Route One

So it isn’t meaning or understanding

Which I strive for

Indeed it could fairly be said that I often

Shy away from meaning or understanding

Instead it is a feeling which I hope to evoke

Or more importantly

A feeling which I hope to be able to walk among

Or bathe in, as I write the words I write

The light dims, the breeze picks up

The weather is on the change

A change which may well take me with it

At that very moment the thought

Of the mountain and the river enters my mind

From where and how I know not

The breeze will become a wind

On its continuum, how might I discern

The tipping point of this transformative force

So it is observation, of that which is for itself

Outside of me, which now fuels this writing

Yet also there must be speculation, for how else

To extend the pathways on which I wish to walk

But for now it is interference which halts me

Angst at sounds neither clear nor valedictory

Then to step back, to stop even, although actually

To find a diversion, with new possibilities, instead

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for his Collected Works

From This Chair

It is about the clouds

For they lighten

Or darken my mood

It is about the colours

And the fabrics

Of the cushions

Not so much

What I made of it

Or what I make of it

Rather the elegance

And the craft

Of other’s handiwork

I bring the observation

One person

Who sits to watch on

Happy

For the stillness

And the space

Between me

And the objects

Of objectivity

Whose wide variations

Ask of me

My many questions

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Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works

That Which Was Her Name

I had a teenage sweetheart

For sure she was a catholic girl

She caught the bus to St Gregory’s

I went to a Presbyterian grammar school

She had a good looking brother

Her friend had two brothers too

Her father was a drinker

A big man, known to those who drank in town

We played down by the river

All-day we fooled around

Only when we got older

Did the love thing have us bound

What she needed I could not give her

Though she never told me so

Just one night at Christmas

She said alone she had to go

Our lives cascaded way apart

Yet, occasionally we would meet up

But I knew full well

We never were meant to restart

Now I hear a country singer

Who takes me back to that girl

To those teenage summers

With my innocent auburn curls

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for his Collected Works

Version Numero Uno

The drawing pen

Has pointed out

The places for correction

As the third eye smiles

Into the ebony and the ivory

Of life’s past reflections

I could not throw a rope

Over fourteen years

Or one hundred and twenty thousand hours

The words never could be

Stretched out so far

Not with any certainty

Yet what is done is done

What was said has been said

No turning back

This writer is not for turning

Sometimes

Not even for starting out

But the job is done

The stones are thrown

Love’s potions have been devoured

All that is left is the setting

The fonts and the spaces

The essences of the meaning

Which another man

May well have explained

Altogether differently

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for his Collected Works

In Place Of What

I, now

Don’t know

If ever I could

Work myself up

From a loss of faith

To the place that science

And reason are what bind me

To the beautiful world as I live in

Yet I am happy to take the stillness

And quiet meditation as a certain way

To help me to focus and to shape my day

I have a path laid out in front of me already

Which does include lots of spirituality and love

The poets, and the thinkers, and the writers advise

And educate me, they do help to inspire my daily life

Why then a need for an omnipresent supreme deity

Who for I never could have been the great creator

Or the saver of souls; to my mind it is way more

Than a seven day job; even the books on my

Shelves would take a year or more to read

Yet I acknowledge that there is a beauty

For those who follow what is admirable

If entirely beyond my understanding

Now back to the purpose of writing

Which is joy in the celebration

Of the new day, bathing in

The light which nature

Provides our planet

Also many others

I don’t believe

Neither do I believe

That I

Or that we

Are alone here

Available at Amazon

Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works