Poem
Wind channels
crazy lines
fingerprints in sand
lines
it is part of something planned.
C
No comments on Lines in the sand
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A poem
Last words from a lost soul lingering
all his chickens have come home to roost
the cat cast among the pigeons,
I hesitate; metaphors suggest time has moved on
and passed this persistent poetic pest.Let his last words be “Bloody Hell” of “What the eff!”
as the Reaper rakes, takes him totally
by surprise ensconced in his comforting lies
“It’s not your turn yet”
tempting fate, it is never too late until it is
too late.In the dusty spare room, the old box stuffed
Grandmothers old quilt, faded pictures
his guilt barely contained by broken locks
and sheets of yellowing newspaper,Lost soul, find your way, there is still some light
left in this fading day,
the distant horizon is as fixed as it ever was
pigeons can seek another roost
let your ancient fears loose, let your last words
be Thank You for this
and every single day.CP26
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poetry in the ward.
Like a piece of battered driftwood
tide tossed
the ebb and flow of visiting medicos,
who come and go
talking of pressures and blood flow,They move in scheduled shifts
regular as the tide,
it is hard to find traction on the shore
to find poetry’s doors,
To reflect and opine on the divine
while shunts and leads
cover my old torso, wired to a monitor
I drift away from shore
into the ocean of healing and pain
thinking is this the end?
Will the kind nurses face be the last I see?
it is hard to find poetry
in the hospital ward
it will come again
as I drift slowly
to lands firm
embrace.CP26
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Tethered to a stainless steel table
by my adherence,
my compliance to procedures,
small cable
nothing more than wire traces its way
to my heart, my lungs,
it does its part.I do mine, staying still, being brave
it is my life to save
the blood on the white sheet
is all mine,
I’m complete in my self
penetrated but not compromised
by medicine, it aids me.I am in my own body
captive
to the hearts rhythms
to my condition
the recognition of mortality
a daily dose…I feel the way I shift my self
away from the pain
but it is persistent
it is very insistent, I am here
grateful
humble
thoughtful.Chris.
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for the thinkers.
We the people who speak too much, always raging against the tides pull,
Our mistress moon is too strong for us.
Its gravity is unseen and irresistible,It affects cats, small birds and night spirits, who walk by stealthily in my dreams.
I wake up breathless, instantly forgetting any lucid dream that only nanoseconds before had sent my heart racing,sweat dripping off my supine frame.
Night time should be calm, my boats passage untroubled.
No, I conjure up great storms, lurid episodes on some distant isle, Is heaven like this?
Indefinable, stripped of restraint, vaguely out of reach, altogether frustrating.
Minor details annoy you, my car won’t start,A phone rings when you’re in bed only to stop once you go to answer.
A slight split in my curtain, revealing a shaft of pure moonlight streaking across my legs,Time hovers and only the heart soldiers on in labour, visions and snatches of daft music, vocal hooks, spinning round in my washing machine mind.
My alpha clashes with my omega, And the winner is never clear.
So when dawn is breaking, no rest gained only the exhaustion of spirit,The price of thinking.
CP
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A poem for the noisy.
I fear, if allowed, I might join the barking crowd
free from the tedious trappings
of reason and rhyme,
I’m dedicating my remaining time
to loudly bark at life’s ludicrous passing parade,I know in my aching bones the pain of loss
both long ago and recent, the indecent waste of good folk
at the expense of the bloated and vile,
who splutter and stutter all through the day
spewing filth in their wake,It is an entitled privilege to scorn politics
to roll one’s eyes to empty skies
puzzled by the rising groans and chorus of “whys?”
so, if I bark, I’ll bark for justice,I will yelp at the fascists and the smug
I will bark at AI slop
the vacuity that never seems to stop,
I’ll cock my leg on a SUV,
I will bark, bark loudly for my humanity.CP 26
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a poem.
I see the landscape so clearly now
that hectare I was allocated
my lot, my gift,
Weeds run wild here, unchallenged
my intent to begin
once again put off for another day,
my words so carefully sewn
all overgrown…
Because I failed to maintain it
my plough lost its edge
it opens no new ground now
nothing deep or profound,
Crows circling overhead know this patch
is dead ground,
My legacy is carrions chorus, nothing grown
all idly left to run wild,
Squandered gifts
of a promising child, golden haired child
praise given without cause
mild shy child behind Mothers skirts,
My land, my legacy….
no cause to weep
we cannot clearly comprehend the manner
or means of our own end,
only the soil will say, let us hope
for better days
with one who tends with loving hands
this patch of land.CP26
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A poem
I think it makes sense now, these waves of assault
at my age folk often speak of,
feeling overwhelmed by the relentless pace of change, the ever circulating complexity
of business, of airing every thought out loud,
I think of it, dear friend, as being besieged because
after all, when under siege we put up walls,Nostalgic for a past conjured from AI reels
where like-minded folk concealed
their thoughts and feelings under the veneer
of polite sterile civility, only a few
aberrations slipped through the nets, from poor upbringing of course,The besieged boomers like me, retreat en-masse
to caravan parks where only familiar faces are seen, ageing tanned like leather
couples, all white,spending all night watching TV
portable generator humming away on petrol,that valuable elixir so recklessly
squandered by massive vehicles you need to visit the mall,So…
dear friends, heed my clarion call
lower the drawbridge let in the new, discard the fear,
leave the nostalgia to inoffensively stew,
let your soul be born and renew.Chris
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A country clothes line,
unfinished bottle of red wine
dust particles dance
in pure white sunbeams,
Wooden table and solid chairs
the hearth unswept
grey flakes of ash on the slate,
all is quiet in a human sense
birds sing and animals call,
this house itself feels absolutely cold
all life here got up one day
perhaps yesterday,
walked away closing the gate
behind for the very last time.C
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A poem
What will you do
with the time you saved
using AI, did it
open any door for you to explore
to feel cool wind on your face?
This time you saved
is it in an account you kept
or was it just another lie
you so willingly and easily
accept.
Chris
#poetry
Chris' Poetry 