Come daybreak

He sits, his senses stir with words

Words he often uses, now reinvented

Reinvented to form new poems

Poems of a different hue

A rainbow colour of words

Colour to brighten a dull dark morning

Morning, a time when ideas visit

Visit to the sound of a different drum beat

Different strokes for different folks

For that is what keeps the mind from decaying

Decay, not part of his vocabulary

Vocabulary, enlarged by what he cannot hear

Sound can engage the mind

Mindful of this into his leather chair he sits

He sits, his senses stir with words.

© Chris Black. November 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting

 

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“New England Giant”

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img_4016 “Loyalties” © C.P. Hickey 2012

“New England Giant”

Sometimes you’re deep into the living of life, and it hits you: something isn’t quite right. It isn’t easily known at first, but as you meander through a day, the ambiguity clears and you find yourself looking down the barrel of an incontrovertible truth:

We are impermanent.

A hefty idea to roll around the noggin, considering how pre-disposed we all are to avoiding this impending reality at all times.

Yesterday, was that day for me. As spring rites roll out and signs of the season’s progression appear.

One way in which I measure the change from winter to spring is in the celebration of the annual NFL Entry Draft. Oddly, it never became a big deal to me until I became an adult. Ever more so as I realized how much it mattered to many people I love and care about.

The…

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*”The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I”

Writing from the perspective of a tree.

Seasons they come and go, happy, sad and joyous occasions

It is Autumn now my foliage, turning from lush green

To a glowing but fading gold

Limbs now exposed to the chill of oncoming Winter

Shortened days, humid evenings

Summer has flown a time I itched with flies.

Winter when my flesh is bare as leaf after leaf flutters to earth

I long for Spring and again giving birth

Until then I must perish beneath the winter sun and hoarfrost

Then at season change, leaves will fill each tree with another shade.

Following winter storms, with open arms I welcome Spring

I shall not ruminate on what went before

My boughs will forget the pain, as eyelids open

With each bead like eye I’ll welcome the passer-by

Then the delight of Summer, as I watch out over wheat-fields

The God of nature brings summer in full regalia

While the rook caws lazily.

*Matthew Arnold

(c) Chris Black. November 2018

IMG_20181103_092950~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting

 

Plebja.

I watched him crawl

Was he or it perhaps watching me?

As it moved precariously along the ledge

Looking over the side did it think?

Could I topple off or maybe slide

Was it contemplating ending it all:

I hope that is not the case

I don’t do little pest invasions

Bloody earwigs

Now would the word hoover

Lead me to the nook and crannie

It calls home?

© Chris Black. November 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting

P

It must be Monday.

This poem is off the top of my head

Quickly I must put it to bed

As each word falls onto the page

I feel a little outrage

This morning is overcast, dull and dark

It is quite hard to get an inspiring spark

Rain now falling in torrents overflowing drains

Why should I sit here and complain?

With the atrocities right across the world

Children starving, banners unfurled

By protesters and supporters alike

As their ‘heroes’ step up to a mic

Urge them to vote, inciting violence

While the opposition try to silence

The rhetoric, the need for power at any price

The vehemence, that voice

Booming across countries far and wide

Who can quell the tide?

Who can put an end to rant?

A civil tongue perhaps for violence can’t?

This virus which is inciting hatred where is going to end?

Until East talks civil to West and North likewise to South

Civil unrest worldwide like some poetry, not easy to comprehend.

© Chris Black. November 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting

 

 

 

Trick or Treat?

This she knew was going to be the most difficult mail she had ever attempted.

Relationships can at times go pear shaped?

In order to merge their businesses, two wealthy people are not as such forced into an unwanted arranged relationship, but needs must.

He, a recently divorced (not divulged) millionaire seeking a worthwhile heir to his billions and extensive business interests, says he is flush not overly wealthy.

They match on Tinder. Arrange to meet, both unchaperoned.

His arrival, very low key. He had booked the table for two and organised hotel room reservations.

He was handsome; she was ecstatically happy, that was until dinner was served, he slipped off his jacket and she saw the slogan on his t-shirt. (Welcome to hell)

Don’t look so shocked he said, I have the other costume parts in the room – this was supposed to ease she thought.

The virtual romance had went very well, much better than either party would have expected.

Reality, would be a totally different ball game.

It was the 31st of October when Jennifer stopped the clocks; she still needed more time. That wasn’t to be.

Time was at a premium; he was most insistent, far removed from his screen presence.

Drink and drugs, the order of the day as a do not disturb sign was hung on the hotel room door.

Suddenly her world plunged into darkness – she had but one thought.

Her long time lost male companion whom she should have called during the past 5 years but didn’t.

Nervously she dialed the number, he answered to the sound of heavy breathing.

Rob its Jenny she sobbed.

She had unexpectedly entered a dimension in which her actions were to have enormous consequences.

She had committed a murder.

What’s that noise?

What was that noise at the front door; animals growling, loud voices.

Nowhere to hide, she was like a blind woman who fell in love with a scent of death.

How could she escape?

Through the sliding doors she stepped out on the balcony, tapped the packet of Gauloises cigarettes.

Slowly dragged on the cigarette; for that short moment she was calm.

What made her think murder he asked?

She barely remembered striking him she told her long lost ex.

He had arrived in the company of a fellow officer and two sniffer dogs.

Murder now that was stretching it, in her opinion.

There were far too many male chauvinist pigs in the world for her liking.

Room 69 at the Metro hotel, turned out not to be the tasty number she was hoping for!!!

© Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Fiction #amwriting