For every problem there is a word fix.

Though I am old with a sometimes wandering mind

Never blind enough though to see what the day requires

The writers mind may wander down many different roads

With persistence comes rich rewards.


A word from my younger days. Not today or yesterday

Coaxiorum, still when called upon bears the seed to succeed

It may well have been a nothing word, but it worked at the time

When syrup of figs was dished out, to work its oracle?


Now whenever I want to get ahead of the posse

Beat words at their own game I, coax them

By pouring ink into inkwell, refilling fountain pen

Lay thoughts on a page, unafraid to bare my soul.


Problems shared are problems halved

Which can be achieved even for the lonesome writer

I may think I am alone, which is absolutely absurd

For with pen in hand, a virgin page, a poem is built word on word.

(c)Chris Black. August 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


Poured from a singular vein.

A word in your ear the Muse whispered

Gesturing, in the poets mind towards his diary.

Moving in the direction of pen and paper

He wrote thus

A poem for the day

The world moon has gone to rest

With an azure sky, warm gentle zephyr, we are truly blest.

A lone street feline walks the blistering pavement.

All colour and creed dressed in rainbow colours

Walk the self same street.

An orchestration of bird song glorious to the ear.

Sitting beneath a mop topped sparse octopus type tree

Surrounded by snow white and tangerine coloured residences

Words flow onto a shaded white grey lined page.

Silver birds in the mile high club leave silvery trails in their wake.

Writing a splattering of words on a page

Listening back to their voices warmed his heart.

Then he thought to write on the subject of

What if there was a cold sun.

Quickly thought the better of it, sat and watched the morning burn.

(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 @