by Chris Green | Aug 25, 2008 | Poetry
A keen and fresh wind: coming hard from the sea, Whipping at the grass, biting at the smoker’s chest; Tugging at the window and at the walkers’ clothing As they lean their ways from the cookhouse, weaving With the rush of the wind in its surf-surging. In front of me...
by Chris Green | Aug 25, 2008 | Poetry
Where is here? Here, here is here. Here, like a wraith of shadow, here And here, over here. There? No, here. Now thence, and, therefore, whence. Now, Also henceforth now, therefore now. Here and now is terminal life, Death but an aged blink away. If I die – where?...
by Chris Green | Aug 25, 2008 | Poetry
Are guns bad? Are people totally good? Any gun is only a mechanism, Like a clock that sits ticking the ages passed On someone’s Victorian mantelpiece. The clock mechanism was built to give time And the gun only gives ammunition. “Ah but,” you say, “what happens when I...
by Chris Green | Aug 25, 2008 | Poetry
The walker treads the trail; Sharp, grey, gravels grate Under his swiftly moving feet, Small swirls of dust erupt And are cleared by the breeze. The walker climbs the hill, A small speck in a mass of green; He labours under the sun, Soon drenched with sweat, Seeking...
by Chris Green | Aug 25, 2008 | Poetry
Paper, paper, I must have some paper. How can I write without paper? Frantically searching for some paper. Under Here? In there? Some writing paper! In here? Where is here? I must have some paper. No paper. No paper. None! No paper! A pencil? Yes! But paper – some...
