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Best Poems Written by Philip Mygatt

Below are the all-time best Philip Mygatt poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Watching Amos Plowing With Horses

“Howdy Amos”, “Howdy Seth”, without a glance.
Amos t’aint much for words as he stares straight ahead
His gaze as straight as his furrows.
Amos is what you might call a “deep thinker”.
I watch as he bounces up and down on the plow hitch
The bells on his mighty Percherons jingling with each practiced step
As they perform their timeworn ballet with Amos their choreographer.
I wonder what Amos is thinking and then I remember our last conversation.
Did I say Amos t’aint much for words?
Well, it seemed as though his “word dam” had finally overflowed
As he told me about the girl he met 
At the Limerick Town Hall dance last Saturday night.
He said he watched the most wonderful girl in the world dance with every guy
Who was standing in line for their turn listening
To the out-of-tune piano player and drummer 
Who called themselves the Limerick Two.
During the band’s first break, she came over to where Amos was sitting.
Smiling, she introduced herself as Irene from just down the street.
Amos didn’t disappoint her because, as usual, he was at a loss for words,
But he was a “deep thinker” 
And he was thinking she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
“Would you like to dance?” She asked. Amos just nodded his head.
Amos was the last guy she danced with that night
As Irene's waiting line kept getting longer and longer.
Amos said his feet didn’t touch the ground as he walked home
To West Newfield late that night.
Amos t’aint much for words, 
But when he speaks, his words, though few, are poetic.
As I watch Amos plowing with horses, I know what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking about next Saturday night and his first dance with Irene.  
I turn my back and continue my journey,
The sounds of the great Percheron’s bells fading in the distance
As Amos continues plowing with horses and dreaming of Irene.

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Coronavirus Cinquain

Sniffles
Throbbing headache
Coronavirus signs
Or just an ordinary cold?
Who knows?

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My Cat

My cat
The sneaky one
Walks across my keyboard
Spelling words that only he knows
LARPTY?

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November's Lament

Last night before I went to bed
I thought I heard “the hawk” a’callin’
Crying out that autumn’s fled
And soon I’d see the snow a’fallin’

All through the night the windows rattling
Proclaiming nature’s forces battling
And when I woke I saw firsthand
Through frosty panes a wonderland

Of snow-draped trees and fields a’glimmer
Autumn’s colors now draped in white
Revealed by morning’s dawning light
Made landscapes prance and shimmer

Tree’s shadows drooped with chilled defiance
Delaying Winter’s restful slumber
Till Spring awakens sleeping giants
And begins anew Spring’s untold wonder

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The Cowboy In Me

The cowboy in me always rides on a horse
Wearing six guns, crisp blue jeans and always, of course
My boots and my hat and a fancy white shirt
Though my job is quite risky, I never get hurt.

My ranch is gynormous, it’s so big in fact
It takes me all day to get there and back.
And when I get home all safe and all sound
It really feels good when my feet hit the ground

High in my saddle, my horse at a trot
I see cattle, coyotes and really a lot
Of rabbits and sheep and antelope, too
Too many to count, it’s just like a zoo.

I ride on the range most every day
Through rain and through snow and I honestly say
That I never get cold and I never get wet
But sometimes I’m hungry and I often regret
Not eating my breakfast before I ride off
With a stomach that’s empty but that isn’t enough
To make me stay home and do I need mention
There are critters out there than need my attention?

My dog, Rex, rides with me, my constant companion
Running beside as we search Mystery Canyon
A place that’s so spooky it gives me the willies
But my Mom laughs at me, says I must have the sillies

To think there’s a place such as this on my ranch
But she never rides with me, so there isn’t a chance
That she knows all my secrets, the places I roam
But ‘til that day comes, she can just stay at home

I count all my cattle, one steer at a time
But I lose count at nine-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine
Then I start over beginning at one
Do you think that my counting will ever be done?

If you think counting cattle is really that hard
Just look at the sky and try counting stars
Or perhaps you could even try counting some sheep
But when I do that, it always puts me to sleep

When I sit by the campfire and play my guitar
The coyotes all listen and howl from afar
They seem to enjoy the songs that I’m playing
And I imagine them out there dancing and swaying

To the music that’s drifting through the lovely night air
As the crickets join into this merry affair
And soon we’re all singing the songs that we love
As we watch shooting stars in the dark sky above

Oh, what a life that a young cowboy leads
Fulfilling his fantasies, fulfilling his needs.
A great big adventure and a comfort to know.
It’s an adventurous life that he’ll never outgrow

And maybe you’ll join him as he rides on the range
I’m sure you’d enjoy it; it’s nothing he’d change.
But sadly that day will just have to wait
‘Cause on his next birthday, he’ll only be eight!

