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
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,
Rise Respect yourself, Improve yourself,
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,
Wasted Days There are days when I have no fight left in me, When I haven't got any energy left,
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,
Simple Gifts All a man needs is simple gifts, In life it is the simple gifts that can cheer the soul,
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 Lament To The Lightning's
A lament to the Lightning's No more will we see your kind again in the skies of Lincolnshire, What's left of you are just airframes scattered in museums,
A Forest A tree does not make a forest, Forests are not just trees,
The Absent Father
The Absent Father He is just a child, Wondering why he hasn't got a father,
Another Year Passes
Another year passes The old man is sitting in his armchair, Looking out of the window,
The Humble Snail
The Humble Snail
You are always overlooked,
You are disliked by gardeners,
You are just seen as food by the birds.
Yet if we took time to look at your ilk, what would we see?
Would we see all your different species,
Would we see the marvel of nature that you are,