Alone

Tags

Alone, creative, Life, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

And the pages turn

And the numbers fade

Like they always have

And they always will

Wiping clean the slates

And erasing words

Hiding the faces

And fading the names

And we all look back

As we always do

Try to see the things

That were never there

And when out of sight

Means we’re out of mind

Did they really mean

Anything at all

If for just one day

We could see it all

Touch the ones we know

See if something’s real

Or just shy away

Like we always do

Afraid to make the move

To hide and die alone.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

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Watching Suns

Tags

age, creative, faith, Life, loss, poems, poetry, Remembrance, Strangers, Sun, time, verse, writing

She sat and watched the suns

Come and go as if they were

Strangers passing on the bitter streets:

A nod, a glance, perhaps a smile.

They rose in the levelled east,

Fought their way to the highs of their days,

Then struggled to climb each obstacle,

The mountains of the west.

She watched from the window

The porch and the gate

As the clock stole the hours,

Spirited them away,

And filed them under ‘lost’.

Emerald vines grew like memories

Creeping slowly over the garden fence,

Tendril-fingers seeping into the grain

Tenderly choking the life unlived.

She watched the marks of the years

Engrave themselves into her hands,

Pathways followed and gone,

And so many dreamed,

Her face the scorched and dried

Map of ages,

Marked, but abandoned before the mark of treasure

Had burned itself into her.

And the suns still came

And the suns still died,

And someone else took her chair.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

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

 

Waste the Time

Tags

creative, dreams, Life, nostalgia, poems, poetry, time, verse, Waste, writing

What did we do before we had

The time to waste the time,

When every moment seemed so full

Of obligation’s ties,

And commitment pulled us closer

Then swallowed up our days,

When hands were full and red and raw

From dawn to dusk to dawn,

Of all the things we ever made

For lives we never knew,

From pit to fire they came and went

To lay the tracks from now,

And love was just a distant dream

In books and silver screens,

We washed away the dirt of day

And with it all our hope,

So tell me now with hindsight’s eye

When dear time’s time we kill,

What did we do before we had

The time to waste the time?

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

Kitchen Window

Tags

creative, Life, loss, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

She stood at the kitchen window

Still her eyes looking out

Over the fields of wheat

Now clothed in concrete and stone

Salt-moist with the days

She had given away

And moments she had sunk

Her tired hands into

Too deep to ever catch the dreams

Which swam in the shallows

Transients in the currents

Which left their lip-stain

On shores she felt that she

Could never reach

Not seeing that they

Like the hours lost

Were nothing more than shark-bait

Driven onto rock-scarred shores

Wishing that the story book tales

Had not been quite so tall

And that true love’s lips had kissed

A promise of truth

That the dragons had left some bridges

For her alone to burn

And that the rainbow had borne

Her happy ending

Still, her eyes looking out

She stood at the kitchen window.

 

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

Stations

Tags

age, Change, creative, Life, poems, poetry, Stations, time, Transience, verse, writing

Young man stands

Shoulder propped against the pillar

Its concrete cold, harsh, pock-marked

Echoes his mood

Like the burned tar smoke

That spirals like a dragon

From a hand which hangs,

A pendulum weight within the sleeve,

Detached at his side.

The girl waits

Hair scented with expectation

The flower-musk brushed skin

Alight and aglow –

She knows that he will come

And lay his cloak across her fears –

Painted hues of love

Which grow like the wisteria

Around her heart.

A man forgotten by time

The pages of his days

Scattered on the dust

Like flakes of decaying skin

No testament to the things that passed his eyes

And cut their mark into his flesh

Knows that days are numbered

But he no longer counts

As he waits for welcomed arms.

A restaurant doorway

Arms flung wide like a distant aunt

Two lovers embrace

Clinging to the space that grew between them

Remembering it like childhood

Before they squeeze its life away

A moment that they trust

Will hold them in the perfection that they feel

Their private slice of heaven.

And the trains they come

And the trains still leave.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

Killed a Day

Tags

creative, Life, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Killed a day today.

Watched potential cough

And splutter

And sink with the setting Sun.

Heard her children’s cries

From hopeful ‘wills’ to Plaintive ‘coulds’

Dissolving with the breeze,

Felt the feelings rise

Like a lover’s moon

Justifies

The apathy of ages,

Imagined futures

Without the curse of

Time’s cruel hand

Tomorrow’s filled with motion.

Killed a day today.

Nighttime

Tags

age, Change, creative, Forgetting, lyrics, nostalgia, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Looking at you there

Laying on the floor,

Never thought such little time

Thought there would be more,

Eyes that see right through

Packed your thoughts away,

Never found the words I need

Thought I’d more to say.

 

Sun chases dreams

Across the sky,

We look for wings

We try to fly,

And we won’t let the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Time shows its hand

Sweeps us aside,

Seducer of all

Love’s promised bride,

But we won’t let the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Face falls away

Etchings of age,

Bodies so frail

Burning with rage,

And now we feel the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Looking at you there

Laying on the floor,

Never thought such little time

Thought there would be more,

Eyes that see right through

Packed your thoughts away,

Never found the words I need

Thought I’d more to say.

Too Little Time

Tags

creative, loss, Love, lyrics, nostalgia, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

(A sort of lyric)

Without a hint of regret
No reason yet to forget
What I came here for,

All the lost and wasted time
Always waiting for a sign
To show a better way,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

All the places never shown
All the faces never known
It makes no difference now,

With feet that move so slow
As if there’s no where left to go
But visit distant dreams,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

And like driftwood on a beach
All the things I’d never reached
Wash up before me now,

All the words I never spoke
All the lines I never wrote
Drifting from me now,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

Without a hint of regret
No reason yet to forget
What I came here for.

Losing Time

Tags

creative, loss, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Hands sweep soundlessly

Like a besom across a courtyard

Hidden in some distant town,

Yet revealed in the faded glory of a silent movie;

And my chest aches –

A longing for them to slow –

To stand still and dream

Of futures swept away,

Gone before their embryonic faces take shape;

Forms that will not see the beauty

Or cling to despair with knuckles whitened,

Eyes that will not water

A silent cry for life;

And my flesh heavy hangs on a frame

Oppressed and absolved in equal measure,

As another hand brushes clean the pillow

And flattens away my presence,

And the silence of the film plays on.