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The Spider and the Fly - An Aesop Fable Retold

The thread of love and understanding that grows thin with distance is very fragile 
Unless anchored well at both ends.
Just as a spider weaves her web with but a few anchors to support her beautiful creation, so must love be built.
But, as a spider lovingly starts over if her web is destroyed by whim or nature, man or beast, so must love be built.
Sometimes she begins anew in the same place.
Yet, sometimes not.

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Walking Town Lines

There is a custom in New England
For each town to well define
The boundaries ‘tween adjoining neighbors
By walking down their common line.

Lines firm for ages, lines well agreed
And yet somehow they feel the need
To get together each seven years 
To walk together and calm their fears

That markers set had crept unseen
And moved the lines that lay between
And yet the walkers always find
The lines intact and ease their mind

Towns connected, the bounds secure
Confirming lines as they once were
Friendly neighbors depart their peers
To meet again in seven years.

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The Weary Farmer

Though dawn has yet to break upon
Dim fields on distant moonlit rise
Already stirs the restless herd
Soon welcoming dawn’s crimson skies. 

Through windows lit by twinkling lamps
The farmer’s tasks have just begun
Another day to work, not play
Beneath the blazing noonday sun.

Cruel winter past, warm spring at last
With fields and gardens to renew
As all new seasons add new reasons
For adverse ledgers to accrue 

The farmer works in quiet fervor
Next winter already on his mind
Seldom ending chores attending
The weather and his fate entwined 

Tasks seem never ending, 
Fences always needing mending
Sparse returns for his hard labor.
No lagging now with fields to plow
No help from his far distant neighbor

From day to day, all seems the same
Monotony his constant friend
Yet tomorrow brings another day,
When this one gains its weary end.

Details | Philip Mygatt Poem

My Life In Sevens - Part Three

I am twenty-one.
It’s a hot, summer day in 1963.
I’m in Lubbock, Texas, at Reese Air Force Base
And I’m climbing the ladder into a supersonic T-38 jet.
The parachute strapped to my back is cumbersome.
I can feel the sweat running down my legs.
Settling into the ejection seat, I strap myself in,
Attach my G-suit to its umbilical cord,
Connect my oxygen mask, microphone and headphones
To their nearby connections.
I am exhilarated as the plane and I are becoming one.
Yet, I am the master and it will faithfully follow my commands.
I start through my lengthy checklist,
And as I power up each engine,
I feel my supersonic rocket ship coming to life.
The engines’ whine reverberates through my headphones
As the instrument panel comes alive
And the myriad of needles jump and stabilize in unison.
I signal the plane captain to remove the chocks.
He salutes me and I smartly respond.
A gentle nudge of the two throttles starts us on our way.
I close the canopy and turn on the air conditioning.
A cold mist blows out of the vents.
I take my mask off and smell it to make sure it’s not smoke.
It never is.
I pull down my helmet’s visor
And tune the radio to the ground control channel.
My headphones come alive with air traffic chatter.
I can see other T-38’s in the distance taking off and landing,
Gracefully, like giant storks swooping down to earth
And then back up again.
I eagerly await my chance to join the flock
As I feel in complete synergy with my exquisite flying machine.
Now it’s my turn as I pull onto the runway. 
I press down hard on the brakes
As I push the throttles forward
And check my engines’ instruments
For the thousandth time.
I focus on the centerline ahead of me
As I release the brakes
And push the throttles into full afterburner.
I feel them rather than hear them
As they explode behind me 
Leaving a trail of angry, red hot flames.
Their force pushes me back into my seat
As I accelerate down the runway like a dragster.
I pull back on the stick and feel the wheels leave the ground.
We’re airborne!
Gear up, flaps up, as the ground quickly recedes beneath us.
I point the nose upwards and we head to thirty-thousand feet.
My rocket ship and I are happy.
I am smiling.
Life is good.

Details | Philip Mygatt Poem

A Nation Divided

A nation divided, its fabric ripped to shreds
Like a clipper ship’s sails in a hurricane
Its rudder wrenched from its stern
Leaving its course to the mercy of its abuser
The fate of its crew dependent on its strength
And its ability to weather the storm 
To once again sail proudly and majestically
Over the treacherous seas of public opinion.