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Sunday, January 29, 2017

My God

MY GOD

Protestants pray for grace,
Scientists look to space.
Jews find truth in the Torah,
New Agers, in each other's aura.

Catholics are blessed by a Pope,
Yaquis enlightened by dope.
Maoris use ritual chants,
Navahos get up and dance.

Muslims bow daily to Allah,
Norsemen aspire to Valhalla.
Feminists swear by a She,
Quakers swear not, silently.

Confucians kowtow to ancestors,
Hare Krishnas, to airport investors.
Hindus revere Lord Brahma,
Richard Gere, the Dalai Lama.

Baptists believe in the Ark,
Physicists, in the quark.
Moonies obey Reverend Sun,
Mormons say Brigham's the one.

Daoists extol yang and yin,
Sufis transcend in a spin.
Shintos seek peace where it's grassy,
Rastas, in Haile Selassie.

When we meet in the Afterlife,
We can laugh at sectarian strife.
But meanwhile back to the wars,
'Cause my God's better than yours.

©2017 Christopher Reilley I would love to know what you thought about this piece.
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Sunday, January 15, 2017

Football is Chess Played With Rhinos



"Nothing mysterious about football. It's just chess played with rhinos." - Charles Coe


Football is Chess Played With Rhinos

Position is everything, yet it is raw power that is appreciated.
Specialists prove their worth to the herd, moving as only they can,
despite being both massive specimens and heavily, clumsily plated.
As leader I know my crews position, down to the very last man
my continued dominance requires each of them for my own protection.
I need some to obstruct, some to chase down, and some to keep me secure.
Of course I need some to advance my plans in the desired direction,
and at times sacrifices must be made, in order to victory ensure.

We labor to keep you out of our space, while working to invade your own,
our progress made with both feint and brutish open aggression.
After I have won and ascended to a mighty and most precarious throne,
my life has now become obsessed with my continued possession.
Crash, tumble, square off and repeat, my forces throw themselves at yours,
knights outrunning, slipping past your defenses, finding the right position,
bishops defining both the method and eventual temper of our wars.
Victory usually is assured to the side with the superior tactician.


©2017 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Scorch Marks




 Scorch Marks

 I have heard it said that
a man is known
by the mistakes he has made;
scorch marks he left behind
on other lives.

I've done things,
hurtful, painful things,
things that left me feeling
like I just ate a dead squirrel
found under the porch.

I've made mistakes so big
it would be suicide
to jump off of them.
Believe me, I've tried.

It is only in the great rear view Mirror of Life
I can see clearly
that my biggest mistake of all
was also the mother
of my greatest joy.

I love being your Dad.

©2016 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, June 27, 2016

For the Poet’s Wife, on Her Birthday



For the Poet’s Wife, on Her Birthday

Sometimes the best poetry
you'll get from me is raw truth.
No rhyme. No meter. No form.
Just words that pour from my heart into yours.

The beauty of a real woman
is not in her shape, or her skin,
or even her smile;
it is in her eyes,
and the way she looks at you.
So look at me.

Kiss me your Strength
with lips soft as trust
and deft as a pickpocket.

Play me your Soul,
fingers flicking piano with skilled abandon,
write me your Anguish
in perfumed letters
at once filigreed and lush.

Grace me with your Love,
rowing a glass bottomed boat,
navigating the rocky coast of my life;
all I have to offer.

When my heart
needs to attend church,
it finds itself inside your own,
glorying in cathedral.

I lose myself in you,
and it feels exactly like being found,
every time you really see me.

You warm my every action
just as the sun
warms closed eyelids
by slipping in a morning window.

Our taste, a mix of coffee
in a moving night of cream,
and the martinis we shook,
I take from your lips,
which stirs my thoughts to sleep
and brings my day awake .





©2016 Christopher Reilley
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Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The New Poor



THE NEW POOR

Fluttering scarves with brand names
are the flags of the new poor;
the flags of a conquered race,
standing in line for milk, cheese, eggs.
No supply and new demand -
the desire for acquisition unquenched,
floating down the line
from sad, lined face,
to tear-streaked face.

A low-wattage sun rises
over bleak cityscapes,
puts down a urine colored carpet
for the newly poor
to enter
their house of shame.

The voices of the dismal choir
rise over an uncaring audience.
Their cheap shoes, unclean shadows
and their hungers for what they do not have
give off a smog of discontent
that sticks to the skin
like whore's sweat.

And so they must join the throng;
the faceless nomads of these city streets
glimpsed from the corner of your eye.
There but for the grace of your employer,
three paychecks away,
you hope it is not catching
as you hurry back to the office with your latte.


©2008, ©2016 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, May 16, 2016

Tonight is a Comma in our Love Letter



Since the moment that I found you,
the moment my life began at day one,
I’ve become something more than what I could do
before you made me want to be that person.

Every thing that I have ever said that was right,
every shimmering moment of mutual fun -
is expressed in a love letter it takes a lifetime to write,
to tell you most certainly that you are the one.

My hunger for you knows my limits and my taste.
My respect for you knows no limits or age.
In your arms my thoughts run away from the chaste,
my soul spills over onto love’s life-long page.

But tonight I sleep wrapped alone in my dreams;
distance bringing you nearer to my core.
The sweet ache of missing you slips over in streams
that drown me in passions fuel to restore.

This night is but the briefest of rests
in the love letter it will take my life to get right.
A breath between kisses, a study between tests,
a pause between what I wrote and I write.

Tonight is punctuation, a comma, nothing more,
a blink between one embrace and another.
A night alone without the one that I adore,
lest our love become overwhelming and smother.

You are the sunshine that warms the coldest day,
the glow that glimmer’s in my every night.
So believe me when I tell you that in every way
your heart is the one that fits just so tight.

Tonight is just a resting point on our journey together,
one among many that we are not in mutual embrace.
But tonight is but an eye blink in the scheme of forever,
one step in a dance that will never be a race.



©2008 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, February 1, 2016

February Laughs at Us



FEBRUARY LAUGHS AT US

February laughs at us -
poor mammals,
shivering in our borrowed skins.
The month finds fun
in wrapping us in frozen air
like galvanized iron.

There is little else for February to do
except fling icy shards of wintry bite
at us with jaggedly fresh winds.
Hard pack ice makes footfalls dangerous,
giving the second month a belly laugh
when we fall on our ass.

We run around, afraid of cabin fever,
thinking of other kinds of warmth,
shrugging our shoulders with tired indifference
as we wonder at the blue of the sky,
the gray-white of the ground,
and the ruddy smile of yet another attempt to get warm.

And we sing, oh, how we sing,
trying once more
to brave February’s guile,
each note that escapes us
a patch of white hope
in the frosty air.



