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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
IV
Matriculation
Back to home, Patrick did go,
For in his heart he knew
It was time to study with the church,
That this he had to do.
He told his parents when he got home
That he must go to France
And with great strength, he again departed,
Tears filling this last glance.
Patrick studied his Latin
And the dogma in Lorraine
And in his learning of the scripture,
He did not have to strain,
His past with his present learning
Melded with great coordination
And before year 428,
Hehad earned his ordination.
Patrick journeyed back to home,
His familiy held a feast
To celebrate his return
And his becoming a priest-
He followed in the footsteps
Of his father and grandpa,
Patrick measured up an equal
To the hope, in him, they saw.
One late summer evening,
Patrick had this dream:
Near the Woods of Foccult
Within a mist shrouding a stream
Came the voice of the Irish people
-Together something tremendous-
Asking him to return there,
To, "Come and walk among us!"
Patrick became aware
That in order to play his part
That God had assigned to him,
He would have to depart
Forever from his homeland
So as to proselytize
The heathen Irish pagans,
Though sorrow filled his eyes.
He knew there would be no return,
He would not see home again
Or sit among his family
In their home upon the fenn,
But this was understood by all,
His parents exuded joy
About this wonderful mission--
They were proud of their boy.
So, for the last time from Britain
Patrick traveled North on foot
To find where he was needed,
Where he was to be put.
This time, his journey was as if
He had never seen
The beauty of the glenns and hollocks
Of the richest, deepest green.
Patrick journeyed long and far
Making camp in the twilight
And as the distance grew
He knew that he was right,
"To help my fellow man
Is why, from home, I've gone."
And every day, his camp was broke
Before the light of dawn.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
Once on the vast placid sea,
Was a bucket whisked 'long currents so free.
He was as a boat
And he ever did float,
Unknown to Care, Worry or Hurry.
But one day, there came a new wind,
'Long a new way the bucket was sent,
Oh, this path unfamiliar
And its tests to endure,
What will this expirement rend?
Not long had he set his new course
Came a wave of such prodigal force,
He was born on the crest
And he did fare the best,
Though filled up with some water, he had this recourse:
Since it's along water I fare,
Well then, I really can't care,
If water makes me sink
I will take my last drink...
To leave it to Choice, I dare.
He heard the dolphin's chit-chattering chide,
Felt the surging insurrection of successive tide,
Though he was alone,
There soon fell a stone
From the depths of the cirrus-strewn sky.
So lower in the water he sunk,
His next gulp of water was drunk,
The victim of Whim
filled two-thirds to the brim
With no way to get out of this funk.
Now, inside the bucket did dwell
Countless people, no number could tell
And so, they did choose
Everything to lose-
They toppled the bucket, he plummeted towards Hell.
"I sit on the ocean's sand floor
Bereft of my purpose forevermore;
I shan't again be
Upon the sea free-
The whole ocean this vessle wll store."
Until I set out on my ship
And found me a spot, for to take a dip.
Who woulda' thunk it,
But I found that old bucket
And took him along on my trip!
The bucket was filled up with woe,
"How is it that water's my foe?
Was I, then, not meant
On this quest to be sent?
An answer, I wish I could know."
Not long had he sat on the deck
That the water had gone 'bout the length of my neck,
He was surprised about
How fast he dried out
And found that his value was not at all wrecked.
"I was not meant for the sea,
It is too much water for me.
I know my purpose
And I shall not fuss
When I can but meet my duty."
When we arrived back in the port,
I found him a new job of sorts:
I hung him in a well
And his joy he couldn't tell
That his too-great ambition, he chose to abort.
The globe is of unfathomable size,
It will not be tamed, we must realize;
Let all of it stand
And keep close both your hands,
But lend them to others when nears their demise.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2012
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
VI
Deeds
Patrick traveled lightly,
He carried but his needed load
And made himself as useful
As he could along the road.
He aided all who asked him,
Offering a hand where'er he went
And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
A blessing had been sent.
He made it, at last, to Ireland
And saw that he was needed there,
For, by the tribal rulers,
Hope in life had been made bare;
In his Creator's will for him,
Patrick was most sure--
That in his steadfast faith in God
Would lay any problem's cure.
