Scrambled happy moments.

Listen – ewe bleating after lambs

Sit – observing cattle chew their cud

Hear – the sky lark sing their merry song

On the beach sand castles are built

Succumb to the silence of a moving river

On a forest walk, listen to the trees speak

Walk a country road, stop. Listen as someone practices scales.

feel your heart beat.

Spider busy at weaving.

Reading “The Song of Wandering Aengus” (W. B.  Yeats)

Walk, uplifting heart and eyes

Watch, dog play chase through lapping waves

Welcome home hugs from family

Sharing special moments with your grandchild.

Spellbound at the works of mother nature.

On a walk in the silence of the country side, listen to what farmlands are saying.

 

Marvel at the inner relationship of thought, pen and paper.

“Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess what is seen during a moment” Carl Sandburg.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~Poets Poet~

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Away from the water cooler.

Sometimes your poem needs only be three chords

To be a hit.

(c) Chris Black. April 2018

In hushed tones he wrote

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Let today be productive
Allow the writing be constructive.

Write all thoughts down
Don’t just converse.

Writing couplets, is not like pulling teeth
Think razor sharp mind.

10am: coffee brewed
Beethoven on the turntable.

Viewed through the window pane
Softly, snow flakes tumble from the heavens.

Ravens quarrel over scraps
A symphony of noise.

Two wagtails, in time beak tap the window
Seeking shelter?

Snow flakes then turns to rain drops
Listen, as it speaks to the roof.

Observing, hearing natures varied notes
Makes one glad to be alive.
(c) Chris Black. February 2018.

 

An idle mind

Trawling through those dark night dreams
Vague as fog
Waking from that snug as a bug night sleep
No sense could be made
Lieing there, contemplating cobwebs
Spiders had yet to emerge
Except for that large tarantula
Who haunted the calmness of night
Was it real
What was that movement beneath the pillow?
To look or not
Freeze
Don’t stir an inch
Trawling through those dark night dreams
Can be a nightmare.
(c) Chris Black. January 2018.

The vagaries of winter.

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Meandering in the landscape of river and wood
Rivetted by the sound of nature
The roar of the river driven on by high winds
Loud groans from trees pulverised by high winds
Eagerly listening for bird song
Birds appeared to be taking their shelter
Dark clouds hovered as though falling from the sky
That eerie feeling yet not frightening
Rain drops, suddenly turn to torrents
Thunder clap, lightening flash, urged shelter.
(c) Chris Black. January 2018.

It has grown dark.

It has grown dark
Not a flicker, not a spark
A feeling of ineptitude
Not merely an interlude
Clouded vision, division
Deep within the recess of the mind
Words, sentences, struggle to unwind.

It has grown dark
Loneliness, stark reality of nothing to write
There is no place to shelter from anxiety
The path he trods appears to lead to a dead end
Creative tension between writer and his art
Must be reconciled.

It has grown dark
It is late into the night
Too late to fulfil what he set out to achieve
His pen feeling as though it is a trowel
Words today were like lifeless flowers
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow green shoots will emerge.
(c) Chris Black. January 2018.

Spoken word version @ Chris Black 36 on Soundcloud

There is no shelter.

There is no shelter
Where they can lay their weary head
A concrete step, that is their nightly bed
Winter winds whipping beneath the bridge
Vermin a plenty scuttling along its ridge.

There is no shelter
As they struggles with the task in hand
Fighting those demons, a life not planned
Not a bridge of dreams but nightmares
They speak, yet no one gives a damn, no one cares
Rising, lying, twisting, turning
Head throbbing, stomach churning
Drenched through, lonely to their core
Weary of the approach of dawn, what lies in store?

There is no shelter
From the anguish of the night
The fusion of past and present, nothing to delight
Crumbling hovels, thoughts of resentment
Fear, weariness, falling down, dark thoughts ever present
A grieving heart weighed down by betrayal
No longer capable of grief.

There is no shelter
A voice in the wilderness. Now silent.
(c) Chris Black. January 2018.