Mugged by words. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

Foraging around for the write ingredients.

There are days he tries to write.

Nothing.

It is as though the vein has been severed.

No ink will flow from pen in hand.

Thoughts cannot be registered, his mind scarred.

He is the only one to bear witness to this.

Words can do this to you a voice whispered.

No one but he lives in this room of crisis.

Mugged by words.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #soundcloud #SpokenWord

Hear a spoken word version @https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

Beneath a blanket of cloud. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

This morning, on his forest walk

Partly shattered by recent storm

In the now, stillness, made harmonious

With the singing of birds

Alone with nature, time to ponder

Inspired by poetic thoughts

Thoughts of living out his life

Retiring to the mountains or perhaps

An island retreat

Leaving behind the regrets of gloom

Live life in the age of radio

In the company of his personal library.

© Chris Black. March 2019

Listen to a #SpokenWord version @https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

#Poetry #amwriting #JohannSebastianBach

#GoldbergVariations #BWV988: #Aria #LarsVogt

As the night wind heaved.

~The Poet’s Poet~

Thus did he speak – this poet brother of mine.

They watched as moonlight climbed

Listened as the midnight bell chimed

Transparent beneath a full moon

Pacing up, down, hither and tither

Awaiting that moment of vision

Away in the distance sounds of the trembling sea

The rains came down in slanted sheets

Washing away poetic thoughts.

(c) Chris Black. December 2018

#Poetry #amwriting #SpokenWord

Hear a spoken word version @ https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

Webs of intrigue.

when a dreamer dies

what happens to their dreams?

Is their dying their awakening?

Where their dream is just a fog

No point trying to remember

It’s gone, lost in the ether

Gone to dreamland.

 

when a dreamer dies

Dreamland, is that their heaven?

a place of euphoria

a sea of dreams.

Being a dreamer has its moments

Night dreamer, not day dreamer

Schemer, not doodler

The end result of daydreaming is this

while the night dreamer will search for a positive/

 

So the time has come to light that spark

Quit this daydreaming lark

concentrate on the task in hand

Build on solid ground not on quick sand.

 

when a dreamer dies

Dying is their awakening.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear the spoken word version at

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  https://www.soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

 

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~

 

 

While a dog barks at the moon.

Lulled by faint breezes of a summer eve

We strolled hand in hand along a glassy beach

Waves lapping the shore line

Sun setting

 

This evening born for lovers

We glory in its being

You, I and the rising moon

I wish I could buy you tomorrow

 

As the stage curtain falls on another day

Wending our way homewards steal a kiss

Sleeping on a feather bed

Sigh, nothing happens, no one cares.

 

When we awake, morning shining

Bird song fills the air

An angel arising to comfort the world

All now well and God is in his heaven.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @ https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1/while-a-dog-barks-at-the-moon

 

 

 

 

More words on a page.

Be it on a page or on the tongue

The lingo of the poets words should engage

Should they rhyme as a song is sung

Not always, yet they should hip-hop from the page.

 

Flowing through the mind from some poetic force

Inspiration drives the poet on, on a straight and narrow course

Gnawing away these secret words emerge

Reaching for his implement lays down this poetic surge

All manner of poetry at times coupled with the spoken word

Mystifying the Poets Poet as to how this has occurred.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poets Poet~

~The Poets Poet~ A handle bestowed on me by my writerly friend Walt, The Tennessee Poet. Find Walt @Waltswritings and be inspired.

More Spoken Word Poetry on SoundCloud @https://www.soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

Life Story.

It happens when least expected, the muse awakens

Follow the route which you are taken

Words of calm, words of peace and beauty

Make a fine statement.

The flashing light above shines brightly

Sun, opens up eyes to stars in the universe

Write your thoughts on a piece of paper

There are many things you wish to say

Make your words stick like glue.

 

It happens when least expected, the muse awakens

Dreams become reality

You are transported to the calmness of a cobble-stoned street

Sipping on sunshine in the land of the Aphrodite hills.

 

On a page you can travel anywhere you you wish

It happens when least expected, the muse awakens.

 

Walking higgeldy piggeldy streets

Two up two down houses with an aged look

Enough to take your breath away

Some shaded from the sun by overhanging canopies

All painted in the many colours of the rainbow.

 

A place where destiny awaits someone.

In the distance the sound of a bouzouki.

 

It happens when least expected, the muse awakens.

(c) Chris Black. May 2018

 

 

 

Peering into the darkness.

He sat there pondering weak and weary
Napping, suddenly there was tapping
This was in the darkest night
Of his senses he took flight
Startled, who can it be?
By candlelight he could barely see
A shadow looming in the dark
Or was it the black dogs bark
Just then the silence was unbroken
It is time be not afraid
With that a hand on him was laid
It was time to meet his maker
The shadow, was that of the grim reaper.
© Chris Black. April 2018
Spoken word version @Chris Black 36 SoundCloud.