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.

I Eye in Word So To Speak (revised v1.02)

I eye in word, so to speak,
An Artist?
I neither do,
Nor dare to lift the brush
or leg the potters wheel.
I leave no mark,
Nothing on wood with chisels.

And steel is rust or ringing to me.
I would really weld in a mess.
I Smithy in words
My lush, hushed fragrances,
Which commit me to crying.
When I become dazzled,
I scratch with pencil.
To weather the stomach
To stomach the storm.
I reason within tent.
I collide with conscience
And countermeasure with verse.
I give thought its chance
When the root is outed.
Then I will have reasoned with intent.

My Chromite as yet is dull.
But it solves the fiddlers puzzle,
To the violinists delight.
Once again the Calf is skipping.
Thus my eye cringes a little less
As the particles diminish.
And I shine on like Chrome.

When I am breathless
My meter will be laid,
Next my moral body,
Anchored to my knowledge.
I will seep no more
My skimpy lines.
This wordy world whistler
At the edge of my extent,
Will finally fall silent,

Copyright 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

And The Big Apple (a Dreamscape)

Even if Wednesday life
Scoffs at the plains,
I know of farmers
Who Jane had once
Addressed as Sir.
It was so Midwestern.

And if windows could talk
Walls would blush.
And I would walk.
A door would close behind me.
Wednesday life is duller
Than pancakes in Jerusalem.

I’d rather have Monday
When the fog clears
From the weekend.
If only I have the time
To see the fort,
I’d make the week long trek.

Because I’d love to wake up
In Hollywood just once.
Wednesday life is a poor replacement
For a lost youth,
Z springs or craps,
And Eight ball delight.

And I am waving this wand to see,
Through an extinguished night.
My list of truth reads like lost youth.
Wednesday life is death.
Like a day in a necropolis,
Too Statuesque.

It lingers until no one survives.
Only monuments and the
Flowers and followers of the dead.
I long for Thor and the vigour
Of Thursday life which is fabulous
Like bagels and the Big Apple.
Written in England
© 2018 Christopher Thompson

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

Though, But.

This is one way.
It is conversation.
Your inner voice will begin to talk
As you read.

Do it out loud if possible.
This will work
Today me, tomorrow you.
A am a Doctor,
So this will work.

I wish
You would be in my scene,
You are part of the red dream.
I count you among my ripples
So you are to be held close.

I understand that,
As I let go
You move away from me,
I let go
Like a leap from a bridge.

The very oxygen of love
Is understanding.
Are you beginning to understand?
Do you understand?

You are
The love of my life,
How mad is this?
You drive me sad.

© 2018 Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved
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