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Christopher Haywood Poem
The southern slope kept a secret—
a slight tear where a shadow learns to grow.
I felt the pulse that pulled me in,
past where the daylight breaks,
down to where the cold, clear water flows.
The entrance wore a veil of living lace,
stretched tight across the limestone seams.
My hand caught the web—snap.
A sound like a severed nerve,
a frantic flight of silk in the dark.
A thousand eyes of jet* looked back at me,
skittish guardians shifting in the bend.
They sensed the weight I carried,
the heavy, hollow ache of winter’s end,
and pulled away into the rock’s silence.
I moved the stone, one by one,
shimmying into the throat of the hill.
Leaving the world of coffee and schedules,
of letters never sent and cold, still rooms,
to trade the sun for the smell of wet flint.
The air grew thick—a history held in breath.
The mountain drank the noise of my life,
the schedules, the fears, the static of days,
until the gravity beneath my feet shifted,
as if the earth were re-calibrating its mantle.
Deep inside, it was not empty.
It breathed in a bioluminescent hum—
walls bleeding a spectral, bruised blue.
A path snaked away, a vein of light
offered by a world that had forgotten me.
The cavern opened—a limestone cathedral.
There, glyphs bled from the stone,
a language of weight, of tectonic patience,
etched by hands that knew the cooling of the crust.
The "Litany of Compression"—the agony of eons.
The "Silent Watchers" warned of the breathers,
the map of veins reaching toward the mantle.
I knelt in the dirt, finding the charcoal
the ancients left for the next ghost to arrive.
I did not write a name, or a date, or a prayer.
I traced the suture of my own breath
into the wall, a frantic, uneven line.
My body began to chime with the cave.
Limbs turning to cold, heavy mineral;
skin thickening, pores sealed with dust.
I was lifted to the ceiling, a slow drift,
tethered to a sister-spire of quartz,
the two of us holding up the dark,
holding up the sky of the hill.
Outside, the spiders return to their work.
They knit the entrance shut with elastic silk,
weaving the wound of my entry back into stone,
hiding the secret from the reach of the sun.
The hill holds its peace.
And I, finally, have found my own.
* Jet black eyes of 125 spiders
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
Where silver spray explodes against the stone,
A dryad* steps from willow-boughs of jade,
To seek the rushing water’s deep, cold tone,
And find the sprite within the foaming glade.
With gossamer and wings of morning light,
The fairy hovers o’er the river’s roar,
A spark of golden dust in rapid flight,
Descending where the waters wash the shore.
The nymph, with eyes as dark as mountain rain,
Reaches to touch the creature’s fleeting glow,
As if to bridge the divide of her domain
And catch the grace the soaring spirits know.
They meet where nature’s wild and rushing breath,
Defies the quiet stillness, life, and death.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
There is a sudden crowd inside the ribs,
a heavy shifting of weight,
like old furniture dragging across a hardwood floor.
It is the nervous, rhythmic friction
of a thumb tracing the rough seam of your jeans,
over and over,
trying to anchor a body that feels too light.
You stand bare under a noon sun
with nowhere to tuck your hands,
the throat closing up like a dry pipe
around words that refuse to be smooth.
It tastes like the bitter, metallic burn of morning coffee
scalded against the top of your tongue,
the physical evidence of rushing into the day.
Then the floor drops away,
that sudden, terrifying lurch in the gut
when your foot encounters only empty air
on a dark staircase you thought you knew by heart.
The silence follows, heavy as a wet wool coat,
settling into the quiet hallway upstairs
where the floorboards stop creaking,
and you realize the house has gone entirely still.
But the lungs remember how to expand.
A laugh breaks out, unrehearsed, ugly, and loud,
the kind that jolts the shoulders
and leaves you blinking at the sudden light.
It is the cold, sharp shock of air
filling the chest right after the crying stops,
tasting faintly of ozone and salt.
We are of a fragile, clumsy construction.
We bruise against the corners of tables;
we stitch ourselves back up with mismatched thread.
