Author: Chris Goode

While oak trees tilt to leeward, like giant yachts And waves of barley catch the rising breeze, Busy robins rustle in the undergrowth And feisty sparrows guard their territories.   In quiet, shadowed vales, on miles of dusty hillside, Consider a tinkling brook beneath overhanging trees Where Coleridge would let his wild imagination ride; Where Dot…

You are the enemy at the gate Of my post traumatic date. You offered me kindness Support and love. It gave my dormant life and poetry. Inspiration . Your approach was not uniform. In fact . Contrary and prosaic. My finding love and euphoria. Made you lose your southern smile. And charm. To reveal your…

I can see you standing there with an unlit Beacon Looking over the Severn Plain While three counties rest at your feet Quietly watching, waiting,  knowing. I see you standing there, watching my learning, my blossoming  my eager steps to taste the world that was beckoning. Did you know where I was going? Did you…

Twinned by antipode, on a river with a ticket to the sea the swan raises her wings a little to allow a cygnet security. A feather escpes, is joined by petals, liberated from their ‘bloom-by’ date near reeds with tiny shadows, while the damsel fly dances for his mate. The sundial has not time, No…

Clang !! The metal door closes. Bang !! Abandon hope all ye Who enter here. High barbed wire walls. Disenfected scrubbed floors Clanging banging sound. Resounds all around. Wearing white and light blue To see who’s who! Friend or foe ? Made to stay. Or free to go ? Time hangs. What what a drag…

Though my poetry is crap I’ll try my best with the gangster Rap. Inmates in for smuggling dope My poetry won’t stand a hope. I’ll tell them I’m from UK. Not down from George Town way. That way it should not cause An affront or an affray. Last thing we want is a riot. Though…

many years ago I read a book by a long-distance walker called John Hillaby who wrote – in his introduction – that walking was like making love to the landscape and I thought if your idea of making love is stomping over someone in big muddy boots I’m glad I’m not the object of your…

Our lives will change Beyond compare, But it’s only right That he should go. It’ll be strange without him here But life moves on That’s how it must be. He’ll make a life That we can’t know A life for him for Times to come So I wish him well My wonderful son.

My first world was a chocolate box: discovery and innocence; Free from the anxiety that one day I must leave. Others have been better, and worse, but never so enchanting since. The bedroom was a sacred place: filigree, white lace and chintz, With tasselled woollen dressing gowns and strange exotic creams. That first home was…

I’ll die in the sea. It’s my birth room. The womb. From which I was born. Roger P. Read 30/4/2019

She loves me, She loves me not. She loves me But not a lot. She loved me, Though I’m not sure If she loves me Anymore!

‘I think, so I am’ Well, I’m not sure that’s true ‘Cos the person who’s thinking Just might not be you. You could be a figure In somebody’s dream, You never can be certain Things are what they seem!

Heavens above, what’s wrong with you? Please get down from the tree, – You’re not impressing anyone – Least of all not me! Your audacious, sad behaviour Makes me wish that you weren’t mine – So stop this silly nonsense Or I’ll end up doing time! When it’s chilly you play outside With your sandpit…

Wind, blowing dead leaves, Rustling along the lane like dead souls, Their moisture and shining suppleness gone, Leaving only a desiccated, darkening husk. Wind blowing dead leaves, as I pass by, Reminding me of people I knew, Whose laughter and knowledge Stopped, One day. And, like a leaf, I will be blown, dry and lifeless,…

It is what I do now Not walk to the familiar door Not turn the key in the locks Not collect the post from the floor Not stop. Instead I walk past the building hurriedly The windows are strangers Wind roars with insidious intent Larks about along the pavement. It is what I do now…