The Screen that Hums

Tags

Celebrity, Communication, creative, isolation, Life, poems, poetry, Relationships, Television, The Screen that Hums, TV, verse, writing

With the TV on
And no-one home
Does it matter that
We’re all alone
With the dramas and
The lives of those
We’d wish to be or
Are glad we aren’t
To dip in and out
Of colours loud
Where death rings tears
And heroes bleed
But we’ll see them all
Again next time
In costumes grand
Or just like those
That reflect our lot
In kitchens where
Machines that feed us
Ping lap-top sustenance
Remind us of the
Lives that we could lead
Behind the screen
That hums and moves
In steps more constant
Than our own or those
That move our hearts to bleed
Or cry out in our heads
For the credits to roll
Once more.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2020

Undone

Tags

Communication, creative, Depression, Insecurity, poems, poetry, Undone, verse, writing

I’ll carve marks into my skin

And hope that you can see

Trust the cold wind with my name

To show where I have been,

Throw my arms out open wide

Watch red skies turn to black

Cry lost flowers wilt and die

To show you what’s inside,

I’ll leave words upon the shelf

Beneath the dust they’ll die

Hear the voices on the breeze

Whisper someone else,

All the things I left undone

Freeze the hands as they spin

Then slip between the covers

And vanish with the sun.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2020

 

Copper Sky

Tags

Communication, Copper sky, creative, faith, Love, poems, poetry, Relationships, verse, writing

Follow me,

I’ll follow you,

Follow you down

Through the leaf lattice lanes

The cold-pressed, silken steel streets

To the banks of the stream

That washed us down from

Our mother’s arms to the wailing sea,

From the copper sky

I’ll draw your scent

Etched by the march of blistered feet

And calloused hands that worked the soil

Tilled the earth like a worshipped wife

Wait for late summer’s heat-haze splendor

To draw the wheat from the chaff

And bask in your wonder,

Come with me,

I’ll come with you,

Come with you

Past the flowing fields of wheat

The fragrant factory towers whose breath

Like a fire pumps in and out

Resting our beating heart rhythm

With the solitude of its own,

From the verdant trees

I’ll catch your eye

Watch the silver scenes dance between

The gnarled bark faces of the ancients

And the heavy hung hands that drape

Hang low kissing the emerald glade

That washes like the ocean

To carry you home,

Follow me,

I’ll follow you,

Follow you down

Past the marble-cold faces

That press against the window panes

Their eyes imploring you to stay

Like the weeds between the pavement cracks

That fade with winter’s song,

From the copper sky

I’ll catch your glow

And feel its burn beneath my skin

Its warmth awakening the seeds

Which slumber safe in earthen beds

Their dreams contented like cot-held babies

But wanting always to bask

Once more in you.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2020

 

On Islands Lost

Tags

Communication, creative, Islands, poems, poetry, Relationships, Truth, verse, Words, writing

Into the air

The words that I

Wanted to say

To you,

Given their flight

But only when

The air was still

To you,

Into the space

Between the dreams

And what they mean

To you,

The things I said

But not out loud

The things I said

To you,

We stand alone

Our ships adrift

Won’t find their way

To you,

On islands lost

Our words will die

Can’t find a way

To you,

Into the air

All that I meant

Won’t mean the same

To you,

Into the space

The black hole void

The words that I

Could never say

To you.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2020

 

Silver Bullets

Tags

Communication, creative, Dance, Deception, poems, poetry, Silver bullets, verse, writing, youth

We danced around our drinks

Like they were poisoned cups,

Dodging silver bullets

Which looked to cut us down,

Surviving each day

The best that we could,

Never talking of the ghosts

That haunted every corner,

The ghosts that lived inside

And made our shadows long,

We held our smiles through the day

Until our anger tore the dark,

The shadows now the best of us

The tears we locked away,

And still we dance

Our shapes against the sky,

As if the truth will fade

And we will be unscathed,

Dodging silver bullets

We keep within our hearts.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Catching Flies

Tags

Communication, creative, fiction, flash, Love, short stories, story, writing

She moved like a veil in the breeze, delicate and fragile,whispering her love between the clouds as they passed like strangers on the shore. Wisps of her hair, now chestnut, now russet, brushed the silent air, painting it with rainbow hues that scattered their love like angel feathers. Behind the cobweb curtains I shuddered, afraid of catching something that I could never hope to hold; something far beyond any expectations I may have held. I shivered, my fear the cold against the warmth that swarmed around my like an excited army of bees, hungry to feed on the sweet nectar which seeped from her every pore. Stolen glances were always enough: enough to shroud the fear of loss, of letting go what could never be held; enough to feed a dream in which to live, a fortress which I could build and rebuild as I chose, strengthened by a look or an over-heard word.