©2009, 2016 Christopher Reilley

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Thursday, November 12, 2015

Done With You

 
 
 
DONE WITH YOU


I can no longer imagine living with you,
the writhing and churning of my gut tells me so.
Compact and yet touching every aspect,
certain and secure in your subtle confusions,
you manipulate everything, reach every corner,
stain every milk blood red.

I drink, and I remember.

Spirits we heard, choices we made
when things were safe, and as they should be.
Ghostly visitations
who reminded us of nothing,
never reflecting ourselves
back at ourselves.

In the doorway I was caught
by the staircase, one room bleeding
into the next,
never quite separate from you,
never apart from the consequences
of our actions.
When I fell, I fell right through you,
since you were never really there.
I can never really picture you
as I drink my problems dry.

I will no longer live with you.

I like the look of the light
in a room without you in it.
Dust motes dance in sunlight
caught between one breeze and the next,
the light blurs and compasses
never give you the true direction.

I found myself, where there might be something.

Dragging through the past with your net,
culling everything that you caused,
that you made to happen.
Cleared of detritus, this is the past,
running parallel under my sleep.
I look at the shadow you cast
and I am ashamed to say
I ever loved you.

I can no longer live with you.


©2006 Christopher Reilley
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Thursday, November 5, 2015

Poison to a Marionette

POISON TO A MARIONETTE


Pondering the dips and curves,
the shadowy plunges
made of cream,
the promontories of delight
that make up arcade rides
for my tongue,
I taste the salt of your memory
in a mouth that speaks without words.

Lust’s puppeteer, you are
a welcome visitor to my heart.
You spin me drunk, dry as I am,
sipping nothing but your eyes.
There is no sound -
as if it were plucked away, pocketed.
I dance to the rhythm of your acquiescence.

Chestnut strands, outlining porcelain
angles and curves competing for perfection,
each a marker on the side of a road
with no destination, save heat.
Light shadows complete the portrait,
a face seen by none but me, onstage.

Brought to life by
warm friction from skin
enticed by silence, and a smile,
I die, happily
diving into ocean shaded windows,
care both stolen and unmissed.

Crimson petals imprinting feather soft notions,
commands to follow desire
to a sea of sheets and clouds,
Indecision is
poison to a marionette.

©2011 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, October 19, 2015

Like the Surf Loves the Shore





LIKE THE SURF LOVES THE SHORE


Across the tan lines
the tongue licks,
sucks the half moon band
closer to heaven
until
it narrows to a tight lip,
then swallows.

It repeats
and repeats
and repeats.

Spume splats the rocks
in a rhythm matched by
sloppy goodbye kisses
that mean hello
in their private
tongue.
Heat meets cool,
flows,
churns,
steaming within.

The surf batters the coast
as hunger batters ecstasy
within them both,
their final kiss
gone with the middle wind
carrying love
to the heights.








©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, October 12, 2015

The Here and Now



THE HERE AND NOW


Come live this moment, the Here and Now
among the vast cascade of years.
Wring every drop that Fates allow
from cold jealousies and furnished fears.

Average lovelies are forever fifteen,
while true beauty grows older above.
No great passion in those too green;
while fine for lust, but not for Love.

Eventually you might come to see
my soul by yours beguiled,
our dance of Love would be as free
as the laughter of a playful child.

Come love me, for what time may take
before you must drift away.
Of my hunger a virtue I will make
and dine upon you while I may.

Let us wrestle with the hand of Fate
and if our success is meant,
let love be something we can create
despite others attempts to prevent.



©2011 Christopher Reilley



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Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Ode to a Ginger



ODE TO A GINGER

It was the eyes that got me, those eyes,
undecided between green or brown,
the transition betwixt and between
a cosmic riot -
galactic nebulae swirls
like pictures from Hubble,
iridescence that caught the light,
played with it like a lazy cat
then loosed upon you,
drowning you in complex beauty.

The hair was the primary lure, sure,
New England Forest red -
a shade that demanded attention,
drawing the eye
away from drab gray reality.

Freckles pulled you closer -
like a pointillist painting
their overall shade
scintillated into individuated dots,
skin refusing to brown in sunlight
converted tan to a binary score,
compelling my vision to wander,
a glance extending to a visual caress.

And where her skin was unkissed by sun;
pale as moon-milk,
porcelain frail -
a kiss would find shivering life
quickened into heat.

But it was those eyes;
those piercing portals to goddess
born to a race called unlucky,
those eyes spun me around
from the inside, reversed my polarity
and taught my heart the cruelest trick -
the creation of a hole
where only she could reside.

And when we parted,
said farewells with forever in their echo,
she carried a small piece of me away with her
and it is out there still.







©2015 Christopher Reilley

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The Magic of the Blues




The Magic of the Blues

Blues.
Pain.
Hope lives.
Music also lives.

There is truth in pain.

All men, women, children feel the heart's beat.

There is always music in Hope,
and there is Truth in the Blues.

Even the whitest of white men
is only three heartbreaks away
from being a bluesman.

The Blues was born
the day the verdant West African shoreline
fell away from sight,
while the overloaded ship
slipped away from the horizon.

The only way the magic of the Blues will ever die out
from the musical language of this world we share
is if by some small chance the power of love
becomes greater than the love of power
and the world knows nothing but peace.


This poem is a Fibonacci sequence.

©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, September 22, 2015

A Poetic Obituary for Don Adams



A POETIC OBITUARY FOR DON ADAMS
April 13, 1923 - September 27, 2005

A comic actor that we all loved and hoped would never leave,
He gave the world catchphrases like “…would you believe?”
A bumbling secret agent with abnormally clumsy motif
He’d spill on the boss’s desk and say, “Sorry about that, Chief.”

His wry voice a trademark, hard work his lifelong credo,
He was Maxwell Smart, Inspector Gadget and Tennessee Tuxedo.
At eighty-two he passed away, from a dire lung infection,
No more comic lines would be delivered with that unique inflection.

He gave us the Cone of Silence, rubber lips and the famous shoe phone,
A drivable desk, a robot best man, and hypnotizing cologne.
At Guadalcanal he served in the Marines, not the U.S. Army,
He was born a Hungarian Jew as Donald James Yarmy.

He painted, studied history, was a lot smarter than Agent 86.
He did not want to do a spy spoof, serious acting gave him kicks.
He wanted to be a matinee idol, revered for his dashing good looks,
Until he was offered the chance to perform on TV for Mel Brooks

Along with Barbara Feldon, who played his wife Agent 99,
He battled for truth and justice against vile KAOS swine.
He won three Emmy awards for TV’s best comic actor,
But never grew beyond the role: typecasting was a factor.

