A man for all seasons,
A well seasoned man.
Creating borders and gardens,
With a well drilled plan.
A natural flair for a detailed scheme,
Hornbeam or Box for that private screen.
Colour and structure always in mind,
Planting for futures and halcyon times.
Dad loved his work with his very full life,
Beautifully supported by his wonderful wife.
A partnership forged, not through coal and steel
But from the ground and earth beneath their heels.
A wonderful wit and great turn of phrase
All I have is admiration and praise.
And so I say with a heavy heart,
My last goodbyes for this final part.
Rest well my Pop in your eternal state
And walk head high through St Peter’s gate.
Is exactly who you are!
There for us all, you are a humble,
shining star.
When feeling down, you stand there
for me?
A humble poet, dedicated first, to
God’s divinity.
Then always, at work, you, serving humanity.
You are some special human, who never complains!
Not even in the midst of emotional rains.
You are the Angel of Poetry Soup!
The Lord placed me, in your caring, friendship loop.
Dedicated to Tom Cunningham!
10-28-2021
…1…
moral tug-of-war
King Henry VIII's divorce-
Sir Thomas no more
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame,
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.