Battles For Balance

How to understand the hope of hope
How to navigate
Through the thought of thought
Simpler questions may be sought out
Though the satisfaction
In their solution will be nought

The optimist within me leans towards hope
Though together the two may delude
But I give them every opportunity
To lift my spirits
To put me in a positive psychological mood

With the long view still some way
From the horizon
The need for choice is ever more apparent
Which path to take, and for what reason
Are there among the many options and talents

To focus on recovery
Is the highway to recovery
To disarm all those bodily aches
And mind-filled pains
To search unrelenting
For discovery is the way to recovery
To charm your way into the place
Where your lover reigns

And I saw hatred
Where hatred there was none
And I sought vengeance
When the vengeance had already gone
Those few exercises
Will they make a difference
Well they have made a difference
Or at least something has made a difference
Though it’s still not right, not by a long shot

Do I write so as not to be lonely
Or do I write to be alone
Borne by the loving address
That love which wobbles
Along the precipice only
Where we know ourselves
To be free of loneliness

With such arching
Overriding aims at complication
Never ever knowing, not showing what it is
Which lies beyond the reached for implication
Or way yonder
Where the longing no longer exists

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Christopher's Collected Works

Causal

Only by the inferred
Can I be deterred
Only by the colour of the hunting-jacket
Can I realise the world of the rotting racket

Not starting out the way I intended
How else to be remembered
Than by the felt-trimmed fedora
And your father’s dalliance with the lady Nora

Why then to think of the impassable roads
Covered by the tide and the irascible load
Why edge towards the bets on losing horses
When truth more often lies in deeper courses

Not moving on in ways recommended
How else is that life then to be extended
Other than by the ex-army overcoat
Or misunderstandings which are always afloat

Wherever the grasslands and peat bogs meet
Young men and companions lodge their feet
As time keeps time in a dangerous dance
We follow the lines awaiting one last chance

Not ever reaching the eventual turning point
As they turn out their pocket and their hearts
The joint in the road where spiritual folk anoint
Searching the place where the restarting starts

When you come back, will you come back
With anything to gift you real fulfilment
The same as when you thought of the lack
Of anything other than wish-fulfilment

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Christopher's Collected Works

Inception

Sometimes you have to write
Even when there seems to be
So little to write of
Then perhaps to remember flying the kite
Or to think of memories to write thereof

Some days you have to rely on
Brian Ferry singing
Or to light the Jasmine, Chamomile
And Rosewood candle

Especially if it is too far to walk
To hear the bells a-ringing
You can rest in your lounge
Wearing slipper or sandal

Some ways you know are shorter
And some ways ever longer
The garden path twists and turns
Beneath the blossom tree

The tree whose leaves and blossoms
Once were stronger
Before the autumn and the winter
Asked that they go free

There isn’t anywhere really
For this poem to go to
My mind being freed
Of all thoughts and repercussions

So back to the cricket field
To recall your boundary throw
Or to football in the snow
After negative family discussions

Sometimes the past
Is not the cure-all after all
When the images do not bring
Good cheer to the game

Better then to let the present
Make a welcome call
When what is to see
Is the beauty of the beautiful flame

Some days the song is just right
How to say, somewhat tight
Is it that old Tom Waits, in a most
Ingeniously theatrical guise

A life reflected from Belgrade
Out and onto the Eastern light
Giving indeterminate pleasures
Such is the entertainer’s prize

Some ways you have to begin
With your hands in the sands
The roads to the beaches
Having been rolled over and over

Silver Birch and Aspen become
The joy-spreading strands
After the sycamore and oaks
Over by the four-leaf clover

The wasn’t really anywhere
For this old poem to try to go
And who else will hear, or see
Or know of the background

So back to the photographs
And the old stories going slow
Or the magnanimity of the roar
Of the less than silent sound

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Christopher's Collected Works

Reluctantly

I thought I might try close reading
Close reading of my own work
Just to be sure of the cognisance
Both for myself, and also for others

Although it is not strictly true
To say that I thought of this unaided
No, actually it was after a critique
Another sense, or meaning of success

Also, and this was of my own doing
There were typographical mistakes
And my back to front isms
Did not always ring true (pun intended)

Anyways I listened to David Whyte
Who I have heard many times
And I realised how often he uses repetition
Today’s words are yesterday’s words and so on

Then I turned the oven on
Almost exactly as instructed
(In preparation for cooking the turkey)
Thereby proving that my memory still works

Yet soon I was back to writing
Writing about close reading
Which I have done with others works
But never before with my own

Is this a glorified form of editing
I ask myself, two times actually
Still I do not start, some force holds me back
I will call it: The unknowing of the unknown

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Christopher's Collected Works

Confirmations

I’ve posted to you
I’ve posted to I
I’ve posted to everyone

I searched for you
I searched for I
I found you and I in everyone

I looked for the flow
Was I, or was I not
Already in there

I read the messages
I watched the videos
I was enjoying simply being

There is desire
There is longing
Yes, it is true, there is everything

And now the singer sings
There is going to be a big one
And who am I to argue

Available at Amazon

Christopher's Collected Works