He will always be remembered as agent Maxwell Smart.
Although a recent movie of the show found another to play the part.
Don Adams is gone but not forgotten, a true comic master
Of turning even the simplest task into pratfalls and disaster.




©2005 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, September 21, 2015

Finally Clean



Light blisters without pain
Bathing the world in incandescent fire.
The turmoil within becalms
For the first time in eons
Deep within my core
I can feel the cancer recede
Shrink away from the Holy
Like the blasphemy it is.
I am awoken by the presence

If I am indeed awake
Then please, let me never sleep again
For this dream is the one I would grasp
As a drowning man grasps
At the thinnest of reeds
Hoping against hope
Believing against cynicism
Railing against Death’s glacial embrace
With the blaze of Faith
That only the damned can know.

Mind gives but a moment to wonder
Why me, why have I been chosen?
Yet the answer is less important
Than the presence, the thrum of life
The warmth that challenges the sun
Because it comes from within.

The vision from my soul smiles,
I wonder if this was why smiles were invented -
That something so lovely as to be perfect
Could conceivably improve
I am ashamed at how unworthy I am
Yet greedy that this should continue forever
I live, a child of His wonder
Existing because He wills it so
Bathed in forgiveness,
Finally clean.



©2009 Christopher Reilley

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Sunday, September 6, 2015

Why Poetry

 
 
WHY POETRY

I render myself through poetry,
some are better and some worse,
my thoughts race ‘round my inner self
in fragments of metered verse.

But through these scraps, you can hear my heart
throbbing in metronomic pace,
you can catch a whisper of my soul
and view glimpses of my real face.

I sit and type and my spirit soars,
I write longhand in blue or black ink,
to structure my chaotic desires
or to unburden the way I think.

And in glib verse I give to you
my heartache, my love and soul.
In one instant, I am a scattered mess
the next – serene and whole.

The only way to find my voice
the best way to share with you,
Is when on paper I complete myself
so you can share it too.

My words conspire to reveal,
unearth, and then convey
the truth I see when I look inside,
my honesty on display.

©2013 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, August 31, 2015

Reincarnation Blues




 REINCARNATION BLUES

There have been lives lived before this one.
I have been people both bad and very good.
Walked beneath ancient and foreign suns,
Found breakfast in wattled and dusky wood.

I have been a rogue, a scoundrel, a truly bad man,
And there were times I was devout and had faith.
Lives gone by in which I’ve stolen what I can,
Born as eldest, youngest, born seventh or eighth.

I was a lieutenant in the American Calvary,
A seamstress in the court of Spanish kings,
A politician, manipulating royal rivalry -
Whispering in ears and pulling on strings.

Some lives I have lived were placid and quiet,
Some of them shortened by famine or war.
Once I was involved in a widespread riot.
I once gave my life for the woman I adore.

I have been a leader, a chief, a politician.
There were times I was the laziest man under the sun.
Been dragged screaming down the road to perdition,
And gone to grace after a life as a nun.

In this current life I am merely a simple poet.
Of my life and family my words have been wrung.
Blessed I am, and don’t think I don’t know it,
Having lived so many chances to be foolish and young.

When this life is over, and the next one begins
I hope that I am able to see past the Veil,
To be able to avoid my past lives sins,
And to weave my story with ever finer detail.

©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Saturday, August 15, 2015

Only For You

 
 
ONLY FOR YOU

Breath of the discarded
blows bubbles in our mind.
The one we share,
because we care,
because we are taught to be kind.

Tears scar flesh,
acrid, caustic acid lies.
As the question closes
morality imposes,
trying to climb behind our eyes.

The child of others
is also a child of mother's womb.
So I carry your heart’s load
along your uphill road,
all your agonies I assume.

To bring your soul ease
I would carve my tongue free.
My anger I cannot erase,
nor can my regrets debase
the pearl among the debris.





©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Thursday, August 13, 2015

Power Words



POWER WORDS

Do yourself a favor.
Take a moment away for your life,
your trivialities,
your morning coffee and pastry,
or the skimming and surfing of the Web,
take a moment to consider my words.

The words you are reading
right this instant
are probably showing up
in a ten-point Times Roman
or a Verdana
because that is what
your computer gives you,
and you accept it.

Little attention
to little poems,
reducing everything
to a succession
of diminutives.

You should know that I am writing this
in a HUGE 72 point
Impact Extra Bold,
with an extra red stroke!
Letters so massive,
so important,
they put stress fractures
on my monitor.
Words so
singularly important
God Himself
plagiarizes from me.

Because these words
are crucial to who I am.
Vital, in fact.
They are
Catharsis
Truth
Pain
Love
Passion
Hope
Art
and life.

But these words
are more than my ego,
more than a desire
to be read by you,
more than a need to be heard.

These words are a connection
between us.
It is you
that brings power to this poem.

Otherwise,
it is just
a pile of words.

-------------



©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, August 11, 2015

The Temple of Your Absence





THE TEMPLE OF YOUR ABSENCE

I am the color of throbbing constellations,
pulsars in the dark.
Know me as the sailboat made of seagulls
singing the songs of magnolias,
the glint of sun on knife edge,
I am the place
where your voice
meets your dreams.

I am remembrance
colored outside the lines
using water paints
thinned with tears.

If the ocean of you
had a door
I would shipwreck
against it.

Banishment of the dark
is too slow to ease my pain.
The bright takes forever
to be our blanket.

I tour the temple of your absence
taking in the echoes,
the cobblestones beneath my feet
the only pillow for my tears.

The challenge that fantasies of you
impose upon my melancholy,
are gifting dreams of foreign shores
and foreplay in your kisses.

Sometimes I forget
that the dead
read my words.


©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Saturday, August 1, 2015

The Simple Joys of Life



THE SIMPLE JOYS OF LIFE

Some things just make you feel OK
Though life quite often gets in the way,
So let your inner child out to play
Try relaxing outdoors on a sunny day.

Ask any father who loves his daughter -
Of the joy when he first tossed her up and caught her.
Nothing beats watching her frolic like an otter
Because of the pure joy of playing in water.

Sometimes life just up and surprises you
By giving you pleasure in the things that you do.
Despite all of the hassles you have been through
Your breath can be taken by an exquisite view.

Our vision often needs a different lens,
On perspective our personal sightline depends,
So when night comes and the daytime ends,
Spend some time reminiscing with friends.

We often walk some pretty mean streets
And daily worry sometimes defeats
But there is nothing in this world that beats
Going to sleep on nice clean sheets.

Life's greatest pleasures can never be bought,
And ephemeral pleasures are eventually forgot,
But one treasure you look for when you drive a lot
Is finding a pull-through parking spot.

We all have such busy schedules to keep,
That sometimes the price just seems a bit steep
Except those mornings when you wake from slumber deep
Only to find you have another hour to sleep.

