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The Best Philosophy Poems

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Borne upon the air at dusk, dancing ... I have whispered you in a million voices
Still, you descry not my utterance? Listen, yet, for all is precious ...
In the tremble of the plum blossoms - is the tender truth not there?
In the aching sigh of spring-tide, longing for the touch of LIFE

Does my intent not appear ... clearly?
In the hollow goodbye of the passing, placed into cold soil
Or scattered, spinning, on the breeze ... in the belly laugh of a child,
Finding untarnished joy for the first time ... in the bloom of creation

Come to realization on the tip of a slender branch .. hearken yet, close! There!
Feel it ... HEAR it! Within the keen and cold desperation of winter wind ...
Inside the scratchings of fear, black as coal ...
Deep, deep within the horror of oblivion, and the knowledge

That the ONLY thing that endears life to itself, is the LOSS of it ...
Here - here in the breath of silence ... brushed aside, oh so gently,
Like the strands of hair from a baby's forehead in the midst of fever ...
Like a lover painted in moonbeams - lost in moments,

Drowning in the hope that intimacy means something more ...
Like the glint in the eye of a pet, whose owner's caress is everything ...
Like the rusty tears of a madman, doomed,
Shed for the sake of life sacrificed in reclamation ...

Like the warm pulse of lifeblood, coursing ...
Like the wash of phosphorescence on a beach,
Where countless souls were given - sacrificed needlessly
For the aims of self-important fools, half a world away ...

Like the frost on a window, left by the breath of a dying promise ...
Like the shudder of skin, touched by attentive fingertips in passion ...
Like the cold kiss of a friend, lost, set free by the failing of a respirator
A final farewell to an existence of pain ...

Like the face of a dear one, cradled in your palms in the wish for forgiveness ...
I have spoken to you in earnest - across the addled ages,
You have felt my breath warm on your cheek, yet you walk on, careless
You buzz about your life in apathy and indifference,

Searching for integral meaning, when that meaning was yours all the time ...
The preciousness of this existence, is ONLY of such value for two reasons:
It is BRIEF ... and you are mortal ...
Life is the only true gift you are EVER given

And death the unshakable assumption of its worth
Death is ultimate, inescapable ...
But in all its dark disguises, it is the one TRUE element that we require
The one true measure of importance,

And the salvation of all that is good and estimable,
For LIFE is worthless without it ...
Its precious spark, doused with but a breath of limitless value.
I have whispered that to you in a million voices ...

Have you heard me?

~ 1st Place ~ in the "How Precious Life Is" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.

Details | Philosophy Poem |

The Library of Trust and Hope

The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Recording/Re-playing/Recording/Re-playing

The farm
     and the porch light hums 
the sound of another 
orange dawn.

Burnt up – crisp
      aching new reaches 
of the imagination turn 
from corn
      to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.

Sweeping ‘cross in whispers 
two thousand years
      and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble 
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
     and forth - 
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm 
     being heard 
by another set of ears,
in some other when –

     some other marble.

When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth

can grip.

Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
      and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
      where no ears hear.

The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true 
      to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment, 
      lived.

The girl turns to face 
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon 
      the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps 
on the skin
that God gave her; 
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
 
      breathing in the dawn 
as it breaks.

The farm notes this coming.

The sky knows;

The wind knows.

The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
      exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,

breathing through this land; 
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
      and through into another’s
open mouth.




© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09

Details | Philosophy Poem |

H Stands For Human Resources

The Scarlet Letter H

Two Windows The Bridge Thomas Gordon

You could tell, He was an older man
You knew, With a nice smile.
One beside the other. He was always
They were, dressed Impeccably dressed,
In sheer outfits... Impeccably groomed.
One beige, One tan So when it happened,
Both stripped When everyone
identically. Heard it happened,
They had, they have, They were shocked.
Identical panes. His peers liked him,
Every moment His peers respected
Of every day Him. His demeanour
They looked at, Never changed.
The same identical The company was
Outdoor scene. Downsizing.
Every moment Thomas Gordon was
Of every day Deemed redundant.
They looked at, He gathered
The same identical His belongings
Indoor scene. Left immediately,
I suppose Without a word to
one could say Anyone. thirty five
At least one was, Years of his life
It takes a clear thought - a 360% forensic inspection
A battle well fought, to get to an accurate conclusion
At least one is, Ended abruptly. The
Redundant. But, Next day everyone
If you looked deeper Read about him on
These two identical The front page of the
Windows Newspaper. He was
Were, are far from, Trending on the
Redundant. Internet. so when it
When you opened Happened when
Both windows Everyone heard...
And only when He did not go
BOTH were opened Directly home.
An amazing On that fateful day
phenomenon occurred Thomas Gordon ran
A natural, soothing, Into a burning home.
Refreshing, necessary, He saved two lives
Breeze, filled the room. Without a thought
Oxygen to breathe For his own welfare.
They were, They are Apparently
Two windows. Mr. Gordon
Identical?- Yes! Was anything
But redundant?..., BUT redundant.

