Saturday, May 24, 2014

Christopher P.P. White- Three Poems

The Swan

I go to that coffee shop every day.
The coffee is never made
The same way
And the girl behind the counter
Always has a different face
That varies in wrinkles, lipstick
And attractiveness.

There is always one constant.

The man in the tuxedo 
Who sits in silence by the patio,
Drinking the same tea:
Milky, two sugars—
Always alone.

I spoke to him once about the weather
And he seemed charming;
He reminded me of George Bailey
In colour
But with a hint of that dull grey
Running through his thoughts.

He was always humming a melody
I seem to recall from days
That existed long before
Glen Miller I think.

In his hands,
He held a napkin that read
The name of the coffee shop.
Like a caterpillar 
To a butterfly,
It became an elegant swan;
Folds in precise places
And great care in every crease.

A true work of art.
But for whom?

The man always drew the letters M and O
Under the wing of the bird.
Mary, Olivia?
Were these letters even a name?

He would leave his swan at the table—
Without fail.

I have a hundred now and I still
Don't know
Who the man with the swan is.

I haven't seen him for around three months now.
Maybe he lost the will to live
Without his swan.

The Sad Truth

Those big wheels have fallen off
The train and we lay
Derailed in the mud.

The crows perch on the telephone poles
And heckle us in their deadpan tones;
Louder and more abrasive
With every tear that rolls down
Your weathered cheek.

Amongst the rubble of our accident,
I see tiny bits of something better—
I think people call them regrets.

The ride was a good one baby
But nothing lasts forever,
Not even us.

The sad truth is I can't be bothered
To get on my feet
And dust off all the gravel
And muck.

I'd rather wait for the horror
To blow over—
That's the honest, bitter,

In a Bubble

Her warm body radiates 
As my cold hands
Rest upon her strapless shoulders.
The bra she wore
Fell to the floor
Like a solitary feather
Falling from a lavish bird.
The balcony overlooks
A twinkling skyline and her eyes
Hold all of the flashing lights
She stands there without a fabric
In sight,
Only the materials of creation—
Her skin and bone,
Naked and alive in the cool breeze.
This is what dreams are made of,
I think,
As I hold this hourglass
Against my trembling body,
We remain united for hours
And the rising sun keeps its
Gaze upon the city below,
Whilst we keep our gaze upon
Each other.
The beads of sweat that
Rest elegantly on her forehead
Glisten as we welcome
In the morning,
The last morning we'll ever see each other.
In a bubble we floated
Through the mundane madness
Of a lacklustre life.

Christopher P. P. White is a poet that
 explores every facet of this mortal coil with a mind doused in cynicism and hope. He lives in Derby, England with his wife and two daughters, with dreams of writing for a living because he can't do anything else. He already has two poetry collections out there called 'The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life' and 'Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness' and hopes that you'll hunt them down and read them until your full of joy and pain. Feel free to tell him he sucks on Twitter at @CPPWhite.

These poems have only featured in my second poetry collection, Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness.

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