To be alive is just to leave the front door unlatched,
inviting the weather to wreck the kitchen,
and standing there in the debris—
bruised, exposed,
and entirely glad to have felt the storm.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
In the beginning was the dark,
not of the void, but of the mind,
a thicket of ghosts and humors,
of gods in the thunder and demons in the gut,
where truth was whatever the loudest voice screamed
or what the oldest book commanded.
Then came the quiet revolution,
the heresy of the open eye.
It had a name: Empirical.
Its gospel was written on the skin,
its sermons heard by the ear,
its communion, the taste of salt on the tongue.
It built a cathedral not of stone, but of method.
Its creed was simple:
If it can be touched, it can be known.
If it can be weighed, it can be understood.
If it can be measured, it is real.
It gave us the caliper and the crucible,
the lens that bent the starlight from a billion years away,
and the lens that found teeming empires in a drop of water.
It gave us the clock, that tireless engine,
which chopped forever into knowable pieces.
It gave us the graph, a skyline of data,
and the equation, a prayer that always worked.
This new god was a god of order.
It taught us that lightning was not a spear from an angry hand,
but a discharge of potential, predictable and profane.
It showed us the fever was not a devil's curse,
but a microbe, something we could see, and starve, and kill.
It laid the human heart on a silver tray,
not as a sacrifice, but as a pump,
a marvel of muscle and valves,
something to be studied, something to be mended.
And it was good. It was powerful.
It dragged us, blinking, from the cave.
But a god built only on the senses
is a god with five deliberate blind spots.
Its first mistake is its faith in the window.
It believes the eye is a pane of clear glass,
when it is a filter, a lens ground by a billion years of survival.
We cannot see the ultraviolet blaze that guides the bee,
nor hear the subsonic language of the whale.
We cannot feel the Earth’s magnetic field, our planet’s steady soul.
Our senses are not a window to reality,
but a keyhole, and we have declared the room to be only what
we can spy through that tiny, biased slit.
Its second mistake is the arrogance of the ruler.
It believes that to measure a thing is to capture its essence.
It can measure the wavelength of red,
but not the sudden catch in your throat when you see a cardinal
flash against the snow.
It can map the neural pathways of affection, the flood
of oxytocin, the dopamine rush of a lover’s touch,
but it can never put a number on love itself.
It tries to weigh a soul by weighing the body before and after death,
and finding no difference, declares the soul to be a rounding error.
Its third, and gravest, mistake
is the observer.
Empirical dreams of a scientist who is a ghost,
a pure, massless consciousness recording data without influence.
But it is a fantasy.
The act of looking is an act of touching.
To measure the electron’s position is to change its path.
The scientist is not outside the experiment;
they are the most unpredictable variable within it.
Our questions shape the answers we receive.
Our expectations are magnets, pulling the scattered iron filings of data
into patterns we already believe are there.
So the gospel begins to fray.
It can tell you how the universe expands,
but it cannot tell you why you feel a sense of awe when you look at the stars.
It can explain the biological mechanics of grief,
the cortisol in your tears, the ache in your chest,
but it cannot sit with you in the quiet, empty room
and understand the shape of the hole that has been left.
It can describe, with perfect, cold precision, every note of a symphony,
its frequency, its amplitude, its decay,
but it cannot explain why the music makes us want to live forever.
It is a perfect tool for an imperfect task.
A magnificent, intricate net,
woven to catch the mechanics of the world,
but the water of meaning, of purpose, of beauty,
of all the intangible truths we live and die for,
slips right through its finely-calibrated holes.
And so we stand, rich with facts but starved for wisdom,
holding the blueprint of the house,
but having forgotten what a home feels like.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
A little life, a brand-new start,
Placed gently in a parent’s heart.
We ask for peace to guard their way,
And wrap them safely night and day.
May God grant wisdom deep and clear,
To guide their steps through every year.
With open doors and pathways bright,
And opportunity in sight.
With tiny hands and eyes so wide,
May heavenly favor be their guide.
A gift of hope, a love so true,
We bless this little life anew.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
Upon the bruised, slate-blue of the mountain peak,
Where shadows lengthen and the cold winds speak,
A heavy silence gripped the craggy stone,
Save for the secrets told to night alone.