September 4 2015
Armand

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Desire LOVE Romance

All lovely words
when understood

All so misconstrued
silence envelopes our delusions

Desire, we lust the attention
at the forfeit of philosophy

Love, we crave at Kings expense
	at times
		Sacrificing those whom love us true
			spilling blood at humanities alter

Romance, we desire for loves embrace
knowing serpents sell snake oil remedies

Beware the soft spoken 
cringe when you hear words only a token

Seeking the truth, not platitude
discover love, in those that.........

Breathe actions, not poetic verse

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Shadow of Death

My shadow flirts with the sun
As I caress the darkness
We are one and separate
As my shadow smiles
Anxiety suffocates me
The shadow will soon fade
I shall die
One happy, one not

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Heritage

The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.

Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.

This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.

The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.

A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.

Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.

The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.

At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.

I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.

The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.

Details | Philosophy Poem |

John F Kennedy - Martin Luther King Jr - Robert F Kennedy and Donald Duck

Listen to poem:



it was the sixties
we were young
we were going to change the world
spin it like a basketball on our finger
take the three point shot 
win the game
we had great leaders 
john, robert, martin...

the planet was singing 
with the purity of a four year old
...
The ants go marching two by two;
The little one stops to tie his shoe,
...
then 
it started raining bullets
our optimism soured
slightly at first

and the grassy knoll
and the sniper
and the magic bullet

john was shot 
jackie squirmed
we sat on the edge of our seats

The ants go marching four by four;
The little one stops to shut the door,

John F. Kennedy was assassinated 

The ants go marching five by five;
The little one stops to take a dive,

years had passed, five
look before you dive

the civil rights movement gathered 
to fight for their God given rights
the right to be treated as humans 
exactly that...humans...no more no less.
to listen to the man who had said
"Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon 
which cuts without wounding and ennobles 
the man who wields it. It is a sword that heals."


the man who stood on the hill speaking
"I have a dream today!"

The ants go marching seven by seven;
The little one stops to pray to heaven,

Boom, boom, boom, boom! 

Martin Luther King Jr. was shot 
died

and my God it rained 
it rained salt
as a nation black and white cried

The ants go marching nine by nine;
The little one stops to check the time,

time for the rise of Bobby
Hoorah! Hoorah!

Boom, boom, boom, boom! 

i wish he could have ran faster than the bullets
they murdered John's brother
Robert F. Kennedy was dead

the sixties where almost finished
and i wondered 
if the world would ever be the same
again

I marched away buried my face into the ground
To get out of my pain.

great leaders lost
words that radiated 
radiate hope

America was
the envy of the world

it's two thousand sixteen 
and we have sunk so deep into the dirt

i know we can't Trump this disaster 
have you ever heard of fools gold
we have a choice
our lives count

remember the ants
nature's banner is blowing in the wind

don't make
the little one shout
"THE END!!" 




March 16 2016
armand

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Poetry in Poetry a Duet of Lonely Blues

Poetry

Is not the poem
Is not the poet

Is the observations
Is the emotions

Is the diversity. entwined
Opposing views always sought

Is the love
Is the hate

Is the sadness
Of losing to fate

Is the laughter
Of a child’s dreams

Is the love
That is sometimes unseen

Except by the poet
Who in his lonely sadness sees

The beauty of all
That surrounds the depression in he



In Poetry

I died
Long ago

My heart something broke
I became cold

I cried
For childhood days gone by

I died
A million ways

Now I write
From down below

Where darkness is the sea
That I sail in eternity

Of in the distance
I heard the notes of a symphony

So now as I sleep
A thousand deaths

I hope
For that one musical note

To wake me up
Heart and soul

Details | Philosophy Poem |

A Question of Love

Loves promenades towards emptiness
	longing is a void
darkness of a million universes
where mythical black holes
chant of timeless desires