She floated, dancing on water, drifting ethereal from plane to plane, never resting for too long in any one place. Her voice, the words she spoke, swirled across the land like a nurturing blanket, and I knew that wherever they landed new life would emerge – beauty in the wake of vacuum. Her words touched my ears, kissing them gently like a dying friend, and that was enough.

If only I had known that they had been all for me.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Wooden Pieces

Tags

Communication, conflict, Creative writing, faith, history, Humanity, Life, poems, poetry, politics, Principles, religion, time, verse, writing

Above the birds circled

Silhouette patterns in the sky,

Monochromatic mosaics which shuffled like aging hands

Moving wooden pieces across a board

In some endless game,

Watching, always watching

Waiting for that killer move

That only Time knew

Would never come,

As far below, talking monkeys

Hurled sticks and stones across the fields,

Reached over the seas to tear the rage on others such as them

Moving invisible pieces across a board

As if they had a goal,

Forgetting that they had the gift

Of sound and word and voice,

Turning time upside down

As if it bore the blame,

And still above their sightless heads

The shadows wove designs,

Building plans like those before who came and failed and fell

Moving broken pieces across a board

As if there were a point,

Waiting, always waiting

Til aching wings gave way

Above the spinning rock

As silent Time fell still.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

What Use Are My Words?

Tags

Communication, conflict, creative, Creative writing, Depression, faith, history, Inequality, Life, Love, poems, poetry, politics, Principles, Progress, religion, Truth, verse, war, Words, writing

What use are my words

If the shells still fall

From black-heart open skies

And bombs still separate limb

From torso

On a whim?

If lover’s nights are torn asunder

Each phrase of love declared

And punctuated by the rifle’s kiss

As bullets fly through skies

To deafen out the

Infant’s cries?

If families fractured fall apart

Their bodies as their homes

And stuffed in ragged bags

They walk on paths anew

Hopes and lives askew?

 

What use are my words

If every judgement still

Depends on colour, race or creed

And not on who we are

Those who act so blind

Injustice our own kind?

If passion is fuelled by hatred

And shouted from the stands

Evolution’s backward stare

Feet that stomp and pound

Like we never left the ground?

If all that we can show

Is intolerance and hate

To mask the failings in ourselves

To stick within our clan

And say this is the Plan?

 

What use are my words

If all that we believe

Serves not to heal but pull apart –

Words lost behind the rhetoric –

And sets us off to goad

The wrong way down the road?

If our deities stand toe to toe

As we become the baying throng

Applauding every blow

Forgetting that it’s all a game

And they are all the same?

If faith is lost behind the mask

And we think ourselves the show

Where Glory resides in riches

And ceremony makes us tall

Hidden safe behind our wall?

 

What use are my words

If those who shout the loudest –

The basest of our kind –

Earn mandate over all of us

To wield the sharpened sword

And cut the final cord?

If none of us is equal

And power comes through privilege

Whilst on green fields they scheme

To hold on to the wealth

Through division and through stealth?

If birth outweighs our merits

When change is just a word

And nothing brings a greater good

As islands we shall ever stay

To never see a brighter day?

 

What use are my words?

 

Slow

Tags

Communication, creative, faith, lyrics, poems, poetry, verse, writing

Slow
Slow me down
As I spin
To the ground,
You
Held me up
With your words
With your lies,
I
Cannot see
Cannot feel
What you feel,
Fall
Let me fall
From your arms
From your mouth,
Blood
That you spilled
On the sand
Not for me,
Hands
Scratched in time
Hold the pain
Not from me,
Taste
Taste the air
As I slip
From your stage,
Slow
Slow me down
As I spin
To the ground.

The Awakening

Tags

Awakening, Communication, creative, dream, fiction, isolation, Philosophy, Prose, short stories, thoughts, writing

     A wash of faces hovered above me like a crudely painted ceiling fresco. Eyes, some filled with hope, others relief, bore into me like burrowing beetles. Beyond them an antiseptic ocean of white stretched as far as my own eyes could see; but I was prone, lying like a whale slowly exhaling its last on a beach the colour of gold.

     There were voices; voices which swirled over me like bees returning to the hive, heavy with nectar. Their sweet words bounced between my ears futile in their attempt to make sense of themselves. The sounds meant nothing to me, and neither did the tones which were targeted in my direction. Did the faces expect a response? Part of me guessed that they did, but I could not fathom the reason.

     The expectation behind the staring eyes was palpable, and even my forgotten, deadened senses could taste it. As for why, well, I could find no explanation. I looked back up at the waves as they crashed and dispersed before my eyes and realised, at last, that not one of them meant anything to me.