treatment

Nothing like this

On tar and cement

Still you pays your money

And you takes your chance




Take a chance

One night stand


Back on board



From terra firma

To the ocean waves

Bed down 5* style

Forward to the next docking station.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~





Struggling to survive.

Windy waffle for Wednesday

Where else would you want to be?

Here, he hears them holler

Anaemic academics adorn archives


Boisterous broadsides being bowled belligerently

Munching memoirs

Tittle tattle talk

Bird brain banter

Paper print produced by the poet’s poet

Capable of cultivating cack-handed codwallop

Pontificating, passing the buck

August 1st and all about, anarchy.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Overlooking the Town Square.

The kindness of strangers

So freely given

One has to experience at first hand.


This is not something pre – planned

Or is it?


On a darkened, dimly lit street

In the semi shelter of a doorway

Bedded down in a crumpled state

They lay.


While others passed by

On turning the corner

This young couple stopped

Approached, then intending to continue their journey

Sat down close by

Beckoned a passing Policeman

Who sat with all three for a period

Being distant from their conversation

I can only say, a short time later

An ambulance arrived

The kindness of strangers

Not one but three Good Samaritans

Freely given.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

What do you think?

Today is a do nothing day

Laze around

Say today is a do nothing day

Read to your hearts content

Hear them say

Today is a do nothing day

Laze around

Contemplating writing

Not today

You say

Today is a do nothing day

Maybe later?

Depending on the mood

That book

May have given food for thought

Today is a do nothing

Even so there is time for word play

Hear them say

It would not be the norm

If a poem he did not form

It may have been a do nothing day

Yet there is always something to say

Laze around, still the mind is active

Everyday should be a do nothing day?

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~



The crickets are singing.

Early morning wake up call

I hope they find a vein

Not like yesterday

left me with a butter stain bruise

I don’t sleep well at the best of times

still the call seems to always come

Once I have nodded off

This foam mattress would soak the life blood from the body

I dream of breakfast

The reality is nothing like the dream

I wonder, does the chef like scrambled egg.

Then the rattling of stethoscopes

The white coats –

That song

They’re coming to take me away Ha Ha

I’m itching so badly beneath this cast

It is not at all funny

It’s still just 08:30am…

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear the spoken word version on


Poem without a title.

Beauty are the clouds that deceive

From wind and rain a slight reprieve

In the distance a soft mist

Signs that intense weather persists.


Sands whip across my shoulder

Wind whistles louder

Gulls, cormorants, puffins, gannets

Ride white horses.


Fishermen scurry for cover

Shelter until the storm blows over

Four seasons in one

Watch the mercury plummet.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~



Lost for words.

Shaking water off his limbs

He looked at me with happy eyes

Of course he didn’t have to talk

My best friend.


He followed the stick into the oncoming wave

As though disappearing into the mouth of a cave

Returned to me me with a wag of his tale

My best friend.


Chased a flock of gulls as they flew into the sea

Returned without a catch, satisfied

Sat and begged for his treat

My best friend.


Feeling quite unwell

Down I sat and fainted

He went in search of help

Saved my life – my best friend.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~