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Best Poems Written by Peter Fifield

Below are the all-time best Peter Fifield poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Peter Fifield Poem

I have stared at this page for too long now;
time urges me to relinquish my thoughts.
So this is it then; my last great poem; this mouth of silence and heart clotted with failure has reached the no more of me.
I’m dying in my heart; my vague clusters of verses are now a sad heaviness.
I’ve given everything I’ve got, but now the words are all gone; gone like a faint spirit lost to memory.
To be or not to be is not the question, for the pain of being supersedes the revelation of not to be.
My authority over verse has succumbed to the limitations of my greatest desire.
My words were once like Butterflies rushing towards you,
and you marveled at them as they absorbed into you;
and you felt their beauty with your heart, and you understood how the flight of their individuality settled into the oneness of poetry.
Once, my verses were full and strong and certain,
with perfection at the core of their meaning.
The hunger to write one more poem has all but left me.
All is lost. New poems will not take root when watered with the tears of yesterday.
Death will not know of my struggle.
There is nothing in me to consume the wonder in you; I am tired, and will now cease my dreaming.
This is the last great poem I’ll ever write. Time has consumed all the fire in my heart…
and all the verbs and nouns in my brain.
I’m breaking down now, for I’m at a loss for words to say; (good-bye.)
this last great poem that I’ve just written, makes you remember me…
BUT! Please don’t cry.

Details | Peter Fifield Poem

On Days Like This

On days like this when I’m doused in grey
and I fear I’ll not see the sun;
I wish I could just secret myself away
until this dreary day be done.
Even the lake somehow seems sad
at this day’s imperfection.
I sit her disappointed and mad
for the lake has lost all its reflection.
No mountain top can be seen through the cloud,
there’s only a lone Sea gull high on the wing.
Today I do not know what will be allowed,
It is a most worrisome and troubling thing.
I sit here waiting for Heaven’s down pouring
With no hope of seeing the sun;
Off in the distance thunder is roaring,
Oh why can’t this dreary day be done?

All suddenly, a patch of blue pries open the sky,
then there’s a hint of blue peaking through.
I close my eyes and thankfully sigh
as the ceiling above me turns all blue.

Tonight heaven displays her sequined gown,
All my uncertainties have been erased.
Every star in heaven is shining down,
and each one my joyous eyes have traced.
A full moon arc across the shimmering night
and it sets my wondering mind to yearning.
It truly is a spectacular and glorious sight
to witness it in its constant turning.

I rise and bid farewell to today’s display,
I am truly a happy and contented soul.
Tomorrow I will not question the day,
I will sit, and once again play my role.

Details | Peter Fifield Poem

He Grows In His Garden

He grows in his garden porcelain lips; kisses for the rain.
And the flowers wanted to look out, so he planted a window pane.
He grew a shiny crystal eye; to wink at the sun.
And a thing to keep the prowlers out, so he made the gate to look like a gun.
He rooted there a metal clown; entertainment for the flowers.
And just so time would not make a fuss, an hour glass to sift away the hours.
He sprouted silver branches there, for the tired birds of June.
And an awesome golden harp is planted, in hopes the wind would play a tune.
He grew this magnificent china bird; to tease the worms.
And there by the gate a rubber mouse; insurance against the pachyderms.
And for all to see, a green jade thumb; ask not for what or why.
He grows these things, smart or dumb, to entertain a roving eye.

Details | Peter Fifield Poem

This Page

This page is my temporary fate;
a place for my perfect truths.
This wide sheet of daring,
a refuge for my leaping thoughts.
I shall assail it with a fury
from my melancholy heart.

This page is a smooth sallow glacier;
the head-waters of my expressions.
What unanswerable flow of words will it allow?
What trickle of relief will be pulled from its meandering?
I shall drown this page in a pool of frothy words.

This page is a span of colorless distraction;
a setting for ones inquisitive gestures.
What wisdom will it hold between its unguarded borders/
I shall deposit my unravelled thoughts with an ooze of black ink.

All night long my pen is a beacon to entice these drunken 
and perplexed voices from the foam of this lager;
from the grief that splashes from my eyes.
My pen charts this sea of turmoil
where this anguish sinks into the froth of my mind.

Details | Peter Fifield Poem

I Am Who This Poem Is Making

I am who this poem is making;
this shy monster beginning to understand
that in life one must release the roar. 
I must surrender to this nameless moment; this consequence of destiny waiting
for the impatient clouds of spring to turn the seasons.
No tomorrow no yesterday, just this naked awakening.
I have dressed myself with this veil of my obligation. I have
drawn it about me like the calmer clouds of June and it is everywhere inside of 
me. I am this silent joy, like summer clouds crumbling to the vague voice of 
autumn sun. I am
poet, poem, poetry, drifting freely like the lonely clouds of autumn not yet 
possessed by that harsher reality.
I am who this fading verse has made and all it has done is meaningless...

Best Poems Written by Peter Fifield

Black Death

Missing My Wife

Awakening

Today

Embarking

Last Great Poem

On Days Like This

He Grows In His Garden

This Page

I Am Who This Poem Is Making