Philip Poems

Dieu Et Mon Droit

"Oh King Charles Philip Arthur George,
how do I see thee?
Let me count the ways...
Tho' beauty is only skin deep,
and in the eye of the beholder,
or so we have been told,
yours is more, it goes to the bone,
a sore sight for eyes to behold,
now you have acceded to the throne.
As, like diarrhoea, it seems,
it runs in the genes,
and, if POTUS is President of the USA,
would you be he, KOTUK,
King Of The UK?"
'Surely you jest,' quoth he in dour reply.
Tho', not joking nor feeling surly,
"Some things you simply can't deny,
ours not to reason why," said I,
"and please don't call me Shirley!"

A day trip to Philip Island

19.01.2025
An amazing day trip to Phillip Island.
Glad it turned out to be a beautiful day.
The weather was fine, so as the blue sky.
The low tides and the wind, 
Together they made gentle waves.
Perfect for swimming and strolling on the sand.
Truly, we were blessed with beautiful place on the Australia land.
Do not forget to embrace the wonderful nature, my dear friends.

The George Inn

January years ago, confused far away I was with the cold.
Landed in Bristol on a snowy  airport, as snowed were the meadows and frosted my mind.
A trip to say hello and goodbye to a beloved one,
taking my hand, she closed her fading eyes into her last sigh. I saw the dark face of life
turning into the beauty of an angel flying.
Sad and freezing with a bag  full of mixed feelings, somebody took us to Norton St Philip in Somerset, just to have some fun. My husband and I were surprised.
Feeling blue we were, but soon the George Inn changed our sorrow into happiness.
Family shared moments for the history of our lives, photos  in the white snow for a new album, nice food and a toast with white wine in the George Inn, made my trip to England a especial memory to be remembered forever in my heart.
 
historic George Inn
~elegance in Somerset~
 locked deep in my soul

Philip Marlowe

He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes 
before he jabbed at me 
with his cynical sarcasm.

He slowly lit his Camel.	
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.

I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.

I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.

A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.

“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”

Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”

I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”

	She took the bait…


Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest

Philip K Dick 2-3-74

At sea
Fish of gold gleams 
Old memories return 
Beam of sunset’s pink light sent from
Valis

Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh

Goodbye, Prince Philip, husband of the Queen, age ninety-nine.
Thank you, for giving up prince hood from Greek and Danish lines.
Thank you, Royal Navyman, for setting prisoners free;
thanks for wildlife protection and awards as D of E.

January 13, 2022

Contest   A Celebrity Epitaph
Sponsor	Michelle Faulkner

He was a patient Prince Philip.

Prince Philip

Prince Philip with his blest* sterling legacy
keeps reigning midst his regal Queen’s history
marked by God-granted tasks of royal duty
championing Britain and its grand monarchy. 

*Ezekiel 46:16 Thus saith the Lord GOD; If the prince give a gift unto any of his sons, the inheritance thereof shall be his sons'; it shall be their possession by inheritance.

January 18, 2022
2nd place, "A Celebrity Epitaph" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Michelle Faulkner; judged on 2/13/2022.

Philip the Inchworm

Philip is an inchworm, he has neither legs nor feet,
He also has no arms or hands like others on his street.
Phil isn’t good at football, and he can’t run round and round.
His hand eye coordination’s missing something quite profound.
He’d like to play a tennis match but can’t for some strange reason,
Golf is just beyond his grasp and will never be in season.
Phil can't do cartwheels, jump, or clap, and rugby's not his forte,
But he's colored like a rainbow, so, who cares if he's not sporty?

Prince Philip

He didn’t make 100
So there’ll be no birthday fest
But the Windsor Castle Chapel
Is where he will lie at rest.

Prince Philip died at 99;
The flags will fly half-mast, 
With ceremonies more subdued
Than in pre-Covid past.

The Queen and all her subjects 
Will join in to mourn the Duke,
The public told to stay away,
Though not with much rebuke.

The question that’s on all our minds,
The answer far from clear,
Is whether Harry and his wife 
Will buck up and appear.

Abide: After Aubade By Philip Larkin

Abide
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide...
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think) .

Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, depression, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, drunkenness, alcohol, addiction, fear, fettle, mettle, Nirvana, solitude, curtal sonnet

Philip

 The piano music is quieter now
He barely hears the tune
His mother’s right beside him
He wonders if she'll ever know
He was just trying to help
Trying to protect his father
Trying so hard
Just trying

He chokes out one last line
The light is dimming now
He wonders how it is, 
To die
He counts one last time
With his mother
Like they used to
One
Two 
Three
Four
Five
Six
 seven

Philip Petit

Phillip, dancer of the skies,
Artist of heaven crosswise.
The god of the twin towers
Made obedient by a wire.
Phillip, a winged man.
Elegant and poetic,
Charming and majestic.
City birds above and city crowds below,
Both couldn't fathom
The celestial waltz above New York he showed.
A horizontal thread spread across the top of the world,
Philip escaped into his creative element
Of balanced beauty and eloquence.
For he was not satisfied
Until he walked along his wire in the sky.

Joan and Philip

You look me over as if you have never seen me.
I am dressed in sackcloth, tied to the pole.
I am St. Joan of Arc, my bones burning me from the inside.
You are the inquisitor; you weigh the verdict in your hands
and pick at your fingernails. Or perhaps you are St. Philip Neri
with the heart too large even ribs fall in the byways.
We will stand next to each other in the Hallelujah Chorus -- 
my soprano to your baritone. You floated off into heaven,
but I burnt to the ground; they gathered my bones for charcoal.

You know, your eyes woke me once in the night
and you shone like Moses' face beneath his womanly veil,
but I, doubting Thomas, could not believe.
Instead, my arms clutched at each other
to drone out the gnashing of teeth.

Inspired By Philip Glass's Violin Concerto, Movement 1

Quiet, pensive, waiting, from out of nothing, a flash, dancing!
Back and fourth, faster, bolder, more beautiful, more radiant…
The sound envelops, and the beauty firmly wraps its hands around my ears…
Relevance and resounding, growing, pulsing, whipped into a fever!
And then easing back just a bit, like a rest to enjoy some perfect nectar of echoes.
Then back again to churn, not with blades, but with brushstrokes.
The pulsing art grabs my soul and I sway to the rhythm, the life, the light…
All around me, so necessary is this, something so pure and powerful.
Flex and twirl in the rays of sunshine, on coming the clouds and thunder!
Pounding out the feeling, the pace is relentless, but in my arms, pushing, harder!
Squeezing ever ounce of love from the air, the earth, the fire and then easing again.
Dripping with sweat, a deep breath, another, still moving but slower now.
More deliberate, but still full and open, slowly, gently, slightly and then quiet.

Philip

Stained glass castle
with teakwood walls
fingers heating up the keys 
sent soulful down the halls
Leather bound book of Paris
from 1928
maps of streets which know your feet
which your return do wait
Scent of Monaco on your sweater
sand from it's beach in your shoes
You're no longer called a traveler
by these cities you chose to peruse
Home is transient sunshine
through the window at the end of the hall
Love is the way you respond to your friends
when at their wit's end they do call
We hope wherever you are
you carry our names as we part
We value your wisdom and count on your friendship
we wear your tattoo on our hearts.

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