I am called Christopher, And nothing Could be more distant, From the truth. With jeering jaw I lift aloft, My image and myself. This has been my sore rub Throughout life. I am astute. As if coloured, I squat Full squarely, Upon my tumbled down dream. All after having discovered myself, In fact, to be lingering, Far away, somewhere, Somewhere over someone elses’ rainbow. Distinctly resident on my own spectrum. Today I am feeling parked and scaled down. No longer a pretend warrior, as Visualized in the long grass of my youth. I have crept along my last path, Crowned my very last bush of thorns. It was never in my plan To rise and see only my plateau, Before me. Sweet sadness of sounds, Wherein life sweeps me along a dusty path. In dreams remembered, In places seen, look there, The Actor and the Potter, are friends. The forgotten reason for their parting, Known only to you was my mortality. The Art of dying has me bereft of my soul mate. Oh to never have... left that distant Garden Gate. ©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.
When I am not out here occupied in finding myself, Or floating around brushing up on life. I am to be found inside myself, sifting my winds of inspiration. Sorting out the amassed crude, cruel words of my long absence, And trying to ease the guilt. Bereft of all, I don't even possess an envelope to protect my soul. Therefore flesh, bone, heart and conscience are strictest with me. All are completely out of harmony. I pace out my waking life gradually, then sleep in fits and starts and leaps. I have discovered, no bridge high enough or even long enough for my purpose. If ever this yearning stops shall no longer attempt flight. Everyone lives their life in separated packets. Each has a beginning , a middle and an end. Some transit through the echoes of their history and progress, Others of us, reverberate round the unalterable waves of our past. ©2020 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.
I have myself on the end of a stick, Not at the end of my tether you understand. Oh no just a pictures’ width. I have learned to glide and glance. That’s how it’s done I’m told. In the here and now this is a great idea. Having something to say helps. Though every picture may well tell a story, Where do you find the context? Is it in gesture or word? Is it on seeing or saying? Watching then discussion, Is it not both or more? I see myself at the end of my stick, The question now is Should I dare to click? Copyright 2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.
Escapism, A summer escape read? What is there to escape from? The world or system or planetary orbit, Or the sky at night, Or the orange grove? Life is more than Lipstick Rock& Roll. It a grinding, hollowing out existence. With a rule book made up On the hoof. Worse in one horse towns too. Where sidewalk clatter drowns out the din Of exasperation with your attempts At eking out, and fitting in. Your inner voice is never silent. Team player in real life? But again no one has picked you. So how will that work? Where is the world of contentment? Where in this world is respite to be found? How many of us drain a vein, are bled? Where is there a place of concealment, When we all live in our head? This is no Philosophical cause, Diving into a pool of freshly spilled blood. An on looker asks "who were they"? Another questions "Will they ever be gone from us"? Unlikely on this planet. Someone distant answers with, "I know, sticky mothers ain't they"? © 2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved
This comes from a small square house, Set in green rolling countryside. Not quite alone, not quite home. For I am from a conurbation Way "up-country", I am very Midland in many of my ways. How do other of the awkward do? This is an entertaining question. In their hunt to survive How do they fair? In the relentless, jostle, jumble jungle. It’s a headlong dash, Toward forever and away from fallibility. Being forevermore late, Mostly latent or deemed missing. How can the pained cope When their pain is so draining? With everyone else is speaking Others words serve only drown us out. Our short winds seem to fall silently, Settling over the rest of us Gathered, unnoticed in the thin air. Against the dark of the night Many are knelt, praying in pews There is no where else To genuflect To press their point, No button of hope for those Anguish soaked souls. Still the prayers rise to the rafters And the penitents line up close to each other, With their praise and their debts. How the awkward struggle In the dreary haze of living. Who is there, Who is here to heal their bruises, To meet their needs? No one gets given sight of That virtual Cosmic benchmark With which to align, better to compare. They have no vestibule, nor datum to measure No lever or anchor against which to rest. These who constitute the awkward, Walk everywhere on sods of existence. Eventually these sods seep back to the soil To disappear with no history. ©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.
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