In One Leap – Staffordshire to Devon

It is more than simply talking. It is more than thinking about windows. Picture this, for here is where I’ve been and for all this while. Here is the very place I have recently left.

Here was never. Not settled but for ever similar to seeing through a looking glass, watching for a reflection of the mind. Like someone stretched, this is a faceless portrait, grainy, without grace.

Here I have the look of a gazed being, showing neither contentment or honesty. Here you see no glimmer, no proof of life, no proof other than perhaps a ghostly image conjured out of the realm of a disjointed imagination, A phantasm of proton gradient architecture, being just another needle in just another haystack, stacked at the end of just  another equation. And not even looking like a wordsmith, I command no attention from anyone. I figure in no ones plan. I configure myself in the far corner of existence. I arm wrestle my soul to the ground  every now and again and refract my marrow in Oxygen. This way I am become toxic and reactive even to myself. My words are thus ignited by the passing flow of Consciousness, and the blue flame of delight.

Here is where I am come to. It is not my grave.

©2020 Christopher Thompson (words and pictures). All rights reserved.

Picture 1, Cannock, Staffordshire.

Picture 2, Buckland Brewer, Devon.


Many of my thoughts,
Thoughts such as these,
Are laid before me,
Are spread out,
Like grasses that are fresh
And green to the touch.
As though strewn
And are not unlike
Confetti in celebration.
Written across somewhere
Not unlike Graffiti.
Not to sound too silly,
They are markers in time.
Woods in winter,
Lived yet uncared for.
Each of us
Who live in this presence
Are as guilty as horses.
We live in the moment.
Relishing as we slowly move along in procession.
The difference between us?
Only the whereabouts of our fields.
We are steeped in quality.
Nobles by choice.
We drink from the chalices of life
Where ever we find them.

©️2019 Christopher Thompson  All rights reserved


This is me at home thinking about some ideas. Honestly.

Rush Poetry; Fast To Publish

The Solus Draft.

Here is a time critical approach to poetic composition. The idea of speed writing is not new. As this is not short poetry, the length of a composition is irrelevant. The time taken to the set down the Solus Draft to publishing on the web site is the goal. There must be no revision after publication.  The piece should stand as complete in the stated time frame.

This is my attempt at writing poetry in a time efficient way with recorded information made available on completion of a piece.

The recorded information is:-

  1. Copyrighted date.
  2. Place of composition/writing.
  3. Start time inc time zone.
  4. Completion time inc. time zone.

Should a piece ever be subjected to the riggers of hermeneutic analysis this information will be available to the analysist.



If evolution 
Turns out to be
Only a work in process,
Will Winter always follow the Fall?
Or is it all a matter of perspective?
So where is the Fall in the Deserts?

Clever Chemicals,
Bright Sparks,
Macro or Micro
Steady Timescape or Expansionist?
Singularity or Heaven?
Ghost, God or Chance?

Who is helping with these enquiries?

© 2018 Christopher Thompson  Written in England Rush Poem, (Fast Press) Started 01-08-18 @ 7.04pm Done @ 7.17pm.GMT

Then I Was Cardiac Arrested.

Then I was deceived
When the black veil
The darkness of death
Descended to receive me.
Then I saw not the tunnel
With the hand of welcome
Beckoning, urging,
I was not at the edge of paradise.
Then I did not dream.
The absence was total.
A void to be avoided
Blackness unseen.
A place of no recollection
I had ventured in error.
Too early, perhaps.
Then I was not dead.
Hello God is back.

© 2014-18 Christopher Thompson

All Right Reserved

Cannock England

Across the Moat of Time

Philip Oliver Sopher,

The name rings of something.

It conjures an image bronzed,

An object with flare, perhaps?

Solid, vibrating, compressing.

A heavy subject.


Experienced, exploratory, explaining?

The ways of the world in person.

How, when and which as tri-stars.

More unholy Trinity’s.

Reasons to be yet understood, unseperate.

Mere constituents of the live dimension.

Morphology oddly landscaped by

The prosecution and procession of the moment.

Time and Life being singular

Are locked at the horns.

We are therefore left with a simple single gesture,

A right angled shudder towards the windowsill

From which we look across the moat of time,

It is our last attempt to see above ourselves.

If we are twisters of fate, who are failing in our description of the totality of all that is in existence,

Then it falls to us to face the inner truth.

What good is Humankind?

The Why Element and the Particle are illusive

As is the attainment of the Ideal State.

It is good which is love, which holds the inner truth.

Not what good is love?

It may well be that love is the essential particle

Charged with love.


Now that rings a Bell.

(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved.