Mood is as important as Oxygen in my view.

Loood is low mood.

Watch out for it!

Chris T. 👀👂🧠☹️

A Passage on Poetry

These words are like eye focus
Or I focus with a little bit of truth.

On being,
I settle a while,
I sense a widow
A woman of hope has opened
The last gate of life.
She praises and genuflects,
On bended knee.
She feels she is facing the right direction,
So is safe.
She is surely saved.

I watch from a safer distance.
Too livid to be counted among the fallen,
I have forgotten my past, thus,
I count myself as innocent.
How can this be?
I alone am unable to do this.
This widow has hope,
For us all and herself.
I delude my own hope,
Further out of reach.

I have been mixing goodness,
With these acts of Self Will.
My circle of truth still loses its worth,
It’s diminished
More so with the pain.
And accompanied,
With the pasage of time,
I retreat
And accomplish damnation.

©2014-2019 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved

Like I had a Map of Love

Finding which way to go,
I once was a man
Who, whilst stepping on some stairs,
Was taken up in my life, yet,
Was forever climbing down to death.
As a sphincter of a man
Watching through my blind muscle,
And peeping as I went
I found which way to go,
Yet  gained no advantage.
In a life dogged by fairness.
Bleeding on the traits of Columbus
I ranged on his flat waves.
And, posed as one among stars,
When looking into the eyes of Eve.
Always I tried to live like I had a map of love.
And was a herald of gentle breath,
Even as I defended my course to death.
I searched and discovered
All along I had no breadth.

© 2014-2019 Christopher Thompson.

Triple Mentions

Here on the green I stood
As I set out a first memory.
The road looked too long
For the likes of me.
The green was on the corner.
I was four years old
As I remember.
I told my inquisitor so.

On the bridge
Or near it I think,
I only remember the bad words
I was made to speak by older ones.
Probably only six
I knew nothing of what I spoke.
I hope 1962 Is a better year for you
The insurance man said to my mom.

And 1968 felt tragic to me.
It was like we were all doomed.
I had became manly too fast.
The root of childhood had been lost
Blind hope paid by a future cost,
Carelessly true senses sprang up
And cascaded to my feet,
And I was defeated at 12.

© 2014-2019 Christopher Thompson

This is our Point

The Rich
Are at the head of the Camel,
All aboard now,
For this is the ship of the desert.
And we ought to be all in this together.
Leading us then at the head
Of all that they own,
And that is a great deal,
Which also includes all of us
Who are now rowing,
On the seas of sand.
But we now have a grip
On the needle of life.
And therefore
A hold on the Rich who are leading
The Camel to the eye.
Whilst it is us who cling
To the taper of the needle,
We remain nearest to the point
Yet we still have hope,
And they at the eye?
They, have it not so easy.

© 2014-2019 Christopher  Thompson

And thank you driver

We’d better stop at the bell,
Leave at the stop.
Descend the stairs of puberty
The floor below rising as we go.

One ring to get you off
Jokes the man in uniform,
He’ll say anything to get us lost
We have only Pennies to tinkle.

After the cold chrome
Comes the sway of the tallness
The common stagger to the door
The feet unsure yet gripping.

The bang of axle, spring and pot
The compass useless to the grip,
The tighter hold, the twist of arm
The shudder to the halt.

Alight and thank you driver.

©2013-2019 Christopher Thompson