Yearning for carnal eternity
where candles never die


Two of us
	never met
	oceans apart
	gasping for affections
	in different times
	winds may have swept
	this way or that
	never seen

Wind and candle lie in death
so lost
in emptiness

Details | Philosophy Poem |

The Sum of a Life

This life we're living
Is so unforgiving
Reminding us every day
Of games that we played
Choices we made
Dreams that faded away
Paths that were crossed
Loved ones we've lost
Still promising a brighter tomorrow
When that promise is broken
Our wounds rip back open
Leaving hope to drown in deep sorrow

From our very first breath
We're stalked by death
We live our lives in fear
Knowing well it won't last
So we live loose and fast
Look up and the days have become years
We add peace, subtract strife 
Find the sum of a life
Discover we've love left for giving
Love that goes wasted 
On the bitterness tasted
In a life so unforgiving





  by Daniel Turner

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Shattering Rose Glasses

Uncomplicated me
I thought I was coloured blind
free thinking and kind
with an evolved mind
Loving and accepting 
of the ones I find

Yet my blindness 
Is that of privilege
I'm just a visitor
in the Global village
From my narrow thin mind
there is too much spillage

Although so many
are forced from their homes
My life seems carefree 
I am deaf to the groans
Brown women wearing veils
that can't protect them from stones

I live in a white washed place
No "Freedom Marches"
for men of a different race
Yet, if I look back and trace
there are darker stories to face
We all took part in shameful things
Yes, we share in the disgrace.

Highways of tears
Rivers of shame
There's always 
someone else to blame
Residential schools
Each child got a new name
They were forced to forget
the place from where they came

Prisons filled
with black and red skinned men
They can't forget
this now or that then
Promises and promises
but who how and when
Or will their children
have to live it all over again

So yes
No longer colour blind
With the opening of my mind
I let colour seep in
Starting somewhere different
today I  begin
Because I know
it shouldn't be
just the privileged who win!

For SKAT's premiere contest.

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Why oh Why Seren Roberts and Tim Smith

Why oh Why

A Collaboration between Seren Roberts, Tim Smith and Arthur Vaso

Poem inspired by Seren Roberts

Each poem written from a different view
The Murderer
The Murdered
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime


Why of Why
Lovers Die
Mannequins Cry


Sat, with his head in his hands
Remembering how love had once been,
Now, because of his stupidity 
He was on his own, solitary again

Remembering, how love had been,
Behind the bars he now calls home
He was on his own as before and again,
Realizing, he was such a petty bitter fool

Behind the bars he now calls home
His mind, aflame with tears of regret
Realizing he was an utter fool,
To have stabbed her to death in a bloody pool

 His mind aflame, with deep regret
 Why... did he buy a knife that day...why?
 To have stabbed her to death
 Cause she had given love another try.

Oh how he wishes, its he that had died


Lovers Die

I linger with the scent of flowers
cascading over what was once spring showers

Your red hands drip   passion
long since cooled
darkness surrounding you has lifted
and only I can see the light

Why couldn't you leave
a girl clamoring to be free
dressed in a burnt orange skirt
driven to the stake with your hurt

Words were written on the wall
but all you did was erase it all
Twisted   as the knife turns
in a cell    your hell burns


Mannequins Cry

We have no faces
We have no voices
You think we have no feelings
You see us as objects in commercial spaces

We saw the hidden knife unfold
We saw the young ones stabbed so bold
Pain is the emotion that frightens us all
Mannequins crying, tears running as we see her crawl
 
When the blood flowed
When the redness of hate showed
We with no faces
Shed tears at the human disgraces

Such young love so brutally robbed
By the jealous and lonely one, made us all sob
He regrets I am sure the hate that overflowed
Life's so torn it can't be sown

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Door to Nowhere

Door to Nowhere


Royalty have Chateau’s
With moats and drawbridges

Artists have colors
Paints and brushes and dreams

The poor have soup
And Marie's gateau’s

The lonely have open doors
To nowhere

I let my baguette go hard and stale
So I could stab myself with nourishment

As my blood flows slowly
Through that door with no hope

I with no rope, fade away

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Burning Flame Of Life

Arise and fall; the cycle of life; birth and death are human plight.

A life is lit and it burns short; when matches struck bring in discord.

