Poets – a perspective

No, no!
A Poet never rests.
Where would the suffering be in that?
Feet up? No pen in hand, no racing ideas?
No tumult or anxiety? 
Or racking of the brains?

Poets have at least two brains.
One creative
One destructive.
Some have another thorough, 
Dead normal, brain.
If is is present, it is never used.

Cognitive complacency is rare.
The poet is opinionated
And withdrawn.
Forever moving
Like a mouth organ.
(Noisey harmonicas are often kissed). 

The Poet fits the face
And the gloved hand,
With bespoke lettering,
And a welworn desk.
The Poet is stark.
The Poet is best.

If a Poet coughs
The world is replete
And their words do not fail.
The theme is the thing.
The lover and the scheme
The reason and the being.

Life is in all their verse,
Be it blank, dank and irreverent.
The end, the beginning, the continuum.
Aloha, Omega  and Alpha.
Nothing is sacred or sacrilege.
Everything is better loved.

The tapping finger of love,
The sentence of oblivion.
For most Poets the jury is out
But the work never stops.
The craving to speak
Keeps the voice on the page.

© 2018  Christopher Thompson. All Rights Reserved. Written in England.

reblog  v0.1


Here I am again,
I am bending time, again.
Today is my future; back-in-the-day.
I pause to wonder, what will anyone,
Make of this then, when the time comes?

I crucible these seconds
And everyday wince at the torture,
And reach for cooling cream,
And teaching myself a lesson,
I try to remove the heat.

Tough steel, this arm of mine.
With it I reach for my doorstep
To crush a grape.
I rush then for the gate,
I crumble some memories, then race away.

I begin again at the centre.
I am like the pebble splashed in a pond.
I bleep and bleed the ripples.
I concentrate and stir,
I am moving fast now towards the edges.

Here is the can of life,
I am pressured and cooked.
The being who has been, come and gone.
I long for the pierce of death
And the escape from eternity.

My timescape is blasted to an edge with smithereens.
Macroscopic space curves for my flight.
Here through the tinctured lens of hope
Is detected by watchers,
The chasm of the catastrophic sanctum.

Hello I gesture,
From this side of the mirror.
I try to sign my position.
No one sees through the silver,
Seems I am finally around the bend.

Prepare this place for me
I have been here before.
It was just as I was beginning,
When I had closed the final door.
Watch for yourself as I arrive once more.

Here again,
I had been bending time with a brain.
Today was to be my future.
Back-in-the-day I recall, I paused to wonder, 
What has anyone, made of this, now my time is gone?

© 2018 Christopher Thompson  All Rights Reserved.
Written in the English Midlands.


Give me a clue.
Can words explain?
Then, how many words?
How many syllables?

Ship, movie or book?

You think that I pretend.
I see.

This is not charades
This is love.
Can you not see me

©2018 Christopher Thompson

Rush Poetry.   Started 7.30pm Finished 7.37pm  Written in England on 29-07-18






Three words on my pillow;
Not photograph, or regret,
Or unfinished.

My demons creep in concert
With my willfulness,
And decrypt;
With my ever awake conscience,
Who I am.
In tones of a faded vignette,
And I am admonished.
After which light evasion
Seemed most fitting,
And so to sleep.

Now I have further regrets,
For getting unconscious
And not facing up to their wrath.

Your tongue begets my willow
And my wrong wood dries,
As you saw away at my nightmare
You blemish me and my ring
“only figuratively speaking” I fear.

But the last laugh
Is had in my head,
Casting my mind
Further beyond my birth,
When I conceived
My very first verse
Written with the wisdom of the Zygote.

This is me.

Dr Chris Zilch.


©2018 Christopher Thompson

I am who you are, we are who I am.

It may be advisable to brace yourself.
What I announce here may be 
Received as something in the nature of shock.

I have just decided
To throw this poetry
To the Wind.

#There is no guidance in board.

View it as a literal form, 
A type of psychological ejaculate,
For it too contains a message.
It is as important.

#There is no see-saw on which to ride

Feel it if it touches,
A sense of connection, communication,
For it bares a type of truth.
It will help.

#Understanding is not always required.

For all poetry contains some order of light,
In air or on paper or on screen,
By which it informs, it acknowledges truth.
Illumination comes from within.

#I know, you know, we knew all along.

Poetry is brought into existance to be shared,
The poets share themselves wholly,
The poetists shares their moments of inspiration. 
Emotions are given freely.

#I am who you are, we are who I am.

©2018  Christopher Thompson

Speeding to the Horizon, an Infinity Dichotomy (Pt1)

Speeding to the Horizon, an Infinity Dichotomy (Pt1)

There is little I would presume to dismantle
A plate of tectonic proportions for example.
Or a disjointed phrase.
Or a lucid remark
Or stroll along a parapet wall.
There would be great risk
Of failing or falling.

Here is the trap.
There is danger should it
Ever be sprung.

It begins with choices.

Who has the choice
At the outset, the beginning,
or in the twilight, the end of a life?


© 2018 Christopher Thompson