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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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My Cat

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

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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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Coronavirus Cinquain

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

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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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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 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.

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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.

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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.

Details | Philip Mygatt Poem

Cellar Holes

We used to hike abandoned roads
O’er which they once hauled heavy loads. 
Roads deserted, now ragged lines
Just deep ruts between the pines.
Stone walls still trace these rugged tracks
Defining paths to there and back.
Meandering trails now no one roams
But long ago they lead to homes
No longer there, those long lost souls 
Their homes in ruins, now cellar holes. 
Just stone-lined pits where homes once stood
Now overgrown with cottonwood.
Whenever we would chance upon 
These silent ghosts of homes long gone
We’d take the time to look around
And find small fragments on top the ground
Shards of china, bricks and nails
Broken bottles, rusted pails
Window glass and hand-forged ware 
Tiny clues of those once there
We’d close our eyes and listen for
The sounds of feet on forest floor
Of children playing where we sat
Of dogs, and chicks, and barnyard cats
Although there’s no one living there
The lilacs’ fragrance still fills the air
The apple trees still fruit each year
Their bounty now enjoyed by deer
The roses bloom though left untended
Day lilies share their beauty splendid
Johnny Jump-Ups still add their glory
To spring’s awaited renewal story
The family gone, their memories faded
Their homestead now by woods invaded 
We pray for those departed souls
For all they left were cellar holes