Leaning on a stile. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~


Wind howling through your branches


Crows attempting to build nests

Can they?

Tell the distinction of seasonal change

Still they persist


Against the elements

Of course

Without words, without signs


Are nature


To the human it may well be

Not they


Not they are a lot to blame

For the elemental change


We should be to look ourselves in the


©Chris Black. April 5th 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #NationalPoetryMonth #30days #30poems


All things speak

Whether with or without a voice

Cattle working the cud in a distant meadow

Woodquest’s in early morning conversations

Rattling of the magpie

Peace, Harmony, Love

Sun, Moon, Stars

The entire universe

All things speak.


There are times we are too “busy”

To stop and listen

We must allow ourselves silence.


Stop and think

At days end

What did we gain from

Hustle and bustle?


Life is too short.


We don’t know how short

All things speak

Take time

Stop and listen.


The clock is ticking

It’s speaking the time.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @

He refused to panic.

Crying salty tears

As though he had a cistern

Inside his head

Arriving at his writing bureaux

Discovered a closed for business sign


Sitting himself down

He could only stare blankly.


Uncharted territory

Became a fresh challenge

With his desk out of bounds

He had to harvest elsewhere

He was born to be here.


Moving to his left side

Placing his hand on his bible

Albeit a dictionary

Emitted these words

Lord, you never close one door

But you open another.

Thank you for these words

For without them

This poem would never have been formed.


(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~




A Numerical Poem.

Uno (i)

The poet wrote many words. Soon seeds sown will flourish.

Duo (ii) Double the joy.

Tres (iii) Great, celebrate whatever the mix.

Quattour (iv) You are beginning your expansion, progress gently.

Quinque (v) More hard to handle, but you set the bar, it will fall on more than one occasion.

Sex (vi) Now the task is, to make sense of what you write. Nonsense will not be tolerated nor will it be purchased. The reader is correct in stating Caveat Emptor.

Septem (vii) Trying too hard only confuses the matter. Finding yourself under pressure then fold the copybook, place the cap on the inkwell. Walk away.

Octo (viii) Walk in silence, contemplate your thoughts, study nature, allow your surroundings speak to you. Never discard a thought, you will get results.

Novem (ix) Write down that thought, don’t expect it to remain especially if it comes to you in a dream during the dead of night. Remember always, keep a pen and notepad beside your bed, jot down that thought.

Decem (x) When dawn breaks, rise and shine, shower then breakfast, time is of the essence. One thought will borrow another. Show gratitude not surprise it will not yet be the finished product. Persevere.

Undecim (xi) It is good at times to show elation, whether inwardly or perhaps you wish to share your success with your greatest critic, which in most cases is yourself. Don’t keep looking for that stick with which to beat yourself.

Duodecim (xii) Now this is where you encounter that invisible brick wall remember no matter how many times you stumble and fall dignity is the only thing which will be hurt. Patience, teach yourself patience success will not happen overnight. Quit when the time is right. Don’t attempt the farmers dozen (Tredecim)

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~ 


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~


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~





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~

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~