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Best Poems Written by Christopher Stopford

Below are the all-time best Christopher Stopford poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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-patriae Infelici Fidelis-

PATRIAE INFELICI FIDELIS
                  (Dedicated to my Sister Patricia in South Africa)

“Faithful to my unhappy country”
etched to my ancestor's cress
a millennium years or so ago
in a sorrowful ravaged
war-tourned Engel-land.

How their hearts must have cried
for peace to reign
over their country
and their town of Stopford
now known as Stockport
in Cheshire county
for the dirge to change it's tune
The pity is, that still today
that motto rings out true
though the country
now is a different one
faithful I will stay
to this the land of my birth
this confused and unhappy
South Africa

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-an Ode To Jesus From Simon of Cyrene- 1

(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.

My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.

The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time, 
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.

His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand, 
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,

I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil, 
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,

He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,

When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death, 
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-an Ode To Jesus From Simon of Cyrene- 3

(Part3) Home, The Realization and Blessing,Finally.
Here where I reside in Cyrene in the country
of Cyrenaica later to be known as Libya, now in Africa
so far has the news hailed, to cheer me on,
For that Holy-man of Judaea never died
my days henceforth shone bright above for me,
They said too that He truly was a King
a Son from the Davidic Royal line,
A King without an earthly throne to sit upon.

But for me that Holy-man will forever be
A Prophet on High, a Son of God
so much more than, a mere earthly king,
And all this I say without a doubt in mind
for I was there, I felt His touch
I heard His words, I saw the look in His eyes
because of Him I tread this earth
so much the lighter now.

Now at the close of day and at my hearth
bathing in the warmth of the fires glow,
My thoughts are more and more upon
that Man of God, that man Jesus
whom I helped that awful day,
And I wander if He knows He has helped me more
than He will ever know for now I feel so
much closer and grateful to my God.

To my God whom I Worship every day
even more so, now that I have met His Son
His Son, who so has suffered, the the hand's of sinful man,
He suffered shame and degradation
all to redeem Men, all to show Man the Resurrectional Way,
All for Man's sake and for that day, I am so truly blessed,
And His words to me "You too will sip this cup
with Me unto the end of time", those words now seared into my soul.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-'Tis Human To Err-

'TIS POWER, TO THE PEN OF THOUGHTS TO WRITE

   FOR WORDS OFT' TIME SPOKEN ARE ON A FLIGHT

   TO A NOWHERE LAND AND THEN LOST IN THE MISTS OF TIME

   BUT PENNED, NOW THOSE WORDS ARE IMMORTALIZED

   IN THE MINDS OF THE PERUSERS TO BE SCRUTINIZED


   COMMENCE THE WRITING THOUGHTLESS IN MIND TO FREE THE PAIN

   TO CLEAN THE AIR TO RID THE GUILT

   AND HIDE THE SHAME OF IGNORANCE NAME

   AND MISUNDERSTANDING STACKED UP TO THE HILT

   'TIS HUMAN BUT TO ERR AS BEFORE SO OFT' DECRIED IN SHAME


   THIS FEAR AND FEAR ALONE THAT SETS THE DOUBT

   FOR FEAR IS LACK OF FAITH AND HARD THE PATH TO MAKE

   'TIS LIES AND DECEIT THAT ULTIMATELY MAIMS THE PATH

   AND RUINS THE LIVES OF PEOPLES DEVOUT


   IT'S PEOPLE WHO PEOPLE SICK AND IN DOUBT MAKE

   WHETHER ONE WOULD CREDIT THE FACT OR NOT

   TAKE FOR INSTANCE AND FOR ARGUEMENT'S SAKE

   THE THREE THINGS THAT CAUSES AFFINITIE'S ROT

   YOU, THEM AND THE OFFENDING SUBJECT

   THEN ASPERSIONS CAST AND SLANDERING BEGIN TO MAKE

   THE SUBJECT OF THE DEBATE LONG LOST IN REGRET

   FOR RIGHT MUST BE THE PATH TO TAKE

   'TIS BUT HUMILITY HEIGHTENED TO APOLOGISE

   'TIS ONLY BUT HUMAN TO ERR, AND THAT FACT, TO RECOGNISE.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-topsy Turvy World-

What's the matter Mother World,
why are you in such 
a topsy-turvy swirl?
Has Man again upset you so much?