A sudden, wet fog began to drape
The summit’s crest—a blunt and shifting shape—
Blotting out a third of all the height
In smoky veils of gray, uncertain light.
And there, inside that dense, obscured expanse,
I caught the twitching of a phantom dance.
From deep within the mountain's ancient seams,
Defying logic and the weight of dreams,
Strange, tiny sparks of life began to rise—
Anomalies before my waking eyes.
Shot violently from fissures in the rock,
They pierced the evening, an electric shock.
Viewed from a distance, the phenomenon
Looked like a plastic toy from days long gone—
A bubble gun, relentless in its play,
Spewing its spheres into the dying day.
At breathless, dizzying speeds they took to flight
From scattered vents across the mountain's height,
Up through the slopes, from every rugged tear,
Spitting their mysteries into the air.
Once airborne in the cold, unyielding space,
They swarmed and hovered, freezing in their place.
A gathering of strange, metallic throngs,
To which no earthly category belongs.
More aberrations shot out from below,
Locking into the grid, a silent show,
Until a thousand small, suspended lights
Ignited the approaching winter nights.
They hung static in the heavy air,
A constellation birthed of cold despair—
Or maybe wonder—flickering afar
Like lightning bugs we captured in a jar.
I mind the summers of my childhood years,
The sweating glass, the laughter, and the cheers,
When glowing beetles mapped the evening shade,
A brief, warm pulse before the day would fade.
But these were not the insects of the plains;
No amber blood was pulsing in their veins.
By matching pairs, they broke the grand design,
Snapping their anchors from the glowing line.
They zipped away, a sudden, blinding streak,
Leaving only the fog upon the peak—
To every compass point they scattered, gone
To chase the stars or race the coming dawn.
They vanished out of sight—a sudden blink,
Far faster than a human mind can think,
Leaving the ridge-line lonely, still, and stark,
Abandoning the summit to the dark.
I watch the empty sky and search the air,
Wondering what quiet gulfs produced them there—
Whether they hide within our atmosphere,
Or drift from worlds a lifetime far from here.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
It begins with the breath, a simple, rising tide,
The only clock that tells the honest truth.
It asks you, for a moment, to reside
Beyond the reaching hunger of your youth.
To sit within the center of the storm,
And watch the lightning strike without a flinch,
To let the tangled thoughts begin to form,
But never let them gain a single inch.
It takes a hunter’s patience, still and deep,
To track the way the light falls on the wall,
To wake the senses from their heavy sleep
And hear the silence underneath it all.
It is the scattering of your burdens on the floor,
Not casting them away, but letting go,
To stand before a wide and windowed door,
Content to simply watch the river flow.
You must be gentle with the wandering mind,
As one would guide a lamb back to the fold;
To leave the bitter stresses far behind,
And trade your iron chains for threads of gold.
For mindfulness is not a mountain peak,
Nor some elusive prize you have to find—
It is the very stillness that you seek,
The quiet home you carry in your mind.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
White stone for favor, black stone for guilt,
It is the bedrock of choice upon which we have built.
In fifth-century Athens, the citizens came,
To cast down their pebbles and enter the game.
In Athens they voted with clay or with beans,
By filling up jars to decide what it means.
Though "spilling the beans" is a myth we mistake,
The secrets of voters were heavy to break.
Middle Ages saw Venice adopt the same art,
To pick state officials and set them apart.
The ballotta of Venice, a ball small and round,
Is where our modern word "ballot" was found.
Borne over the waves to a new western shore,
The custom found life behind liberty's door.
Then nineteenth-century fellowships grew,
Where Masons and clubs chose new members they knew.
A box with an opening, hidden from sight,
Concealed every hand in the dark of the night.
A single black marble, a single dark choice,
Could completely silence a candidate's voice.
Anonymous judgment, entirely erased,
Left hopeful applicants banned and disgraced.
And so "blackballed" lingered, a phrase from the past,
Whenever a person is shunned or outcast.
Now ballots by millions are dropped in the mail,
A modern adjustment on history's scale.