Returning to the place where your parents still dwell,
Can overcome you with nostalgia’s magic spell.
That one place in the world where everything is swell
Always has its own familiar smell.

Here is another of life’s little uplifting perks,
That feeling you get, whether lawyers or clerks,
When you rise above all of those mediocre jerks,
And that idea that you had just simply - works.

Some days you are unhappy, others you are in the pink.
And some days you struggle without ever stopping to think,
About how great it feels to come back from the brink
Of dehydration when you get that first sip of your drink.

Think about how happy you were, driving home that night
Readying yourself for the routine traffic fight,
The joy of all the others, receding from mirror’s sight
Because you were the one who caught the yellow light.

There are all these tiny pleasures, the things that make you glad
The stuff that picks you up on days you are feeling bad.
When they happen there is no way you can continue being mad,
Like finding money in a pocket you didn’t know you had.

Sometimes you can do the things that gladden your heart,
Like teaching something new, your knowledge you impart.
Nothing in this world can make you feel so smart,
As actually finishing those things that you start.

These joys are always around, they will never go away
Just keep an eye out looking you can’t really go astray.
Enjoy those flowers for their delicate bouquet
Or find a way to sleep in on a rainy week day.

So look for these, life’s simple gifts, wherever you desire.
Keep your mind open to them, life gives you all you will require
Like telling family stories around a blazing campfire
Or putting on clean clothes, straight from the dryer.

So add to this list, find things that are worthwhile
Simple pleasure in the everyday, keep options versatile,
When you find yourself amid tribulations and trial
Find something ordinary to help make you smile.



©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, July 27, 2015

Pity for a Loving God




PITY FOR A LOVING GOD


It must be extraordinarily painful to be a loving God.
Omniscience would be a terrible burden, I think.
Imagine being forced to know without asking
all of the possible futures of each and every one of us.

Ponder how a God must feel, watching you come home on Tuesday,
wondering what was for dinner, planning your weekend,
content with your lot in life, a busy, productive day at the office,
blissfully unaware of what your life might have been like.

If you had gone to a different school, in a different state,
you might have met a woman on that other campus
whose perceptions and intellect surpass your wildest expectations
and thrilled you every day with new and scintillating insights.

And think how a loving God would feel, forced to know
that another man she might have found to marry
would have pleased and comforted her more
than it will ever be possible for you to do, no matter what.

Had you moved across the country, you might have met a friend
whose knowledge and insight into art fired a passion in you,
leading your life down another path, one vastly more satisfying than this.
How such knowledge must vex a loving Almighty.

The differences between what is and what might have been,
multiplied by the billions of souls under His charge,
each life reflected upon his thoughts in infinite variety,
the curse of free will making bad choices the ones that must stand.





©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Friday, July 24, 2015

More

 


 MORE

I see myself holding you close to me,
squeezing your body tight.
But for all I see as I daydream -
I know I'll get tenfold tonight.

Running my palms across your breast,
as you tremble and bite your lip.
Feeling your hands upon my chest,
the softness of each fingertip.

Tasting your neck so sweet, so soft,
and slowly lowering my kiss
over pert nipples, across your navel,
and finally into pure bliss.

Looking upon your face from below
as you tilt back your head.
Feeling your fountains begin to flow
as you ease back on the bed.

Your "innocent little devil" look,
crying insatiably with the sensation.
Lip to lip lapping up every drip
from the well of your creation.

The way you pull me up by the hair
to the heat of your mouth, on fire.
No other thoughts, no other cares,
just the quenching of mad desire.

Riding the tide of passion,
pushing my love into you
on the waves of your emotion
in slow motion, so sweet and true.

Pulse pounding in resounding rapture,
taken to the hilt, then just past.
Rhythm growing, faces glowing,
the climax coming fast.

That heated, illicit look
of ecstasy across your eyes,
echoing throughout the heavens
on overindulgent cries.

The sultry look upon your face
in reaching that gyrating gush,
the way you bite my fingers
when I try to make you hush.

Your arching back, your fingernails,
your perfume mixed with sweat.
The way you keep rubbing against me
with your insides already so wet.

Love the way when I'm beat dead and ready
to fall face first to the floor,
you put your sweet lips to my ear-
and whisper, "I want more! "

©2012 Christopher Reilley
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Sunday, July 12, 2015

The Ballad of the Ricoh Kid



OK, I am a print geek. I have pad my bills for over thirty years in the print technology industry. I read the trades like I used to read the funnies, I get excited about printing on brushed aluminum, or at blinding speeds, or in layers that build up into shapes. Both inkjet and toner, cut sheet or continuous roll, feeding a template a database to create variable data, designing hot folders, mastering books for print on demand, imposing booklets to be saddle stitched, that is the kind of stuff that is my bread and butter.

Oddly enough, I work as a traveling print workflow expert. My peers and I are the single most intensively trained force of print enthusiasts the American marketplace has ever seen. As a tribute to the war stories we have shared, regardless of the print or graphics company we worked for at the time, the trials we have all endured, the customers we have placated, I offer the following epic ode to a very, very small niche of society, the print technologist.


THE BALLAD OF THE RICOH KID


There once was a print tech, a genuine print geek,
a guy you would turn to for solutions.
He lay ink and toner on substrate all week,
and followed all the technical revolutions.

He knew color, he knew pre-press, he knew how to impose,
registration was his idea of a great time.
He fixed client files, and you have all seen those,
he preferred to do his book finishing in-line.

There was no stock he couldn't use, no font he couldn't wrangle,
no corporate network he could not handshake.
He adjusted screenings with swiftly calculated angles,
he fixed every configuration anyone managed to break.

Of course he was called on to minister his trade,
he found employment as a traveling print expert for hire.
He helped others workflow, helped them buy and upgrade,
it was not long before he set the print world on fire.

With every customer he rescued, every crisis he corrected,
his reputation as a miracle worker grew larger each day.
When he talked of solutions, his word was respected,
when he left, customers were all squared away.

Of course he had a least favorite, all the great ones do,
that one client who just never takes good advice.
The ones that try to force a new printer to run through
the workflow in place before they bought the device.

They subset their fonts, checked critical color under office lights,
never configured custom media in their trays.
Every minor issue becomes a crisis that over excites,
and every decision means countless meetings and delays.

Then one day he was called on to assist the Client from Hell,
the absolute worst, she was bad, she was the Ultimate Customer
She was the villain of almost every horror story techs tell,
even the hungriest of salespeople cut and run from her.

Until the Kid walked through her door, into printing Nightmare;
disorganized floor, humidity at max, an inefficient and repetitive workflow.
There was archaic machinery with only haphazard  repair,
stacks of unlabelled media, piled in rickety tableaux.