Why is it that your face
has lost it's once flourishing green color
and your skin now blotching red,
your river'd throat aridly bled
and your inner-core rumbling hollow?

Is it because Men and Nation's
are too busy quibbling,
And greedily scrambling
over your bounteous generous donations?

That leads Man's descent
in self-destructing,
And you, your anger to vent
in quivering, belching, and lava spewing?

Has Man not his lesson's
learn't over timeless years
that their greed and actions
will result in raining acid tears?

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-ode To Spring-

The telephone rang, I answered cheerily
When the niceties were over, the voice inquired
"How is it going with the gardening today" quite sincerely
I could not refrain and out of exuberance, desired
to extol the virtues and due attribute to the joy that Spring is bringing.

The Birds are chirping away
gleefully abound at their playing
rejoicing the rebirth of Spring today
and now have more hours to bask in the sun
That's the glory and joy that Spring is bringing.

The Winter's gloom of body and mind is now done
the Trees and Shrubs, in the breeze can't restrain their greeting,
The Peaches are busy Peaches-sing
the Figs are Figging away
and the Apricots are buckling in their blooming.

The Guava's graciously budding and Guava-ing the whole year 
as with the Parsley's and Celery's luscious greenery,
The Paw-paw's are Paw-pawing, the Avocado-pear
so generous in their giving, through-out the whole year,
It's amazing, all the joy that Spring has sprung.

The Quince's are heavily wincing
the Mango's are flowering and ready to Mango-ing
the Banana's are Banana-ing
and the Plum's, purplish in their Plum-ming
so too are the Tamarillos heavy in Tree-tomato-ing 

While the white and mauve blossoms
of the Yesterday Today and Tomorrow's, soften's
the most perturbed mind with their heady aromatic scent
and the Jasmines exudes a fragrance extraordinary,
As with the Clivia's in saffron pride, glistening in sun-lit dew.

What an awesome, wondrous sight
to see Mother-nature's beauteous, creative delight 
blending so, with the Omnipotent Creator's panoramic scene   
Set so, that we the Immortal Mortal care-takers bear in mind
that His Garden and the giving Spring, is of the sharing Kind.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-jesus- a Portrait-

That curious Roman official

   named "Lentulus" with foresight recorded

   his description of a Man controversial.

   And His name too, for prosperity accorded

   That Man who the Roman so aspired

   was named Jesus, that Man of Awe,

   And Lentulus was one of few who desired

   that Man Jesus to portray and hence to annals store.


   So wont was Lentulus to see and hear

   what that Man Jesus preached and said,

   That he followed Him for a while, everywhere,

   So that the verity of his narration could by all be read,

   Then went on to relate what he saw,

   A Man of serene composture who courtly stood

   and how His prescence the crowds would draw

   and hungered the more on the words that inspired good.


   Of average height, just on fifteen and a half fists tall

   His nut-brown hair smoothed down at the side

   forming soft flowing curls, that did fall

   to below His shoulders with luxuriant pride,

   His beard boasted long and full, the same colour of His hair,

   Both His hair and beard neatly parted the middle down,

   As with the way that all of Nazarines share,

   And on a reddish face not a wrinkle, spot or frown.


   His eyes wide set with an unusual capacity for expression

   coloured blue-grey, exuding a sadness from within,

   Yet cheerful of countenance with seriousness held in remission,

   Sometimes seen to weep, not ever to laugh or sing,

   Though His feet were bare, He stood regally composed

   He lived in troubled times with  much woe abound,

   For there were those around, who would oppose

   Him for the freedom and peace His voice did sound.