Flames burn dim or bright; many deny, their own bright light.

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Nothing to write about

I would like to talk about "nothing"
It is a most peculiar word
I have heard it used so often
The way it's used  is often absurd 
I'm told there's "nothing" to worry about
Yet I worry about "nothing" for days
I try to stop worrying about "nothing"
and why "nothing" inside my head ever stays

There isn't another word for "nothing"
With "nothing" only "nothing" can compare
When a woman speaks about all her clothing
How is it possible she has "nothing" to wear
When she tells me I'm "nothing" short of amazing
What in the world does that "nothing" mean
If that "nothing" is really something
If I look will that "nothing" be seen

We are told that everything comes from "nothing"
A "nothing" theory that lacks evidence
A Big Bang and a boom from a "nothing"
If an explosion is something  
Is that why "nothing" makes sense
So if "nothing" in the end becomes "something
Then "nothing" is "nothing" at all
Just a word that causes confusion 
 "nothing" can be big or quite small

If "nothing" can separate us from God's love
Please keep "nothing" away from me
For if I settle for "nothing"
It will separate me from eternity
So you can see why "nothing" is a problem
I am "nothing" if I can't be me
"Nothing" in the end is perplexing
For "nothing" is a mystery!

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Tangible

What things does one possess
at journey's end?
What bits and bobs? What trivial tripe?
Please, do tell, what is the hype?
For should I recall anything at all
of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
it would be the warmth of a companion's smile;
his hand in mine, while on this earth for a while.
The tickle of a tide brushing against tiny toes,
while the whisper in the wind, tells me all she knows.
Should I gaze at gems, pearls, rubies, emeralds--
Forsake the wisdom of the solid for the beauty of the temporal?
Should I throw caution to the wind, like seeds for the birds,
or stick to what I know - the solemnity of the written word.
Of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
be there anything at all worthy of my recall?
Happiness, Peace, Love and Joy -
these remained to be my one and only lot.
These intangible things more valuable by far
than gold and silver ingots.
At journey's end I stopped to ponder,
in the cloudless starlit night,
about the heavens and her wonder;
I was struck by sudden insight:
the lightness of the moon
suspended in air,
and the weight of a mere thought
that put it there.

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Whiners

I write poems because it's fun
And I'm not the only one
It's an outlet for verbal expression
A hobby and not an obsession

I'm an amateur, not a pro
Thankful there's someplace to go
Where others like myself
Can write without seeking wealth

An opportunity for me to learn
Gain confidence in return
Friendly contests sharpen my skills
Winning is a personal cheap thrill

Not everyone feels the same
For people like me, that's a shame
They're always causing dissension
Complaining and seeking attention

In their high chair, they bang their spoon
Grown men crying childish tunes
The food that once filled their belly
To them is now tasteless and smelly

I say, find another place to eat
Let us amateurs compete
Nobody's making you stay
You don't play well with others, anyway

Bland food doesn't suit your palate
Over here you're wasting your talent
Why stay here and eat slop
Since your talent's so over the top

Details | Philosophy Poem |

A Former Great Nations Squandered Wealth I

Swept up into piles; everywhere 
Abouts; in collected heaps all 
Around.               
It is almost as if the drab 
Streets were strewn with the 
Precious wealth of King Solomon's 
Gold!                                    
How it seems so far back, when, at 
Springs nagging behest, those
Cautious tips, encouraged by 
Warming beguilement of new winds, 
Gingerly unwound                         
To reveal those never-before-seen 
Leaves;                               
But their sap, like my zest, has 
Run dry;
Shuffling disconsolately to and fro 
As those of us, that, in our 
Unnoticed maudulin, have grown 
Steadily more old:-  
As if Hardrada's slain warriors,
Covered by their cracked shields, 
Lifeless and fallen they lie.                              


A flock of racquous Starlings,
Scuttering downwards, noisily
Alight
On the stripped branchs of a 
Diminished and abject tree;
Although a sizeable band, growing
Daily, hardly a paused murmuration 
Dropped from flight...
Now I know another Autumn is 
Nearly done.
I note the resounding emptiness of 
The wide avenue compares favorably 
With the compressed and leaden sky;
The sudden intervention of an 
Appealing thought, and it occurrs
To me,
That, if I were as swift as 
Fleet-footed Leonidas then maybe
I too, this desperate day,
Could outstrip the retreating
Shadows of this disconsolate Sun?