She took an hour to explain she had a problem she could not understand,
another hour before he understood it was one of registration.
Once he let her wind down, he quickly took the problem in hand,
and as usual, it turned out to be in the configuration.

But he knew that if he did not do something, he would be back here again
applying bandages where transplants were sorely needed.
Costly delays and additional reprints made her madder than a wet hen,
but previous advice usually went ignored and unheeded.

“I’m sorry to say, you are doomed from the start, your PDF files are DOA.
Your ADF needs TCRU’s, your AQL is low,  your DPI is totally wrong.
Your ICC profiles are beyond repair, registration drifts more every day,
at the rate you are going you'll be dead in a month, so start learning funeral songs.”

He put the fear of print failure into her that summer afternoon,
horrified her with descriptions of failure in complex jargon.
He spoke of commitments blown, how leasing payments balloon,
and then he threw destitution and bankruptcy into the bargain.

By the time he was done she had sworn to do right, she was changed,
he had overcome each and every one of her objections.
Together they toiled until the shop was ordered and rearranged,
She now dutifully followed all of his print directions.

It was not long at all before she was out of the red,
her print quality was now consistent and repeatable.
Instead of running behind maintenance, now she was running ahead,
and her color in one word - unbeatable.

Best practices make more money, saving hassles and grief,
A printer usually only fails when mis-configured, heaven forbid.
She learned lessons that would last, though his time there was brief,
she was now finally making profit, thanks to the Ricoh Kid.




©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Garden of Poems




GARDEN OF POEMS

Do you think it odd
that I have poems in my trees?
The birds read them
before they settle in for the night.
They make songs of them,
practicing quite hard
until they are ready to sing them.

I strung words among the branches
and watched the birds weave them
into words only they and I understand.
Sweet-smelling, harbinger words.

As the morning light bends
the birds try out my poems
sifting through them until they find one,
just one,
that says what they want to say.

With morning light
the words of the birdsong,
written on the wind in tree sap,
make poetry for all time.



©2015 Christopher Reilley 
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This piece dedicated to the Dedham Square Artist Guild 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

A Life in Politics



It began with a weight that no one wanted.

When it kissed the ground, the dandelions rejoiced.
Go ahead, breathe life into their dreams of travel,
in a child's burst of synaptic explosion,
They do not mind, not at all.

Watching the fireworks as a soul breaks free.

A line with a radius that meets itself
is little more than a circle, 
a square with too many corners cut,
fitting in.

Serious clouds gather to discuss rain,
and so there is rain. But in all of this time
no caveman has ever hailed a cab,
no shark ever called a cop.

Two wrongs have never made a right
but three lefts do. It is not the soap that offends,
it is the soapbox.

We would all do well to remember that
the room was entirely silent
when Pilate washed his hands.




©2015 Christopher Reilley 
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Thursday, June 25, 2015

7 Tips to Help You Score on a Date

I am an average looking guy. By average, I mean that I realize I am no movie star, but I do not frighten small children, either. Nevertheless, I have been very fortunate in my dealings with the distaff gender, gaining access to their tender mysteries far more often than not. When I was about eleven or so, I found a book that taught sales techniques in a bargain book bin, and I have since applied those techniques to my dating life, with marvelous results. I will now share these insights with you, so that your own love life will benefit, regardless of your gender.

Married, single, attached or committed with an option to renew, everyone is interested in how to ‘score’.

Seduction is a tricky subject to expound upon, since every participant is different. It matters little if you are the seducer or the seductee, your own perceptions and intentions will flavor every nuance of the interaction.

However, there are several techniques, very similar to those taught to sales people, which will ensure a smoother path to ‘sealing the deal’. When used properly (with subtlety) they will make you seem more friendly, more trustworthy, and a firm comrade in the eyes of your intended. Subtlety is very important to success. Overdoing even one of these is sure cause to get a poke in the eye. Nobody wants to be ‘worked’.

One last caveat. All of these techniques assume that you have already made contact, broken the ice, scored a date, or otherwise connected with your intended. This is not about cheesy lines or making that first impression. You are on your own with that.

That said; let us proceed to the meat and potatoes.

Slow Down

Any action you undertake, do it slowly, languidly. It is far more interesting, more sensual, and more likely to be noticed. The simple act of lighting your intended’s smoke, or pulling out a chair for them, passing a menu back to a waiter, every action should be done as if it were studied, deliberate, and done with great care.

The quickest way into your paramour’s bedroom is the idea that once there you will take your time.

Mirroring

People react far more emotionally and far less rationally than they would like to believe. As the head (mind) finds arguments for ways of acting and behaving which come from the "heart" (emotional world), we are strengthened in our belief that we are acting rationally. Psychologists know well enough that most (and probably all) of the "life decisions" of a person are taken emotionally and not rationally. The philosopher Blaise Pascal once said: "The heart has reasons which reason knows nothing of." Mirroring is a technique that builds rapport.

When you meet someone face-to-face, 93% of how you are judged is based on non-verbal data - your appearance and your body language. Only 7% is influenced by the words that you speak. A good seduction technique is to remember people do judge a book by its cover.

Mirroring is matching a person’s behavior. When you do this, they see a bit of themselves in you and people are attracted to people who are like them.

There is a very real difference between mirroring and mimicking. The idea is not to perfectly replicate each and every move made by your intended, this is not a Carol Burnett routine, after all. Mirroring is an ‘Active Listening’ technique that unconsciously clues your intended into assuming that you are both on the same wavelength. It suggests that you are ‘all there’, focused and intent upon them, which is true enough, since you must pay attention to them in order for it to work.

This technique fosters an impression of comprehension and acceptance. By repeating – in a slightly different fashion – the actions of your intended, you synch them with your own actions. Paraphrase their words back to them, they will feel that you have heard them. Should they cross their legs, after a moment do so yourself. When they use their left hand to touch their mouth, stroke your own with your right. If they tap their feet, tap the ashtray with your swizzle stick to the same rhythm. (Not that one, you pervs). It does not even have to be the same exact movement, for example, if they adjust their glasses you might touch your hair. Match their body language with your own, and they will open up to you.

Name Dropping

This one should be obvious. Use their name. The sounds of your own name is the sweetest words your ears will ever hear. The surest way to establish a rapport is to use the name of your intended several times. Nothing gets someone’s attention more than using their name.

Be sure not to overdo it, however. It should not come across as forced.

Language Usage

Simply changing the way you speak may also make a difference in how you are received by your intended. Using "you" and "yours," or "you'll find..." rather than "I think" or "Let me tell you about," brings your message a little closer to home and may grab their attention more quickly.

