Accordion Player On The Beach

July 21, 2013 at 4:51 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , )

Accordion player on the beach
The beach has a crowd
but no one listens
The music he plays is good
And has melody
but he plays to no one there.

No one stands in front or around him
like they do other buskers on the beach.
He plays the accordion like a master
But it seems this world no longer has a place for master accordionists.

He finishes his tune
and is greeted with the sounds of silence.
He puts away his accordion 
and heads home.
No one notices.
No one cares.

In the trenches of World War I
the soldiers listened to the accordion player
offering a sweet melody and hope 
amidst the rumble of big guns
and the sounds of Hell.

“Oh let every good fellow now join in a song,
viva le pompier
Viva la viva viva l’amour…”

Long live love
they sing in French
to the accompaniment of accordion.
Long live love
they sing against the background of war.

Here on the beach
is sand not mud.
Here they lie in the sun
instead of huddled down
in the rain.
Here they cling to their iPods
and not to their guns.
Here are the sound of waves pounding the shore
and not the sound of guns pounding human flesh.

To every thing there is a season
and a time for every purpose under Heaven.
The accordion was an instrument that brought melody and hope
to those trapped in the midst 
of a great and terrible war.

No one listened to the accordionist 
on the beach last night.
But at least they weren’t listening to the sound of guns.

Everything has its give and take.

The guns are silent.
The accordion is now silent.

And on the beach other buskers prosper.
The rapper who sings crap.
The crapper who can’t rap.

So still the white dove sails
wondering where to rest in the sand
and the voice of the turtle is yet to be heard in the land.

-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday July 21st 2013.

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Reflections of Chandler and Marlowe In The Hot Humid Heat of The City

July 17, 2013 at 12:11 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )




Hot humid day in Vancouver

the most humid since I’ve moved here 8 months ago

I walk the streets of the City 

like I’m Philip Marlowe

since Raymond Chandler’s prose

always describes hot muggy days in LA

when his private eye is out

walking about.

Coincidentally I see a whole bunch of women out today

wearing evening dresses

and they don’t appear to be part of a wedding party

Just out and about wearing evening dresses

on a day hot and humid at that.

I really feel like I’m in a Chandler novel today

hot and humid and feeling sticky 

out on the sidewalks and streets

and hotter women in hot tight dresses 

making a sizzling summer day

sizzle even more.



-A poem written by Christopher

 Tuesday July 16th 2013

 a hot and humid day

 in Vancouver, British Columbia.

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A Bastille Day Limerick

July 14, 2013 at 7:07 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , )

There was a young man from Castile

who was there that day at the Bastille

when the Revolution started

and Robespierre farted

and royal Louis’  head was brought to heel.

-A limerick written
 by Christopher
 Sunday July 14th
 The  224th
 of the start
 of the
 French Revolution.

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Hula Hoop Dancer On The Beach

July 10, 2013 at 1:01 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Hula hoop girl dancing on the beach

her colourful summer floral skirt flirls 

around with the hoop.

The disc of the sun is setting

and the disc of the hoop goes faster and faster

around her hips

around her legs 

around her arms 

around her feet

a hula hoop dance impresario

dancing in the summer sun.


She dances with joy 

she dances with carefree abandon

she is a child of the sun

a child of the sky

a child of the sea

she dances with joy

she dances to be

she dances like one

in the dance of the free.



-A poem written by Christopher

 Tuesday night July 9th 2013

 based on what he observed this evening

 at English Bay, Vancouver, British Columbia

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The Moving Statue

June 27, 2013 at 4:31 pm (Horror, Humour, Mystery, Mystery/horror, News, Poetry, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

As Pan Goatee serial killer slashed the fat ugly female cyclist to death

making sure the aesthetically facially challenged blimp was devoid of breath,

the statue of Neb-Senu

being from planet Nibiru

moved in its glass case in Manchester 

dancing like Jack Benny’s butler Rochester

in this museum inspired by the Muses nine 

spirit beings found it fine

especially entity Neb-Senu

when he moved from Park Avenue

when the Wall Street banker he did possess

lost an encounter with a bus in much distress

so it returned to its statuely home 

devoid of constantly ringing phone 

into the statuette donated in 1933 

the year Hitler took Germany 

and stamped it with his destiny 

a statue made about 1800 B.C. 

when desert devil gods roamed free 

and the Nile River took its star Sirius-ly

what rough beast?  Its hour come round at last 

stops at McDonald’s for breakfast? 

one slouching towards Bethlehem 

waiting to be born 

a statue that moves 

at blast of car horn.  

