Christopher P. P. White
Biography of Christopher P. P. White
Christopher P. P. White is a poet that explores every facet of this mortal coil with a mind doused in cynicism and hope. He lives in Derby, England with his wife and two daughters, with dreams of writing for a living because he can't do anything else. He already has two poetry collections out there called 'The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life' and 'Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness' on Amazon and is published on numerous websites. Feel free to tell him he sucks on Twitter at @CPPWhite or visit his site at christopherppwhite.weebly.com.
Christopher P. P. White's Works:
The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life (Oct 2013)
Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness (March 2014)
Christopher P. P. White Poems
The Girl In The Bookshop
I met this girl in a bookshop. She was reading Tolstoy— I was embarrassed as I held cheap erotica And my breath.
I wake up to an empty bed; White crumpled sheets and her smell That lingers like a thousand roses On a summer's breeze.
I look in this fragile, wooden mirror And see a man with grey hair And tired eyes- Not sure if it is me
Dinosaurs Are Extinct Like Our Quaint Li...
We joke about past mistakes And failed romances. We laugh about them as the champagne Hits the backs of our throats
The blackbirds have nested near my window. All I see when my eyes meet the morning Are these birds and their black feathers. They remind me of death;
I go to that coffee shop every day. The coffee is never made The same way And the girl behind the counter
In A Bubble
Her warm body radiates As my cold hands Rest upon her strapless shoulders. The bra she wore
Listening to a woman with The voice of an angel Is the pinnacle of virtue. A rapturous vigour
A Doll I Can Afford To Admire From Afar
This music transports me to a noir America With sin deep in its heart And dirty brown liquor in its mile long veins. And at the front—
Blossoming from a minute spark, It dances with passion— Igniting a host of naked flames That surround untouched bodies
That Old Umbrella
When all that rain fell towards the earth Like an almighty stream from the sky, The only thing we both held onto was That old umbrella.
I am stuck in time like the poor fly In a spider's web Waiting to die. Maybe minutes will move
A delicate note from a terrorised tongue Or a melody born out of sadness. I long to hear the story that's scattered With words
False Idols Are The Real Saviours
Higher powers and moments of weakness; Guilt is surely the easiest pain to feel When all you are getting is a vile judgement From a bunch of wrong Samaritans.
What The Booze Did
I look around for solace or a place to run to
But all I see are empty shops and lonely benches.
The promenade was once filled with laughter and ice cream—
Now it's full of silence and sadness.
A sorrow being judged by its own worth;
I feel its pain.
I know its story.