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Best Brian Cosgrove Poems

Below are the all-time best Brian Cosgrove poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Brian Cosgrove Poem

The Forest Pool

   



           The Forest Pool

The flowing stream paused to rest
Refraining from its urgent quest
To rush ever faster at the Worlds bequest

I too watch the Forest pool
And wonder if the worlds a fool
Is it not just a bigger pool

Where can peace be found more free
Where such beauty do we see
Would not all here long to be
Beside the Forest pool


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Mountain Stream

                                                               

                                       

                                MOUNTAIN   STREAM


                                
                        Mountain stream  oh!  Mountain stream.
                        Tell me; tell me; where you’ve been.	
.                       What you’ve seen, and what you’ve heard       
                        And I will whisper, not a word. 

                        You have heard the songbird’s chorus.
                        Dimmer now than yesterday.
                        Voices, voices in the ripples.
                        But I know not what they say.

                        You have known the mount in winter,
                        Known its steely icy grip.
                        Felt the rain and sleet and snow.
                        Tell me tell me what you know.

                        Of mountains high and rivers deep,
                        Of waterfalls and canyons steep.
                        Of natures calm and fury sweep,
                        Through mountain storms,
                        When no man sleeps. 

                        I see the wonder and the beauty,
                        As ever onwards you do go.
                        But what you say we’ll never know.
                        As onwards to the sea you flow





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A Man from Gallilee

           
                      A  Man from Gallilee

              I met a man the other day
             Said he would take my sins away
             He opened eyes and made the blind to see
             And  said  he would be a friend to me

             He was a Man from Gallilee 
             He was a Man from Gallilee

             The strangest man I had ever known
             Said the end from the beginning was known
             And he knew I would be here
             Said beware for the end is near

             He was a Man from Gallilee
             He was a Man from Gallilee

            Went to the Temple for to pray
            Chased the traders all away
            How dare you treat this Temple so
            All this trash will have got to go 

            He was a Man from Gallilee
            He was a Man from Gallilee

            Who was this man from Gallilee
            This man that’s known to you and me
            This man was JESUS – The Son of God
            NOT just a man from Gallilee



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Thunder

Thunder

Nightly crashing thunder
Blundering through the streams of my sleep
Lifting me from the valley of my dreams
Plunderer of my sleeptime
Invader of my dreams
Destroyer of my nightly slumber

From behind the closed blinds of my eyelids
The lightning demands to be seen
The rain on my rooftop insists on being heard

This family of rowdy bullies, absorbing my
night into their play
I do wish they’d go away 


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Your kiss from Heavan

                            Your Kiss from Heavan

               Daddy how do I catch a raindrop
               When the rain just won't stop
               How do I catch moonbeams
               When nothing is there it seems
               How do I catch today Daddy
               And put it in a bottle
               Darling, no-one can catch time 
               And put it in a bottle
               Moonbeams are the memories
               Forever in your dreams
               Raindrops are your Kiss from Heavan
               That gives you Gods own seal
               That Rainbows are the promise
               And memories are for real


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Poetry

                  Poetry

Poetry offers a medium where
The timid can enter unafraid
It opens doors where you have never been
Allows you to exercise thoughts that seem
Out of order to the stilted mind
Where you can tread on hallowed ground
Ignore the traditions, rules and be unbound
To express your deepest held ideas
Outside the confines of right and wrong
Nothing is out of bounds to the brave
All is open to one who craves
Journeys into the mind, but please be kind
To the timid who too would fly
If they too could find the way
Into that land of freedom writers
Into a place of release to the troubled mind
Poetry can heal, mend and strengthen 
And release the chains that bind the bonded soul
Allowing the release of memories to mourn 
And enjoy the past, give yourself permission to cry
Open that door, find release and let the sunshine in

Sorry, Am I preaching to the converted


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The Demise of a Good Keen Man

 
                               The Demise of a Good Keen Man

                The Good Keen Man was a hunter in Government employ
                He lived back in the Bushland where none could annoy
                He had no use for compasses or modern stuff like that.
                He needed only the sun that shone upon his back
                Caring not what day it was, for it mattered less
                Than if the sun was shining or if the bush was wet.
                You might think that he, was not so very bright 
                But compare your life with his, and see him in the light
                That his Back Country hut asked no rent or fee 
                And he owned all the land that his eye could see
                There were fish in the river and meat on the hill
                Working not to a time clock, he came and went at will
                He carried a pack upon his back and never asked for more
                Than an audience of one or more, and a beer as he entered the door
                He had an endless stock of stories, both true and make believe
                For by his own admission, truth he could take or leave
                But the world is that much poorer for the loss of such as he
                For characters are fewer in this world where nothings free



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Mountain Hut


        
                              Mountain Hut

There is a mountain hut I know
Nestled away from rain and snow
I’m always welcome when I go
For we are known from long ago
Here where the trees I know by name
Where all for sure will be the same
When life is changing ever fast
It’s nice to find that some things last
The smell of the bush
The evening hush
Mighty man with humble grace
All are welcome in this place
It’s raining on the tin roof
As if I needed further proof
That sheltered here away from storms
A feeling of oneness that forms
A mountain man at home up here
That we could lose this place I fear
For future hunters, this I ask
Protect this heritage that it might last
Honouring the memories of Hunters past


 


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The Mountain Hare

 The Mountain Hare

Happy is the mountain hare
Living high on mountain air
Oh! To be so free of care
Going here or maybe there
Times a nonsense long forgot
Rather is it cold or is it hot                                                                              

A care free wanderer on our mounts
and long aware what really counts
We who slave from dawn to dusk
To achieve what turns again to dust
Would that I could stay right there
But then I’m not a mountain Hare 




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Memories to Cherish

                            
                      
                         Memories to Cherish

              Down in the valley, I know an area of forest 
              with a small stream running by.   
              Dappled sunlight paints the moss covered forest floor
              A quiet, peaceful, magical area.
              Nature’s garden clothed in shades of green and gold

              I recall this valley in early morn, white with frost, 
              With snow covering the mountaintops,      
              A surreal stillness grips the valley
              Even the river is hushed 
              As all life awaits the warming of the morning sun.
              Nature’s garden clothed in shades of blue and white


              I remember a lowland riverbed, the shingle covered in 
              the gold of Californian poppies.
              Nature’s garden here clothed in orange and gold, 
              An untamed reserve on this part of the plains, 
              Shared by rabbits, bird life and predators, 
              A land apart from the sterile wire enclosed fields  
              These plains now devoid of the character of gorse fences
              And Manuka stands that once flourished here
              All is not progress in our land 


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