In its special serpentine style too deep to fathom
while submersed beneath I was surprised to see
the world's second most venomous reptile
a striped Dubois' sea snake swim by me
when forewarned of dangers quirky lurking in the deep
altho' arriving suitably attired with fins mask and snorkel
it was sufficient to almost scare me out of my diving skin
so severe as to make my heart skip flip or turn turtle
but being bold brave of heart and fleet of flippered-foot
swiftly did I surely doggy-paddle safely away
tho' no harm was done to me a close call or so it seemed to be
which I survived to recount alive here on this another day
He washed his hands.
Of her and us.
And we were sluiced into the Irish Sea.
On a rough tide.
Whilst the gentleness of the Yorkshire Dales embraced him.
Again.
Clinging to each other and the flotsam of the incoming tide we were swept back to shore, blistered, weathered, but together.
A successful navigation to land, prevailing with fortune and fortitude.
Onshore our journeys continued but in differing directions, scarred by the experience, new land to explore.
New lives.
Ever changed we reunite to recount, reminisce, a newness added on each telling.
The scarring still exists the flesh tears, the salt burns, but every now and then the flag is hauled,
the sail thrown open to the wind and we sail, the waters stiller, navigable.
Harbours now, each open to protect from choppy oceans.
A safe mooring.
What remains depends
on what you expected there
before looking down—
the eye searches for a world
it already thought was lost.
What remains can be
what you most desire to find
among all that's gone—
hope gathers the scattered tithes
making presence out of loss.
What remains may be
only what you feared to see,
waiting in the mind—
we recount the world that's left
or the world we feared we'd find.
Before we can see,
expectation shapes the eye—
hope and fear look first
then eyes open wonder-wide—
discovering - what remains.
City Life
City life is not my thing
It’s too hard to survive
If I move from point A to B on foot
People think that I’m a tram
Irrespective of the fact that I tell them that
In the rural part, that is routine
They just brush it aside
I think city living is for those who were born there.
When I recount life in the country
To them, it sounds so strange
I’m so out of place
In the city, conflicts are the norm
Too much bloodletting without reason
Reasoning is their second language
Almost everyone is armed in some way
out to do bodily harm
I made a cut
This place is a living hell
City life is not my kind of thing.
On the seashore, stretching endless,
There stands a lighthouse, a beacon of light.
Staying alone, it faces the roaring waves,
Guiding lost sailors and ships aright.
It often watches thundering breakers
It doesn’t command them to be still
Nor chase the brewing storms away
But sheds light poised on a rocky hill.
How many stories a lighthouse has to recount!
Stories of havoc, plunder and shipwreck,
Tales of escape from the fury of typhoons,
Of love and romance enacted on the deck.
Each lighthouse holds a mystical allure.
Broader at its base and narrower on its face,
It has a cylindrical and tapering shape
And stands as a sentinel with a piercing gaze.
In each one, there’s a lighthouse shining within
It guards us from all storms brewing inside
Shedding light along life’s murky tracks,
Leading us to coveted destinations like a guide.
Lying here, I am eaten
The beast takes its last bite
On a cold and dreary evening
I begin to recount my life
Sliding past his teeth, I weep
Remembering all my strife
Trying to climb, with arms so weak
My pains increase and subside
Slipping past his tongue, I'm hung
Reaching one last time
My eyes close tight, when terrors sung
With a beastly sort of pride
Falling down his throat, I'm choked
My breath taken from inside
While hearing every ghastly note
The beast sings and cries
Past his lungs, all hope is gone
So hard I thought i tried
Into it's gut I'm finally done
Inside the beast I died
Christopher Pitts/2013
Sometimes you feel like nothing good happens to you—
The Sky withholds its Blue—
Yet unnoticed—Morning passes
Bearing You—
The Orchard does not praise the Bee
That sweetens every Rose—
Nor does the Lamp recount the Dark
It softly overthrows—
You wait for Fortune—like a Guest
Who never learns the Road—
Unknowing—you are Bread and Fire
Along another’s Load—
The World keeps ledgers—bright with Gain—
But Mercy keeps no Score—
It writes its Blessings—silently—
On Doors you never saw before—
So if your Heart feels poorly paid
For all the Good you do—
Remember—God keeps better Books—
And often—Writes down the Good You do--
What do I know of dedication, of devotion
I who have not fought on land or over ocean
What can I recount of sacrifice
I who was raised in America, in paradise
What can I tell of bravery, of heroism
I who pen poetry and witticism
And yet I’ve engaged in mortal combat, my dears
~ Been married now for nigh on 50 years
I recount the nights of faint, distant glows —
the dimmed party lights of summer —
of silenced streaks of fleeing light, tassels of clouds
adorned in fleeting whites,
on the broad balcony of the west, when the
incidents on the large vestibule of the sun sum up
their lives and times on seasons’ palimpsests.
