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

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

Love, there is no Bell.

It is an open contest
This life of love,
In which we are all contenders.

We have been in training for this.
Yet in a sense we are all cheated.
Never to be content.

If life is meant to be manoeuvres
In a dark square ring,
Then we are truly contestants of the heart.

We are all vulnerabilities too
We seek to give, yet are
All too often taken.

Love is a circle of truth,
With dark corners
To avoid.

Christopher Thompson.

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.

Those of us who are Poets.

Those of us who are leafing through life
Are in reality like gongs in the wind of inspiration.
When we are hit we bang.
We also arc our world from mood to mind,
Then from mind to mind.
We offer ideas, or challenges,
Statements of hope or fears.
Insights and explanations,
Tokens and figures of speech.
We are become words by these efforts.
This is the Amber hum – of electric thought,
With which we are signaling our honesty,
And we do this readily.
We are on schedule to ping our message.
Being commensurate with a flash of lightning,
We divulge,
And it is delivered.
But, who is out there?
Who is prepared enough to receive?

© 2018 Christopher Thompson.

My Lake

My Lake,

Is not of a Wet Brain.

For neither the bottle

Nor the Bar Stool

Any longer compel me.

I am too, a while since,

Scorched dry of my images’ slake.

And being now trifled properly;

I abide these days steady

And without a drunkards’ penny.

Yes, I do indeed have a lake.

A lake that is filled with words.

And these words, like water

Are Duel, they are entwined,


Having two intents.

They take life; they give death.

Acting on some

Like it’s their final breath and Rattle.

Their last gasped chance.

Defiant of the Doom bot.,

Whose habits lie beyond being ghostly,

Whose death is intellectually Final.

Whose words spread forth their danger;

Are soft on the tongue, like a  whispers nurse.

And in others vice versa;

Acting like birth pangs or stones,

Granite solid.

These other words

Harbour love.

Wherein, and across the vast expanse

Of a life time,

Within and throughout which

Many minds may timely,

Earth and quake.

There threads a temporal sense,

Of all being well, so all is well,

In echo of, a given,

A simple understanding;

Even a comfort.

A slither of contentment.

Against which to blither with rapid fire,

Some words to seek to explain;

Some words to redefine not blame.

Some effort in works to try to inflame.

And these dice-like rhyming triplets,

Once tossed, having hung at their pinnacle,

Descend to a chancers phase.

Then dance, spilt to a halt, are still now and revealing,

Yet, uninterrupted are requiring to be read.

Words for which I am to be fined,

In my case, for being that, of questionable character.

A clumsy life, lived with a quartered deck.

A harvest shuffle and my most singular curse.

A writer with a cloak of verse.

© 2018 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved


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