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
Rise Respect yourself, Improve yourself,
Shoes Soles of my feet, Holes in my soles,
Another Year Passes
Another year passes The old man is sitting in his armchair, Looking out of the window,
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,
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,
Simple Gifts All a man needs is simple gifts, In life it is the simple gifts that can cheer the soul,
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,
Scars from decades of struggles, Countless old wounds remain, Atonement perhaps for my sins, Reminders of old battles won and lost,
Trains Transport for the masses, Railways across the nation,
Bye Beginning of the end, Yearning for the end of days,
A Tree Falls
A Tree Falls When a tree falls it is a tragedy, But as with all life it must be,
By The Babbling Brook
By the babbling brook By the babbling brook I rest myself, Watching damsel-flies hovering above the water,
A Forest A tree does not make a forest, Forests are not just trees,
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,