Christopher Tolleson

Christopher Tolleson Apr 2012

My friends:
the fire hearted nomads;
the hard headed lunatics;
the kids with lion eyes.

We used to be the roots of a tree;
veins of an ox's heart.
We used to be free,
but now we've fallen apart.

I said, you said, we said,
"This fire in my heart
is forever," but

naivety got the best of me.
Our fire died - and so - the tree.

The thumps of our ox's heart stopped beating.
Forever lost its meaning.

Comments are appreciated.

© Christopher Tolleson, April 1st, 2012

Christopher Tolleson Mar 2012

New York, New York

It's hard to describe something close
to the smell of coffee and pollution,
but the taxi-cab infested café shows me what it's like.

The normal latte;
a crowded sidewalk;
a bright blue sky
littered with towering masculinity.

But that plane is flying awfully low.

First draft of a poem for my Creative Writing class.

I'll be publishing another draft after receiving some critiques, so feel free to give me suggestions!

Christopher Tolleson Mar 2012

A Deeper Understanding (Second Draft)

I am only an enigma to myself.
I can only foster words from the books on my shelf,

But I found a box full of lines never used
in a home, over-bruised; compensated with ruse.

The ruse was the house in the sense of its looks,
for on a block full of mansions, it held only books.

The floors were all battered, the water pipes groaned,
and the windows were shattered inside of the home.

But if one thing it taught me, this mansion, a crook,
is some enigmas might vanish if on the inside we looked.

The original can be found here: http://goo.gl/BBxCe

I would love more critiques from anyone. Feel free to look at my other poems, too.
Thanks for reading!

Christopher Tolleson Feb 2012

Acceptance Road meets Bitter Avenue

My reflection is tattered with these strings of insecurities,
and I'm bound to the walls of my constant inequities.
And my eyes, as if rotting, are stuck in their quivering,
for the beauty I once knew and loved is now withering.

Christopher Tolleson Feb 2012

Thirty Years

In thirty years,
when I look back,
what will my mind have seen?

Will I be old and unforgiving?
Will I be young and free?

Could working days and long cold nights
be my history?

Will fire rest inside my heart,
and love inside my soul?

Will every man I'd ever met remember what I told?

Or is my life a boring book,
just wishing I'd been bold?

Oh future.  You, so unexpected.
Don't speak in such clichés.

My life will be a burning star,
composed of blinding rays.

A hearth of endless sunrises,
to brighten up the days.

Not all may notice how I've gleamed,
but that just goes to say,
that even all the brightest stars,
should shine from far away.

Draft of a new poem. Critique would be great.

I'm curious how this poem comes off, so please tell me. I might need to edit for better clarity.

Christopher Tolleson Jan 2012

Not a poem, but hell...

I've spent the past hour fervently pondering selfishness, sacrifice, closeness of family,
economy, future, past, the importance of the present, knowledge, education, laziness, friendship,
culture or the lack thereof, loneliness, lines drawn that we might cross, the subjectivity of those lines,
right, wrong, hope, misery, pain, fear, happiness and the pursuit of happiness, contentment, and the most shockingly simple, yet overwhelmingly accurate statement describing the combined existence of them all: life is complex.

I feel like some poetic injustice rests in that statement.

Christopher Tolleson Dec 2011

Sunny Side Up, Mister.

So, turn your hands
and open your palms,
and life will give you gifts.
Change might come
and spin you 'round,
but your heart will find its lifts.

Plow your lands
and plant your seeds,
and watch them as they grow.
Water them
and pray for them,
and reap more than you've sown.

And if happiness is what you want,
then listen to me speak.
There's secret to the sunlight.
'Tis a gift that's always free.
Free love and light and sustenance,
without the old "give me!"