The wild party closes by the stretch of the twenty-first hour.
Darkness, frightened, creeps in with the stealth of a departing thief,
the coyness and diffidence of an undocumented harlot.
Twilight aids the shut eyes of young irreverent bats;
drunk with summer's furiously spouting liquors,
like the denizens of an unclothed city, they fly low,
with gambolling wings, propelled by unseen strands of evening gales,
shadowing briefly the glints of pimping stars eager to witness the next day’s
orgy.
If soil could complain-
if air could sign,
if Earth could weep,
and if humanity could truly speak
of what it has done to itself.
They would recount quite wounds,
buried in silence,
echoes stifled by times,
memories sealed away,
folded within like secrets-
the world refused to hear.
But silence is not peace,
it is a storm held in the lungs,
a scream never given voice.
And if one day -
someone dared to listen, truly listen-
To the grief that was never spoken,
they should be overcome by guilt,
They would fall beneath it's weight.The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award
Fold-count-recount and refold the puzzle in my mind- the map in gold dust-whose memories-flying lamps-exploding light bulb chaos-Edison's memory
Everywhere and nowhere-whose is ?The soul of things-intuition from the lining that I do not wear- purified from my bones I was thrown into a bell jar
The lid was closed-the room was folded: The mirror was broken in my mind. Darkness. BLIND SPOT(…)
Though small in size you stood strong' and wise
In your answer to him, of your intended demise!
And that of our fair state.' In our great land.'
For right here i recount of that old 'dingo dan'
He'd paid the blood money, he's bought a plot'
Oh how my blood boils.' And i can tolerate a lot.)
Its plain he had a dirty plan, to cottaging; that spot; on prime Murray river bank land'
Well it did not come good.' No not at all.!
For a true blue builder, rejected that call
He came like a demon..yet left like a cur.!
On that; may freedom loving Aussies all concur!
Keep shunning the dingo.' May mange be upon him'
I praise our publican, may all blessings be on him.!
The same kind of nights we see the same times a year.
People play people, break their hearts then blame the moon and stars, not the beer and the bars, for all the tears.
Down the road, round the back. Wake up without recount for who or what was just unluckily near.
Bruises take a while to disappear.
The same kind of nights we see the same times a year. A sharp dislike is taken for a smile that can soon disappear.
Eyes shine in sunlight but hide their plight for the night, for the fear, for the tears.
The same kind of eyes seeing for the same kind of minds night after night all through the year.
The same kind of nights for the same kind of minds for the same kind of tears.
Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.
This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old skin was once never crinkled.
These eyes, now drooping, dimmed by poor vision,
Once sparkled with allure and shone pretty.
These hands were once fresh, smooth, and not gritty,
Though now shaky with loss of precision.
The mouth, now sunken and full of gnashers,
Was once bright in the glow of real teeth.
A life once like the vibrance of a wreath
Now whispers in the folds of old tatters.
These feet, worn and cracked, trudging so slowly,
Once romped in the bloom of youthful delight.
Though now calloused and bent, aching each night,
They carried dreams and walked them boldly.
January 1st 2025
Miracle man
A hinder look see’s the year 2024 fade from view,
today I contemplate what 2025 might have in store.
I recount unpleasant past days, more than a few,
but now, archived in history, they’re a closed door.
As I pray for improved times to enrich my being,
I’m also asking God to make of me, a better person.
Also to bring world change from what I’m seeing,
knowing each passing year the days will worsen.
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