Biography of Christopher Tye
Born in Lincolnshire, England. I have always lived in 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,
The Path Of Life
The Path Of Life Preordained perhaps, Self-determined maybe,
Time Time's running out, Increasingly depleted day by day,
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,
Halloween Teatime Treats
Halloween Teatime Treats Cadaver kebabs with pigs blood sauce, Cadaverous gelatine with selected eyeballs,
Egg Extra tasty treat for breakfast, Good on top of a nice steak with onion rings,
By The Babbling Brook
By the babbling brook By the babbling brook I rest myself, Watching damsel-flies hovering above the water,
Letter Letters sent home from the front, Envelopes carrying priceless letters,
Empires Of Sand
Empires of Sand As children we built our empires of sand, Every time we visited the beaches on the east coast,
How Many More?
How Many More? Just three little words, That means so much,
Kits Kits of all sorts of things from planes to trains, Imagineering the completed model while looking at a pile of sprue's,
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,
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,