Alas...I am aging with every
Approaching Winter, pattern 
Baldness spreading across my 
Thinning crown;
A body can feel a cold dampness in 
This sort of air...
Then - an involuntary shiver! 
Perhaps unwelcomed memories of
Many a wasted year...
Thinks I with a rueful frown;
In the minds eye a glimpse 
Of the ferocious Wolf slipping 
Quietly through the half-open gate -
Here he once roamed in all his
Perfect savagery!
And, standing admidst the vestiges
Of a former great nations 
Squandered wealth, to which 
many sentimental hearts still 
Adhere,
To wonder what the patient Saxon
Should make at the sight of such 
Frenzied lameness...
The ruination of this his once 
Untamed and wild estate?


That ancient Saxon full knew.             
He knew of cruel hardship, of all  
Essential things that so engaged 
Him,                                    
His pressing needs, his Thanes 
Daily bread;
Though of heady aspirations...he   
Had but few.                                    
He knew of the devastaing blight 
Of sweltering drought,
He knew of the tipped rivers 
Flooding swell;                         
But the old Saxon? ...he just 
Re-doubled his efforts - and took it 
Manfully on the chin!                            
For when the hardy Saxon undertook
To do a job it would usually happen 
That he did it well.                                      
 

And what of his countless, long since
Ignored, secluded and wooded dells, 
His dusky, hollowed glades?
Deep inside: trapped sunlight still 
Floating liken a glassed surface 
Upon a pond;
Once, therein, that Saxons 
All-consuming hours taken up by the 
Resounding crunch of the ever eager 
Blade!
And were it truly ever was this
Humongous supposed repository
For Englands "Green Man"? Ditto 
For the fabled Unicorn recorded 
By the minstral balladeer's 
Luteing song;
Ancient Greeks did say that only
The gentle and pensive maiden
Had the power to coax such a 
Timid beast: one of many wild
Wraiths, emblazoned on many a regal 
Shield, that do unashamedly beguile 
Throughout our legendary history!                                      


Our mundane present now a sad 
Parody of melancholic destitution; 
As if a Summer laid to rest...and, 
Thus, finally, we reluctantly 
Grieve.
The dismal plink, plink, plinks
Of trickling water dripping into
The roadside drain;
If that stoic Saxon had any woes 
He would have no time to lend to
Idle moments wasted dawdling 
Among dead leaves.
Where now Wodan, his many other
Gods? His charioteering tales and 
Warring stories not even 
Half-forgotten memories that only
Befuddled minds of lunatics might 
Mutter.
How resplendant the rusting gasworks
Appears, as, behind her looming tanks, 
Sol's disintegrating orb wearily 
Slinks;
Who would deny, at such instants, 
Much dimming beauty can be found... 
Even inside a crowded towns huddled
Clutter.


The low streetlamps, mounted like 
Matt pearls, beginning, cautiously, 
To reignite;
Predictably this awakens some 
Roosting birds...some of which,
Dutifully, begin to sing.
A muddled obliqueness, inherent
On varying angles, converging
On the temporary juxtapositions 
Invented by the electric bulbs 
Deceitful light;
And although I have never felt much 
Of a compulsion towards sentimental 
Reminiscing, 
Or to seek solace in the comforting 
Familiarity of a mothers 
Romantic recollections, to which we 
All sometimes cling, 
I grope like a blind man...as if 
Reaching out into the foaming 
Darkness intent on finding 
Something essentially quintessential 
That I instinctively sense is so 
Oddly missing.




To be continued...

Details | Philosophy Poem |

Therefore

You think I see no God - therefore
I cannot gasp at miracles?
In fact, each day I marvel more.
You think I see no God, therefore
The mystery of an atom’s core
Cannot be wildly spiritual?

You think I see no God, therefore
Earth’s beauty’s all but lost on me?
In fact, each day I wonder more.
You think I see no God, therefore
The warm smell of a forest floor
The song of waves upon the shore
Or spring’s exuberant décor
Don’t fire my philosophy?

You think I see no God, therefore
I cannot feel morality? 
In fact, each day I feel it more.
You think I see no God, therefore 
The things I value and deplore
Are lesser, as they come from me? 

It’s true I see no God - therefore
My faith lies in humanity,
In light, and mass, and gravity -
And every day, I marvel more.



31 May 2018

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