Yet shadows of doubt over custody rise,
Of unverified hands and of fraudulent eyes;
As paper drifts far from the traditional booth,
We struggle to balance convenience and truth.
From stones in an urn to the clubs of old fame;
A tiny dark pebble gave exile its name.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
Young Charlie O’May was a marvel to see,
The pride of the Wombats, Division Three.
With a glove made of leather and dreams of the pros,
He could miss any object that came near his nose.
He stood in the grass like a figure of grace,
Until a fly ball nearly smashed in his face.
The orb would descend from the afternoon blue,
And Charlie, focused, would follow it through.
He’d gallop and holler, "I’ve got it! It’s mine!"
Then trip on his shoelace and pop his own spine.
The ball wouldn’t land in the pocket of hide,
But bounced off his shoulder and out to the side.
"It’s a glitch in the physics!" the youngster asserted,
While the fans in the bleachers looked highly diverted.
He’d dive for a grounder with spirit and grit,
And come up with nothing but gravel and spit.
The coach, in the dugout, would chew on his hat,
And pray that the boy could at least wield a bat.
But Charlie’s swing was a sight of its own,
A whirlwind of wood, no contact ever known.
He’d windmill and wallop with frantic intent,
Ignoring the path where the fastballs were sent.
The pitcher giggled and lobbed a slow curve,
Which Charlie missed with shattering nerve.
He struck out on three pitches—none in the zone—
Then tripped on the plate and let out a groan.
He adjusted his helmet (which sat on his ear)
And ignored the collective and thunderous jeer.
"The wood is defective," he’d say with a shrug,
As he accidentally stepped on a great big bug.
He wanted the look of the big-league elites,
With tobacco-stained smiles and mud on their cleats.
He tucked a large plug in the side of his cheek,
But his stomach grew gurgly and suddenly weak.
He gagged and he choked on the poisonous bit,
As he tried (and failed miserably) to get rid of the spit.
The juice leaked in rivers down on his white shirt,
Mixing with sweat and the infield's red dirt.
He sputtered and coughed till his face turned plum,
Deciding he’d stick to a piece of bubblegum.
He tossed the foul wad in the trash with a fit,
And right then and there, Charlie decided to quit.
But the way that he ran was the strangest of all,
Like a panicked gazelle or a hog, feral.
His knees hit his chin as his elbows would flail,
Like a ship in a storm that lost every sail.
He never ran straight, but in zig-zags and loops,
While jumping over invisible hula-hoops.
If he happened to walk—which occurred by mistake—
He’d sprint toward first for the audience's sake.
He’d collide with the baseman and flatten his chest,
Leaving the poor man a bit over stressed.
He once ran to second but veered to the right,
And tackled the umpire with all of his might.
"Safe!" croaked the official from under the pile,
While Charlie flashed him a confident smile.
He barreled through shortstops and pitchers, you know,
Like a runaway train with no whistle to blow.
No player was safe when the O’May was in motion,
He caused a continuous, sprawling commotion.
The scouts from the big leagues all stayed far away,
Leaving Charlie O’May in the bushes to play.
But even as the clock hits 4:47 today,
He’s swinging at shadows and missing his way.
He lacks any talent, but Charlie’s quite proud,
Of being the guy who most baffles the crowd.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Haywood Poem
Extreme explosions rendered a cloud,
Before the sky turned to a leaden shroud;
When the rain was water and not a sting,
He held a pocket of forgotten things.
He saw the smoke on the far-off rim,
The way the clover was beginning to pale;
He knew the future was growing dim,
A flickering lamp in a rising gale.
He didn’t build walls or a silver vault,
He didn’t cry out at the coming fault;
Instead, he found a fractured seam,
And buried a small, persistent dream.
"I will not see you," he whispered low,
"But perhaps you’ll wait for the soot to go."
A silent promise to a dying land,
He pressed the earth with a trembling hand.
The cities crumbled to mounds of salt,
Secure in its dark and earthen vault,
The seed waited for the ashen stone
To bloom for a traveler, wandering alone.
Copyright © Christopher Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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