Tuesday, August 30, 2011


I walked to my front door
Gazed at the sky
And the ocean that churned
Between you and I
I looked out my back door
The dog pissed on a tree
I thought how good it is
To finally be free
Of you

Friday, August 26, 2011

Philosophocakes - Short and Sweet

The Flame

I have seen the flame burning white
in a place cool and green,
deep, deep inside, at the core,
the very centre of my being.

I have felt the power of inner calm,
and seen the desire of a child
melt in the flame to reveal
a man, and infinity

C. Lowe - 1988

When I Die

When I die, when my soul's set free
all that will remain of me
is the love I've given, the heart's I've known -
When my body's dead, my spirit flown.

The good of a man, the smile of his face
are the things his death cannot erase.
Capacity for loving, acts of giving
are what make a life worth living.

Seek reward in love returned -
the smile in the eyes of those who have learned
that you love them;
it is through them that you will live on.

C. Lowe - 1988

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


I like it
 On the beach with lots of blankets
So the sand stays off your nice bits
With a big old yellow Moon just smiling down
A luscious blonde and a big bottle
Chocks away and go full throttle
Then drink and laugh before another round

I like it
On the dining table
(as long as it is stable)
As the dishes from a great meal crash and fall
The cruet set goes flying
Amidst the heaving and the sighing
And the Peach Melbas end up smeared across the wall

I like it
When there’s crashing thunder
Lightning splits the clouds asunder
The rain beats on the roof like jungle drums
Tangled in the bed sheets
In the steamy summer wet heat
Sweating tight within each others’ arms

I like
Lots of B words
Like Brunette Blonde and Boobs
 Buttocks Bosoms and Backside’s OK too
Slinky Slit and Sideways
S words are not mentioned enough nowadays
Supple Scented Slippery and Screw

I like
The sensory confusion
And nibbling small protrusions
The touch of lace and silk under my hand
All the tense anticipation
And the quiet desperation
 Deciding when to retreat or take a stand

Some try to deny it
But I think everybody likes it
It’s the best fun lying down or standing up
They’ve not found a way to tax it
‘Cept for the sales tax on a mattress
There’s nothing like a good old fashioned .... !

Hastings, 2011

Note: For those of you with a sense of rhyme and meter I know the Peach Melbas could have been smeared elsewhere. I thought about it but decided it was a little crass - not to mention sticky.

Monday, August 22, 2011


Clink, clunk, clonk of bamboo chimes;
memories of summers fill my mind:
Curtains flutter a warm breath of air, stirs the pandanus,
ruffles her hair;
Diamond sunlight
scattered on the sea,
the scent of pollen fills the trees;
A blanket of stars thrown at the sky,
half a million fire flies.

A sense of stillness, a sleepy mind,
a sense of being, no sense of time.
A greater awareness of the things
otherwise not noticed 
clunk, clonk, clink. 

Hervey Bay, 1983

Friday, August 19, 2011

Cell of Glass

Cell of Glass

Bud to petal, stem to leaf,
ever quietly as a thief.
Taste this nectar, test those wings
whilst all around nature sings.

The cruelest fate, a Cell of Glass;
sight unobscured by stone or bars
and life's rich pageant just outside
stirs your heart and passes by...

Cage a creature born to fly,
watch its beauty fade, its spirit die.
An empty soul, a dried out husk;
in the scent of freedom place your trust.

So much is beauty, so much is light;
with a touch of pain falls the veil of night.
Sunlight touches dewy fields;
passion flairs, sorrow yields.

Rising mist obscuring sight,
rise above in lilting flight.
Strong Earth below, warm wind above -
each is vital, each is love.


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Empty Vessels

Empty Vessels

Empty vessels fill the rooms of my life;
blurred images printed from imperfect negatives.
And on you I pinned so many hopes;
you carried so much space
with which to fill empty vessels.

Empty vessels keep me company at night;
surrealist prints framed behind cracked, dusty glass.
And on me you pinned so many images;
seeing so much that was illusory.
Don't you know I'm just another empty vessel?

Empty vessels clutter my stairs and hall;
one way alleys never lead anywhere.
And on us they pinned so many dreams,
demanding that we fit their scheme,
and remain forever empty vessels.

Monday, August 15, 2011

The Hunger

I deliberated a long time about putting this one up.  It's personal, revealing and I was right on the rev limiter when I wrote it.

I'd watched the David Bowie/Catherine Deneuvre stylish vampire pic of the same name and that's the title's Genesis.  I've always been a Stevie Nicks fan and what started out as a poem about her and her lyrics found itself intertwined with a steamy relationship I was having at the time.  Hmm, unusual that.

I'm still not sure what it's about and the meaning seems to have shifted over the years.  What I thought then seems to be revealing itself as something completely different.  The way I call it now it's about the hunger for youth and passion, how if uncontrolled it devours your future.  The "subtle thread between what is known and what is said" relates to hiding our motivations (particularly in relationship) behind pretty, calculated words. 

I'm not entirely convinced this is a good idea but I really like this poem and it's been buried in a box for years.


She calls me back to the gypsy life
yet I know she's as much in chains as I;
Chains of gold, chains of lace, just an image, just a face.
And still I see her through my heart;
the futile moves as she plays her part,
the loneliness of her road
are things I feel, are things I know
Could she hear her heart, confront her fear
the chains would break ... disappear.  

My head is full of the taste of you
rolled round my mouth like a fleshy fruit;
my constant thirst cannot be quenched,
this gnawing hunger never spent.
Your body scent, her sultry eyes,
the lotus flower, the butterfly.
Fleeting thoughts, sensual dreams,
fill her voice ... a primal scream.

Reality a subtle thread between what is known and what is said.

Make a pillow of my chest
lay in my arms and take your rest, close your eyes,
breathing slow, dreaming in the afterglow ...
Know the thirst that's never quenched,
though the fire is doused, the bedsheets drenched;
the hunger, never satisfied
'til hearts are stilled, and life has died.  

She calls me back to the gypsy life
yet she's no more free than you or I;
bound in leather behind bars of sand
manacled at foot and hand.
But she hypnotizes with her song
I've listened to so hard and long;
 building dreams for you and I
to make our own, to bring to life.
Dressed in clothes of mist and thread
she's caught inside her hunger's web.
Reality a subtle thread between what is known and what is said.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Road

In moments of stillness
I dream of the road -     
Mountain curves, dry creek beds,     
campfire stories often told.     
A sleeping bag, a one-man tent,     
the endless turning of two wheels;     
scrape the pegs, throttle down,      
know how freedom feels.       

Leather jacket gypsies,     
too loud in roadside bars.     
Meditation with a mug of port     
beneath a night of sapphire stars.     
The pungent smell of chain oil;     
the throb of a "V" twin     
swallowing the whiteline     
as the dawn air cuts your skin.               

Life is a black ribbon;     
the horizon marks the tide,     
no end, no beginning     
upon which Glory rides.     
The hermit and the footloose,     
the bonded and the free     
cruise the endless highway     
for a taste of liberty.

The Earth revolves beneath us;
dream and reality collide.
The road is life.  Life is the road.
Transending space and time.
The Sun reclaims the darkness;
the sea blends with the sky;
the exhaust pumps out an anthem;
the human spirit flies.

© Chris Lowe - 1983
(revised 1999)