Biography of Christopher Tye
Born in Lincolnshire, England. I have always lived in the Lincolnshire.
Music, life & the Lincolnshire countryside are my greastest inspirations.
History, the arts, archaeology, architecture, anthropology, aviation, railways, early & classical music are my main intersts.
I tend to write poems as I think of them. My poems tend to be with-out much ryhme, reason or sturcture as a result.
Christopher Tye Poems
Another Year Passes
Another year passes The old man is sitting in his armchair, Looking out of the window,
O' Death, why have you taken everything I loved, O' Death, why do you keep taking my friends. O' Death, why do you always stand at my side, O' Death, why don't you release me when angels are calling me to heaven,
Rise Respect yourself, Improve yourself,
Kits Kits of all sorts of things from planes to trains, Imagineering the completed model while looking at a pile of sprue's,
Simple Gifts All a man needs is simple gifts, In life it is the simple gifts that can cheer the soul,
Chase Chasing money is no life to live, Honest man are rarely rich with money,
Ships Slipping out of harbour at dawn, Heading out to sea past the headlands,
Wasted Days There are days when I have no fight left in me, When I haven't got any energy left,
Born out of the heat of volcanoes, Nature's own glass it is so beautiful and rare, So hard it can take an edge sharper than flint, Yet so few of us have heard of it,
Rain Rain decending from the heavens, A gift from God and the clouds for all life on earth,
Viva La France
Viva La France Remember the price of freedom comes high, We are all brothers with a common bond,
Voices Voices speaking from beyond the grave, Old records playing lost voices,
Shoes Soles of my feet, Holes in my soles,
Hearts Of Oak
Hearts of Oak English men and naval vessels beat with a heart of oak, Quercus Robur the heart of English broad leaf woodlands,
The Dying Exile
The dying exile
As the exiled man lays dying in a foreign land,
His thoughts turn to his beloved homeland,
As he draws his final few breaths,
He thinks about the village where he was born,
The little house where he spent his childhood,
The school he went to and all his long-lost friends from there,
The village's little sand stone church, with its steeple reaching out trying to touch heaven,