When your initial encounter is over the phone, 70% of how you are perceived is based on your tone of voice and 30% on your words. It is not what you say - it is the way that you say it.

Body Language

The best seduction technique is a smile. It tells your intended paramour you are glad to be with them. Eye contact says you are paying attention and are interested in what is being said. Leaning in toward the prospective partner makes you appear engaged and involved in the conversation. Use as many signals as you can to look interested and interesting.

Certain body language is a turn-off and should be avoided. Crossed arms denote a closed mind, or a pre-formed decision. Facing your body away from your companion suggests that you are not interested, or attracted.

Assumption Principle

If you act as if something were true, you will likely be believed. If you act as if something is true, then other people around you have two choices. They can either assume you are lying or they can assume you are telling (or acting) the truth.

Generally, we are credible; we assume people are telling the truth unless we have already decided that we distrust them. Associated with this we have beliefs in the trustworthy nature of other people. Thus, a decision that the other person is lying would cause us dissonance so we assume they are telling the truth.

This is the principle of the Emperor's New Clothes. Assumption is a part of creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, where your belief in something leads to it coming true. Not magically, but through the conscious and subconscious actions in which you consequently engage.

Act 'as if' what you want was true. If the other person challenges it or acts confused, be concerned for them.

The Doubt Close

Express doubt either about the idea of the relationship or the readiness of the person for the relationship, but make this a relatively weak and easily challenged statement. Pause to let the person disagree, which a contradicting person will almost certainly do. If they do not challenge your doubt, then smoothly continue with a summary of everything so far.

The Doubt Close works by pre-empting their doubting thoughts. If you echo these thoughts, it saves them from having to think the same thoughts. When they accept these, they will begin to trust you and hence will be ready to accept suggestions of other things to think.

After Sealing the Deal

There are two more very important points to make. While they are not techniques, as such, they are crucial to your continued success with this particular paramour. If you are only seeking a one-night stand, you can stop reading here.

The first is respect. Showing that you value their opinions, are considerate of their circumstance and indulgent of their foibles will go a long way toward having them regard you in a positive light, and seek a continuation of the association.

Even someone who wants you to call them nasty names while performing degrading acts of perversion upon your person wants to be considered as a an equal person of value when clothed and out in public. Disregarding this simple notion will ensure that even if you score initially, you will not be invited back for a rematch.

Lastly and perhaps most importantly, is discretion. Nobody wants to be talked about.

Guys who brag in the locker room are the guys who are getting the least amount of action from the ladies. Once a girl knows that she will not be the topic of conversation around the office, or dorm, campus, apartment complex, or neighborhood, she will be at ease, secure in the knowledge that she can relax and enjoy your company sexually without damage to her circumstances. The tighter the circle of acquaintance, the more important this element of your dealings becomes.

There you have it, boys and girls, in a nutshell, tips and techniques guaranteed to improve your seduction success rate. Always wrap that rascal and be tender with people's hearts.

Kindness counts.



©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Tuesday, June 23, 2015

The Price We All Pay



THE PRICE WE ALL PAY

She just wanted to be held
and be told that she was pretty,
to feel a shred of human warmth
in this barren, cold city.

Her days were filled with work and friends,
her life was all of her own,
but when the sun set and dark crept in
she had always found her self alone.

He was a rake, a man about town,
so suave and debonair.
He was simply looking for a good time
with a fresh and juicy pair.

No strings was his rule, no commitments at all,
he had to be free just in case
he met another girl with something new -
a sweeter wiggle or a prettier face.

They met at a club, no place special at all;
cocktails and throbbing music in the dark.
Flushed with dancing and drink, without stopping to think
they wandered off into the park.

In the green air they groped and clutched at each other,
both of them hungry and ready to feast.
Their soft words and whisper eventually grew
to the voice of the two backed Beast.

Life quickened inside her, as it often does,
two lives suddenly became three.
Her life would never be just hers again
and he would never again be free.

God has His plan for the species of Man,
orgasm is a gift from Above.
So Man will trade his Love for Sex
and Woman will trade Sex for Love.



©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Sunday, June 14, 2015

Video - Word Jerky





 ©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Friday, June 12, 2015

Living on Borrowed Pretty II




LIVING ON BORROWED PRETTY II

Trailing along behind
the pretty girl, cute girl,
a social remora,
she sits in the corner of the party
watching the guys fall
in lust
with her friend.

Invisible as beige,
she sips from the plastic cup
knowing that the only boys
she will get to talk to tonight
are wingmen
helping a buddy out.

Resolved to another night alone,
she is rocked
by the depth of her surprise
when a guy from her least favorite class
asks her to dance.

He is not drunk.
He is not teasing.
What could he possibly want?

She refuses to let herself believe.
When he compliments her eyes
suspicion flares.
When he asks her opinion
she worries.
After he shyly asks if he might see her again…

… a thin green bud of hope curls from the soil of her soul.





©2012 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Video - The Writers' Group





Recently, I had the pleasure of reading at the Newton Writing and Publishing Center. A very cool antique store with a lot of inspiration lining the space, and on this day, wall to wall with writers. So I dusted off this previously unpublished piece (10 years old) about the various members of a writing group, and shared it with the room.

I hope you enjoy it.


THE WRITERS GROUP

First there was the one who liked whatever you wrote
He praised each and every thing that he read
His commentary was positive, and often with a quote
But you could never quite believe what he said.

Then there was the romantic, who only looked at love
When making any sort of critical decision,
Her thoughts were on philosophy, and all things thereof
And she was against any sort of revision.

Another member of the group was nasty and bitter,
Vitriol was his major stock in trade.
Everyone he chased off he then reviled as a quitter
Every critique had edges sharper than a blade.

There was the earth mother; nurturing, positive and wise
Who made certain every work got a fair shake.
She did her best to carefully and honestly apprise,
And was gracious when pointing out a mistake.

The blue collar heart throb was also a member,
Wrote from the hip and usually scored,
He could fan a flame from the tiniest ember,
No matter what he wrote, nobody was bored.

There was also a timid soul, careful and shy,
Who never quite believed in her writing.
She would always take direction, always try,
But ran away at the first sign of fighting.

We had a vulgarian, every crowd has one at least
Whose crudity both shocked and amused,
His profanity and lewd suggestion never ceased
But his humor sometimes excused.

Then there was the critic, who neither wrote nor created
Instead he spent all of his efforts dissecting
He cared not a whit that he was universally hated
He preferred pointing out errors and correcting.

And we had a bully, let us never forget
A tough guy who pushed folks around
He was never happy unless someone was upset,
Unless someone was whipped and beaten down.

So why did we come to this writing group
Where not everyone was worth being heard?
Because we were more than just the members of our troop
We were dedicated to polishing the written word.