It eventually moves 180 degrees 

but moves even more 

at a patron’s sneeze.


-A poem written by Christopher 

 Wednesday afternoon 

 June 26th 2013

 inspired by reports 

 of a moving Egyptian statue 

 in a Manchester museum.

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In Search of The Hound of The Baskervilles

June 25, 2013 at 4:32 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , )

I’d like to take some imagination pills

and look for the Hound of the Baskervilles

I’d be Sherlock Holmes

whom I’ve read in Doyle’s tomes

Who would be my Dr. Watson?

Any takers?  Have I got some?







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Green Tea For A Green Dragon

February 18, 2013 at 11:22 pm (Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Green tea for a green dragon

because he was on the wagon

his early days he spent drinking green absinthe

which caused him to lose his common sense

and so this led him to join AA

to escape the clutches of the green fair-ee.




Although he was no Oscar Wilde

he was considered a precious child

-a youthful 1000 years-

at concerts he gave many bronx cheers

and although he tried to be another Charles Baudelaire

his style of French just could not compare

and so he tried painting like Toulouse-Lautrec

but only ended up a nervous wreck

and he lost the chance to meet Hemingway

when he missed the train at Santa Fe.



And so his youth was misspent

he had no money to pay the rent

and thus he ended up on the street

where gangsta dudes made fun of his feet.

“I can’t help being a dragon,”  said he

burying his heart at wounded knee

and so he went on the wagon

this absinthe drinking green dragon

and that’s why these days you’ll only see

our hero dragon drinking green tea.






-A poem written by Christopher

 circa 3:28 PM Saturday afternoon

 February 16th 2013.

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For Andrea CorvyusMorte: Requiem For A Poetess

October 26, 2011 at 9:44 pm (Poetry) (, , , , )

Upon hearing of John Keats’ death
Shelley wrote, “I weep for Adonais- he is dead”
on this rainy rainy night devoid of stars
I weep for Andrea- she is dead
Beautiful poetess, beautiful soul
I wish you were around still to tell you so.

You wrote from the heart
and what a beautiful heart it was
a heart that had been broken and felt pain
a heart that flowed with passion like dew and pouring rain
it can be truly said, this world won’t see your like again.

You wrote real poetry in an age of text messages and mundane emails
you found kernels of buried truth under lies of hidden veils
your words burst with the range and gaunt of human emotions
but your own poor soul found no healing lotions.

O weep for Andrea- she is dead
now poetry has nowhere to lay its head
the finger no longer moves nor writes
and all your tears can no longer bring back the muse
that wrote of life and death and wine and song
where did this world go so terribly wrong?

Your words were finally drowned in a pool of despair
I wept tears for you in the pool downstair
now back in my room on this rainy rainy night
a pounding gloom devoid of light.

In my mind the voice of Josh Groban singing Vincent,

and when no hope was left in sight on that starry starry night
you took your life as lovers often do
but I could have told you Vincent
this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

but I would change the lyrics of the song…

I would have changed the lyrics to something I should have done…

I would change the lyrics to…

I should have told you Andrea,
this world NEEDS someone as beautiful as you.

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If The Were-Zomb-ire Could Write Poetry

October 21, 2011 at 8:31 pm (Horror, Mystery/horror, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, )

Blood baths are good for you
to bathe in blood is where it’s at
burnt flesh and twisted limbs
ripped apart at the door
a menagerie of blood and gore
Death and destruction all around
New World Order’s despotic crown
Change is acomin’
it’s the demonic Spring
with Sauron Lord of the Ring
autumn moon is rising all blood red
looks like motorcyclist lost his head
Moloch’s a headin’ to Assisi
he ain’t bringin’ no Virgin Chi Chi
Kill! Kill!
Let’s get our fill
Death is our ecstasy pill.

– A poem written by Dracul Van Helsing
Friday evening October 21st 2011.

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Hot Humid Day

July 18, 2011 at 3:25 pm (Poetry) (, , )

Hot humid day
no breeze
so my mind drifts back a couple of weeks
to a cool yet pleasant day
sitting in Huku’s Bistro
listening to classical music
played on ancient Chinese instruments
on the Bistro’s sound system
watching the trees
and the hanging flower pots
outside dancing in the breeze.
Seemingly dancing
in rhythm to the music.
Today stifling heat
no breeze
no energy to dance
the trees
and the hanging flower pots are still.

-A poem written by Christopher Van Helsing
Monday afternoon, July 18th 2011.

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