Patrick was a foreigner,
He had no wordly protection
As he wandered through the Counties,
Which were then tribal sections.
Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
For conversion God did send
Him among the tribes and chieftains,
this rarely made a friend.
(Patrick never knew
That by the Druids long before
A vision had been prophesied,
A piece of their fathers' lore
About a harsh reformer,
From whose table would fly impiety
And those, who chose to follow him,
In blindness would agree.)
Patrick preached the gospel,
Forgiveness and mercy
And taught the Irish people
Of the soul lasting eternity,
Though some would not hear or objected,
Some could not resist-
There were so many converts
With no need to insist.
The people told that Patrick
Truly loved to teach
And time flew from his awareness
When he started to preach,
(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
Where ever he went)
One night he preached so long,
The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!
Once Patrick lit a fire
Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
Billows of smoke filled the air
And rose above the heath,
He did this in defiance
Of Leoghary, who was king
And through Patricks brave resistance,
Christ's teachings, through, did ring:
Many pagans hauled up buckets,
The whole hillside they drenched,
But Patrick's Paschal fire
But by him could be quenched.
It was upon this hillside
Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
By plucking the trefoil shamrock
To illustrate the Trinity.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
Saphire is the vaulted dome, the blue arch of the sky
Interspersed with plumes and dunes (the white clouds rolling by)
The grasses, plants and flowers, entangled, sway and bend
In the capricious wanderings of the rambling, blowing wind:
The Lamb's Ear and Queen Anne's Lace with Susanne of Black Eyes
Embraced by Morning Glory, with the sun, whose blooms arise;
The glassy glade is interspersed with nuts of Hicory
As it is with Dandelion and sprigs of Chicory.
Mayapple and Henbane grow wild, without fear or care
As the delightful smell of Bergamot is carried through the air;
Motherswort, Bedstraw, Shepherd's Purse and scented Goldenrod
Each a member of the prairie, they all compose the sod;
Echinacia, conicle, who blooms with such delight
Amid the vines of Wild Grapes, climbing to any height;
The different types of Plantan, Nettle White, Yellow or Stinging-
They all compose Gesamtkunstwerk, when the birds start their singing!
Milkweed, Daisies, Thistles, Columbine and Butterfly Weed
All day long -dusk to noon to morning, when bedecked in dewy beads-
These native plants around us all, they purify the air,
A body ought to thank them, but only if it cares.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2012
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
Right out side the coffee shop,
Below St. Peter's hands
The purveyors of indulgences
Have set up little stands
And should some half-waked baker
Come and stir about the pot
The double-arched McDiocese
Would (likely) thank me not.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
When Nature frees the lotus
(This year's debut emergence)
From their sleeping seeds,
When they begin to cress the surface,
I shall stand with broadened smile,
My heart's joy augment threefold;
And when the lillies burst
In galvanic evening's gold,
If the expansion of elation
Don't mean I'm likely doomed
To laugh so hard confined
In the vaulted night perfumed
And if I don't spit out my life
When the lillies shoot their seeds
And no tremors shall have seized my heart
Nor Death, my ticket, heeds:
When Cold caresses the membranes,
Bringing the lillies to rot and break,
Bowing down before the wind,
Their thirst, face down, to slake,
They later will be frozen
On the very coldest day,
Bent into the wickets
Of Spatterdock Croquet.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
Song of Saint Patrick
I
Introduction
Ye laddies and ye lassies,
Please bear my words a while,
(I hope my thoughts, you'll hear them out,
That against me ye won't rile):
What is it that yer drinkin' fer,
The reason won't yeh say
That you have come in celebration
Of St. Patrick's Day?
I'm not bitter, I'm not angry,
I hope I don't sound mean,
But what's the cause of all the shamrocks
And your wearin' o' the green?
Who was this ancient namesake,
Oh kindly won't you tell?
You don't know? Well then I'll share with you,
If you let me sit a spell.
'Twas not, in fact, in Ireland
Was born their patron saint,
But south in Roman Britain
-Though memory waxes faint
Of the exact location of Banna Venta Berniae
(Perhaps Ravenglass in Cumbria,
But none can truly say).