We were friends, and acquaintances, and family too
We listened and we bitched and complained.
We were all a part of the big writers zoo
We are writers, and we all entertained.


©2015 Christopher Reilley
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After the Typhoon

 
 
AFTER THE TYPHOON



After the typhoon of finding you,
after the hideaway weekend
eating chocolate covered strawberries
in a steaming Jacuzzi…

After serenades, and love poems I have scribbled,
dancing in our new home
cooking for you,
fighting with you…

... after the many meals together,
devouring each other with our eyes,
working hard to build a life together
I find you standing beside me.

At times, I cannot recall what life was
before you cast your shadow on me.
The pain of old mistakes returns
like arthritis on a rainy day.

You, are the surest balm to my hurt,
a soothing cool hand on my fevered brow.
We rub each other -
but only the right way.



©2004 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, June 8, 2015

Renegade, Renaissance, Radiance & Rosebud


Renegade, Renaissance, Radiance & Rosebud

Renegade

The Renegade rejects the sins of the past
Denies dogma, precedent and standard
Previous limits must all be surpassed
One’s obeisance cannot be pandered

Renaissance

Style and culture once more at the core
Of a grace note at a nation’s heart.
A regal image projected for rapport
Warmth and spirit meant to impart.

Radiance

The light of a child brightens our eyes
Warmth and cheer only go hand in glove
That this one is special is no great surprise
Given that her heart shines with love.

Rosebud

A fresh young flower in the bud of her bloom
Innocence wrapped in beauty and soul
Filling our minds with winsome perfume
Our appreciation making us whole.



©2005 Christopher Reilley
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Friday, May 15, 2015

Persevere

 
 
PERSEVERE

When intellects by force quiesce
And thoughts drift to leaden rest
Nothing under heaven is worth less
Than watching yourself become depressed.
Alleviate your self-made stress
By acknowledging that you are blessed.

Work does not define the whole of man,
Does not control how tall he stands
He can only do that which he can
Which is all his Creator demands
Since manhood's toil ever began -
The worth of his own two hands.

Look not to the past to find your worth,
Your yet to be is where it lies.
It has been this way since your birth,
Each new days brings it own surprise.
You are a unique gem in all the earth,
Gird your loins and lift your eyes.

Nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel
Perseverance is worth more than chance.
By tilling the soil with labor you reveal
What may have escaped a casual glance.
You can only reach a personal ideal
If your motivations you are willing to advance.





©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Wednesday, May 13, 2015

A Poet's Plea



A POET'S PLEA


What makes human beauty forever dance
In a heartbreaking sodden spiral?
How does my presence make itself felt
in a world so digitally viral?

If I pause a moment to take a fast breath
Will I then have more time to waste?
And what of my heart's one and only command
So devoutly and fervently chased?

I am connected to the red, red rose of desire
And lights on the screaming ambulance.
I am trying not to die, and happily, thus far
I continue by the grace of happenstance.

I am beautiful to see, but even unseen
I remain as I am, still beautiful.
For I have done all that is required of me,
I am nothing if not dutiful.

I spin my words, some frail, some bold
Some laced with power incandescent.
And because I have this chance to sing
My spirit remains effervescent.

But less talk of me, and more of you
Lest you think me indelibly rude.
I care what you think of what I have shared
Lest my meaning get lost or misconstrued.

Do you savor these words, do you read them with care
Or do you scan them with casual haste?
Do my thoughts convey form unto you
Or has it all gone terribly to waste?

Speak to me, dear reader, answer my plea
Let me know what you want me to write.
For if, for a moment, I thought I was wrong
I would move mountains to make thing all right.



©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Thursday, May 7, 2015

Poor Woman's Divorce




POOR WOMAN'S DIVORCE

She stood over him as he slept,
wondering if he would mind
if she crawled inside him,
consumed him,
Became him.

No pretense
or argument
would have stilled her thoughts,
no pleading or requests
would have stopped her attempts.
Warm and alive,
she could not
not touch him
rough and strong,
she had to have him.

She stood over him,
breathing the bitter gun oil.
Her hands stroked the barrel
like he had stroked himself,
once.

His stillness calmed her,
invited her
to take him.

She wanted to push herself inside of him
the way he had
to her. She would give him
no choice,
the way he had
to her.

She stood over him as he died,
wondering if he would mind
if she kept everything
he had given her
except the name.



©2014 Christopher Reilley
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Sunday, March 15, 2015

Tired Old Man Tales



TIRED OLD MAN TALES

So when I woke up this morning
I heard this noise outside my door.
When I investigated, I found an old man
wanting to tell me his tales.

I listened to the first story,
full of Love, Hate and Piracy,
and I wondered if even part of it were true.

Then he began to tell me of corporate sharks -
of lies, cheats, the stabbings in the back,
and the rewards that could not be spent,
smiling the entire time.

I heard him tell of passion, and love gone sour,
of drunken mistakes and forgiveness
so sweet it gave me a toothache,
And I wished, just for a second
that I could tell tales so well.

He told me about the stars big plans,
about the world in trouble
and what makes a man a man,
And I understood,
he was a tired old man.

Then he asked me for a tale,
Since I did not have one handy
I made one up, about a tired old man
telling tales to those who would listen,
and he nodded as he fell asleep.

So some morning, when you wake up
if you find me at your door,
sit a spell, and let me tell you a tale
or two, or more, because, after all,
I am a tired old man.




©2010 Christopher Reilley
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Tuesday, March 10, 2015

The Last Tree



THE LAST TREE


They file past, upturned faces awestruck with wonder
Not one of them has ever seen my kind before
Nor will they likely do so again, for I am the last.

It has been more than a generation since my kind went under
There will be no saplings, no seeds, not now, not anymore
The time of my kind, my species, is forever past.

Our murderers cannot yet admit they made a blunder
Poisoning the air, destroying every single spore
Eliminating the greenery of Earth's forests vast.

Only now when faced with the world's last living tree
Encased in a museum diorama behind leaded glass
Do they encompass what their collective hubris has done.

Why must it cost such an ungodly price to see
The death of all their futures in the follies they surpass,
Will they know of losses more than they believe to have won?

We cleaned their air, Mother Nature's own promise and guarantee,
From the mighty oaks and elms to the densest prairie grass
That sweetened every breath and succored them from the sun.

Now machines do the work to filter their every lung's taste
And shield them from Sol's bitter, biting, burning rays
Their adaptation their only defense against their folly's fault.

While I stand here to the last, awaiting eventual rot & waste
Under school children's astonished, amazed and wary gaze
Every bitter tear waters my bed of soil with killing salt.

Until with germination has my imposed loneliness been replaced
And with new hope might seedlings be interred to raise
Will vegetation rebound from the meatlings unwitting assault.

