Details |
Patrick Islington Poem
Beneath the eyebrows, windows.
When I was a child- fresh of life;
Seasons flew past my watching,
Mountains of newness grew before me-
-And I conquered Everest...
Ran like the wind,
Now;
Taken like an autumn leaf-
Weathered and ready for composting;
They give us mood, gesticulation;
Always moving, eyes are on us-
Tell me a story of your ways; what did you see?
Just now or many years ago.
Windows-
To earth, arriving home
Sitting on its clay- waiting
Watching-
Beneath the eyebrows,
Through windows fixed once,
So I could continue to see my view;
A way of life- real and lived in full.
These I will leave to watch over you,
My spirit and soul are my vision now.
Copyright © Patrick Islington | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Patrick Islington Poem
A final letter from the heart my love
You sat in Vermeer’s room, maid by side;
As daylight positioned at your writing place,
Decanted through the stained glass view-
Where she did stand; there; observing
Those that came and went.
Your quill did match your heart that morn’
For it beat your breasts with all your love
As the busy conquests drew to a close.
Waiting there, as long as those drapes hung,
That very room where once, you tasted intimacy-
While others found Moses; and looking on.
Your seal remains floored reminding your maid
That her ways were mere pacifiers- those days;
Such an amusing and sweet thing she was.
And of your meeting place? She did ready,
While you napped, that afternoon slipped by,
As your Alfred and Francesca stole away; and you?
Gathered yourself, returning and only keeping diary;
Of thoughts, moments in time, betrayed in ways
Similar to those your maid witnessed as you wrote;
For nothing is ever as ordinary as that painted,
In a room Vermeer visited with his brush.
Copyright © Patrick Islington | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Patrick Islington Poem
The pen and page of a poet
This is the page that takes the words,
So they are put down in their place;
Where they are seen and tone attached,
That weaves into a story to be told.
And reader will interpret as they will;
To judge the inked impression made,
All neatly ordered for the fetching mind,
Just like a great orchestral charge-
Coming in, sitting, side by side;
Awaiting the conductor of the piece,
Settling down, fine tuning, synchronising-
Palpable excitement and to the play,
Each note a word, that forms the ambiance;
Melodic enchantment, caressing the heart-
Touching, like warm raindrops,
Excitable tingly, gazillion Goosebumps;
A sensational feast of pleasant portion,
Energy to fill the soul and run-
From canter to the gallop of a starlit night,
In the giddy freedom of a childish game,
So much to see and learn and live for-
In the genius that you are
Copyright © Patrick Islington | Year Posted 2011
|