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Best Maggie Munro Poems

Below are the all-time best Maggie Munro poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Maggie Munro Poems

Details | Maggie Munro Poem

Amazing

Outside my place, I heard a sound 				
it thrust deep into me, 					
my head was lost in thoughts profound,				
confined, but now I’m free.						

The music woke my heart to hear				
what scarce my ears perceived,					
those sweet, faint notes, on breezy air 				
as bagpipes’ throats were squeezed.						

Drawn closer, was I, to the bar,			
my head was feeling numbed,			
my hand it craved the whisky jar,		
to Scotland I succumbed!			

The pipers’ band came near to stand,		
my tears, I could not stay,		
yon pipes I love, but they’re most grand,	 	
when heard from far away.		


Details | Maggie Munro Poem

The Ripening

I picture you, 
opening the door,
walking up the orchard rows,
in the caramel of evening light.
A giant’s shadow peers at you
 from in between the trees,
 trudging silently with you
 as you lift the sun-warm fruit,
cup in one work-seasoned hand
an apple, rich and scarlet ripe.

I picture you, 
opening your door,
treading the dew drenched grass,
the raucous song of wattle birds 
spritzing the crisp dawn air.
Your hands busied at the basket
gently placing, one by one,
harvest fixed by darkness chill,
all glossy, sweet and unblemished.

I picture you, 
opening my door, 
singing to the hallway ceilings, 
eyes creased deep in blissful smile,
tide of sunshine flooding in with you,
the giant heralding you in silence
as you tenderly bestow
a joyous gift for all seasons,
proud and precious gems of autumn.


Details | Maggie Munro Poem

Colourblind

Philosophers assure us
that it’s all a state of mind,
from every thought that’s in our head
to the boil on our behind.

They say we are not truly real,
that all life is illusion,
but if there is no life or death
I can’t reach my conclusion.

So I’ll just stick to simple thoughts,
of laughter, love and bed,
for what’s the point of being Blue 
when it’s more fun seeing Red?


Details | Maggie Munro Poem

The Keepsake

No sculpted stone or shade on deckle page,
no canvas daub or etch in verdigris,
no crystal flash or scrap of celluloid
can portray the simple candour of our age.

For an image made or captured in our time,
singular, or blended in the frame
can muster potency, but ne’er enough
to, this precious entity, confine.