So pass me by with a look, attend well the words of your guide
Who tells you of how my kind once kept your kind alive
And of how your arrogance cost us everything we ever knew.

Think well on what you will do when I, the last tree has died.
How will your children or theirs ever hope to survive,
When only ashes coat the world where once greenery grew?

Think long and hard on how we all may safely abide
How photosynthesis is required for both of our species to thrive
So you will never have to moan, “If only we knew?”




©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, March 9, 2015

Travel Through Desert




TRAVEL THROUGH DESERT

They say you should never try it alone
And fill your tank first, don't forget water.
You know when it is near,
because the gas station is busier
than Beaver's house when the damn broke,
not long past midnight -
locals eating lunch.

--

When you leave the light at last
and feel what real dark is,
the last glow of things made by man
in the rear-view.

--

Something within you just – slows.

--

You make what time you can before the east ignites.
Rolling or stumbling, it is up to you.
And when you learn what life is like
on a match-head
you know with certainty
if you want to stay.

--

You make the decision, every time.
Cannot cross without doing it.
You choose to see the other side
or you choose not to.




©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, February 23, 2015

Of Lulls and Byes




OF LULLS AND BYES

My child was weary and so was I
We had played and sung the day through.
So when she ask for a lullaby
I did what any poet would do.

I sang of ice cream floats and summer rain,
Of butter-cups and daddy's kiss,
Spun songs that I could never explain,
Some would hit, and some would miss.

I murmured songs of playground fun,
Of dressing up in wild costumes.
We dreamed of spaceship rides to the sun,
And riding through skies on witches brooms.

I sang of heroes and dragons in times gone past
Of second chances and seven tries
Songs of times both slow and fast
And whispers of both lulls and byes.

I spun stories until I had no more,
Hoping that our time I could keep,
I only ended when a heard a soft snore
Telling me that my babe was asleep.




©2008 Christopher Reilley

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Sunday, February 15, 2015

Transitory Girl



TRANSITORY GIRL


For a moment..


just the briefest of moments,


she was beautiful, gorgeous,


like the luscious apple


that sat on the sideboard


in a ceramic dish


until I threw it away,


it sides showing the very best of


red, orange and yellow,


the way sunsets do


when they are showing off,


the stem a celebration of lust


irrepressible and incomplete.



But the bottom


where you cannot see,


hidden by the lip of the bowl, is


moist, sunken down,






rancid and rotten.




©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Saturday, February 14, 2015

The Shameless Flirt



THE SHAMELESS FLIRT

It does not matter to you
that I am married,
in love,
taken,
committed,
or otherwise inaccessible.

You care nothing for the vagaries of life.
No use for conventions,
rebel that you are.
You speak only of the now.
Step out of confused flight
to wear a hole in my coat
with your tears.

I allow only laughter to touch you.
My distance a choice of mine
not yours.
My reflection dances
on your wine glass,
and in your eyes.

Your reflective embrace
is free-form jazz in the dark,
improvisation,
done without ground rules
or agenda.
It is your default.

My vows means less to you
than the bar tab you will flirt your way out of,
less than the weightless mood
you carry along with you
like lipstick and a lighter.
my desire for her means nothing to you.

Yet it is everything to me.




©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Sunday, February 8, 2015

After Ten Years



AFTER TEN YEARS

I smile, for I am carrying your aroma
as I walk about my busy day.

My thoughts crowd mundane concerns
into shadowed corners, where they wait
until I have been with you once more,
and been balmed by your spirit
so that my own finds rest.

How far would I walk
if my hand did not hold yours?

How would I survive without you
casting your shadow in my path,
challenging my ideas,
making me laugh,
how far would I get?

Likely not far enough
to fall down the steps, alone.

I raise my collar to my nose,
that was where you lay your head last.
You are with me once more
and I can hear your voice, calling my name.

I quicken my steps, and head for home
where the word has meaning for me.


©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Monday, February 2, 2015

I Memorized You




I MEMORIZED YOU

It was my fault, I admit it.

I knew that you were not really mine to keep,
that is why I kissed you a thousand extra times
and told you it was just my way.

That is why I always gazed a few extra seconds
before looking away
and why I stayed up all those nights
to watch you sleep
instead of getting any rest myself.

I worked hard to memorize every curve
and mark on your body
so that when you left I would not forget.

I listened extra carefully when you spoke
because I knew I would need to replay your voice
when I am alone.

That is why I told you I loved you so many times
and held you as close as I did,
pressing your body against my own,
because I knew that someday my sheets would smell of you
but you would not be there,
I would be alone,
so I took in your warmth, and looked at you with sadness
but never told you why.

I watched you dream, because I knew
I would not get to watch you change and grow.
Sometimes things are only built to break.
I cherished you all I could but you still left
and I’m starting to wish I never memorized you
because now I cannot forget,
I have learned you like the lyric to the best song ever
and you have been running through my head
ever since.

©2015 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, January 27, 2015

In a Perfect World



IN A PERFECT WORLD

Professional athletes and teachers swapped salaries,
Prisons now are places one wants to avoid,
Art is now rotated among the world’s galleries
So it can be appreciated, noted and enjoyed.
Chocolate only has a quarter of the calories,
And only those who choose can be called unemployed.

Politicians work two terms, then go back to their jobs,
Which works because every citizen now votes.
Nobody ever cheats, lies, steals or robs,
Because society now integrity promotes.
Watterston goes back to drawing Calvin and Hobbes
And teenagers return to the sowing of wild oats.

Poets are lauded like rock stars once were
Student memorizing their latest quatrains,
Riding in limos, with liveried chauffeur,
Drinking the world finest champagnes.
Why, thank you for the compliment monsieur
The French still the world’s culture maintains.

But the one thing that would make this world perfect
The one wish my spirit most wants to impart -
Lovers would never their lives or families neglect
Never in anger or deceit would they depart
Two hearts, once committed, never disconnect
When caring and sharing are perfected as Art.



©2014 Christopher Reilley

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Tuesday, January 20, 2015

The Blessings of Disconnect



THE BLESSINGS OF DISCONNECT


If I had a wish, I would ask to be unmoored.
Drifting lazily with the current, one oar in the water,
making beautiful circles without end,
a galaxy spiraling enveloping arms.

I would watch the horizon, as my view
traded places with some one else's view,
the universe slipping away untethered
by demands upon my time.

You might perhaps want to signal me
using nebula, the only language I would understand -
jagged spiked ones for warnings
smooth creamy ones for poems about the warnings.

And for those few moments,
when all I ask is to be forsaken,
use dark matter to speak with me,
so that not even concepts could escape its pull.


©2011 Christopher Reilley

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