   Now through what Lentulus and others alike, did relay,

   Artists and painters centuries ago, with care

   did Jesus to canvas, with dilligence portray,

   And His likeness to the world's peoples share,

   So that His teachings now so revered

   became all the more potent with vision aglared,

   For His words of enlightenment can so astound,

   But just in His Prescence alone can the Spirit abound.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-it Never Cease's To Amaze Me-

We're been planting seeds for ere so long

        and it ne'er ceases to amaze me

        how the Good Lord makes them grow

        there's some seed would dormant lie

        and let ages upon ages go on by

        just when it thinks the time is right

        up sprouts the shoots in glorious sight

        as if to sing out loud and shout

        glory be, glory be, I see the light

        that's why it never ceases to amaze me

        how the Good Lord makes them grow

        the roots then take hold in sometimes

        desolate and arid soils

        and all the while the little green leaves above smiles

        as it quenches its thirst on the morning dews

        then looks up in awe at the warming sun

        and still the Good Lord's work is not quite done

        for that little seed then grows into a giant tree

        that is why it ne'er ceases to amaze me

        how the Good Lord makes them grow.

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-this Vast Abundance of Ours-

Think in abundance and abundance will be yours

       The million of stars for you to gaze upon

       The thousands upon thousands of leaves on the trees around

       Oodles and oodles of grains of sand to walk on


   The vast atmosphere of air to breath with

       The million upon millions of litres of water

       Running in the rivers to thirst upon

       The trillions of thoughts coarsing thro' our mind


   The vast spaciousness of the galaxies

       Of infinite unknown dimensions

       To play and romp in fields of flowers and grasses

       To rest your body and eyes upon


   What abundance we have in store

       What monies can be bared and paid at the door

       Of our bounteous gifts bestowed in glory

       And from the Father's love from the start of history


   Pray as if you have already recieved we're told

       Believe that you already have the requested lot

       Then let it not for a moment be forgotten too

       To take the moment and thank and be thankful for


   Be gracious with your bounty in store

       Give freely so that you can freely receive too

       For not one cent can you at the close of the hour

       Take on the journey to be with the Father evermore

Details | Christopher Stopford Poem

-an Ode To Jesus From Simon of Cyrene- 2

(Part 2) The Next Few Hours,Then Homeward.
To soon, the road an end did come
and I that dreaded stake to the ground did lay,
Where without ado, they laid that Holy-man down,
Over that stake and through both His hands
that they placed above His head, and home they drove
that awful iron spike, and not a murmur or cry
did that Holy-man uttered in pain, that morn,
Not even when they spiked His feet, apart to the post

Then three plagues in mockery was nailed to the post
above His hands, in the languages used most common
at the time, one in Latin, I read out to myself
reading, Iesus Nazarenus Rex ludaesrum,
Then below another in Greek and one in Aramaic,
The latter I could not read and spoke but a bit,
Now anger and rage was seething through my veins
away I had to flee, away from that gruesome scene.

Away I fled, a half league or more, I paused
my need to rest and myself to calm,
Never could I understand the bestiality's of man
there under a barren Olive tree, I laid me down
and soon asleep I fell, for the horror to escape,
It was the chill of the afternoon that woke me
in the haze of sleep I heard an anguished
cry, rendered from the heart in a voice loud,

In Aramaic, I could tell sounded clear
"Eli, Eli Lema Sabachthani"
which meant to me "My God, My God why have you
abandoned Me", and of a sudden the sky
grew dark and foreboding, and a lull fell over the land,
Enough now had I of ludaea, enough
of cruelty, and of mayhem rife, home-ward
I decided to steer my way, home to my land,
Just on a score of days I traveled
to my home, my family and land,
Now often as I work the fields and plough
I still feel His hand, His Holy hand
upon my shoulder, see His gentle smile
and His voice sweetly, coursing thro' my mind
"You too will sip this cup with Me
to the end of time", and indeed truly blessed I felt.

Now I have heard along the grape vine
that Holy-man was called Jesus by name
and that as His name implies, meaning
a Savant Saviour for all, that and much more He was.
And wonders of wonders they said
He rose from the dead, He never died
Praise God I said, He never died on
That torturous detested stake.