In this place forgotten
Maewyn Succat first stepped on the earth
Back 'round 387
(The assumed year of his birth);
His grandpa was a priest
And his father was a deacon--
Amidist the pagan tribes
Maewyn became a Christian beacon.
Around year 402
A voice came to the young man,
It told him to keep his patience,
That there was, for him, a plan:
Maewyn must keep his faith and pray
He need only to wait,
He later would be instructed
And rescued from his impending state.
It was God's plan soon after
That Maewyn was taken in a raid
Up to Pagan Ireland
And a slave of him was made
From the time he had sixteen years
'Til he was twenty-two,
He praid daily to his creator
As his faith yet stronger grew.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
III
Return
Patrick had to deter the robbers
And thieves he met along the road,
Ward off viscious creatures,
Yet steadily he strode
Until, at last, he came upon
A landmark he well knew
And saw that he had triumphed over
Obstacles not a few.
He made it back to his family,
Into the arms of his mom and dad
(No tongue can express the emotion
The three of them then had),
"I made it through great hardship
And I only have to say:
The Lord who freely giveth
Doth also take away."
Patrick stayed in Britain,
But his heart started to burn
Not after adventure,
But for greater things he yearned.
One night his mission came to him
As he sat in meditative trance:
He was called to monastic studies,
To study with the church in France,
But something was not settled,
Nor was his conscience still,
He felt that there was some obligation
Yet to be fulfilled.
But then he knew for certain
His duty burned brightly as a flame-
He must return to his former master
And pay the ransome on his name.
Patrick wandered back to Ireland
To pay his freedom's fare
And on his journey, travelers he met
Going to and from there,
Confused with tribal teachings
And pagan rite belief;
Though this was their religion
They had but small relief.
When, at last, Patrick arrived
On his old master's land
He was met by men on horseback,
-A formidable band-
They knew, at once who Patrick was
And using undue force,
They beat and bound the runaway
And set him on a horse.
He was brought to his old master,
The men seeking a reward,
"And now it comes that you must die!"
He said, drawing his sword.
"I have come to buy my freedom!"
Patrick, from his own neck, tore
A sack of gold, his life's ransome
And threw it on the floor.
Patrick was loosed from what bonds
Of debt he felt he owed
And to his former master,
Duty and right he showed.
Patrick stayed a week or so
Teaching Christianity
And before Patrick left for home,
The men could clearer see.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
Oh, my name is Ian Phillips
And I'll quickly tell the tale
Of a few men chasing shadows
And their wealth that flows in pails,
There isn't any reason
That explains their boundless greed,
But we've bought and paid for every lie
And swallowed every seed.
These people take their living
From we, who never knew
That that, which they have told us
Could be anything but true,
They sit and count their money
In buckets piled high,
While from the corner of their mouths
Escapes another lie.
They stand all day in an empty field
Watching the sun until it sets,
Speaking with their forked tongues,
Casting lots and placing bets:
"Five dollars, here, if my shadow
Reaches out past younder tree!"
"I'll put down ten!" "And so will I!"
(For "Gimme!"is their plea).
So, they chase eachother's shadows,
Speculating each position,
Winning every lottery,
For its terms are their own vollition,
Sometimes, too, they stand to benefit
Much more if they loose,
So every 'Great Disaster'
Is something that they choose.
Although I speak in riddles,
These men really do exist-
Off of the strength of others
These parasites subsist:
The men, whom I have so described
With pails trailing in each hand
Are the bankers, brokers and politicians
Of this here ruined land!
The moral of my story is simple
And almost funny:
The state of our economy
Is just as real as money!
You can live the lies these men purport
And hold them close to heart,
But if you do, the future's hope
Forever, will depart.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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Ian Thomas Phillips Poem
II
Flight
One day, Maewyn was in the pasture,
Tending his master's herds,
When he heard spoken, clear as a spring,
These few simple words,
"Your ship is ready." the voice did say,
He started then to run
And didn't stop to take a break
'Til long had set the sun.
Maewyn's will was iron strong,
His faith never fell short,
It carried him his journey's length,
Until he found the port,
Out of which was chosen
For him, back home, to sail
-But this is just the beginning
Of Maewyn Succet's tale.
Maewyn Succet expressed his thanks
For arriving to the ship,
"How kind of my creator
To provide me with this trip!
I see every situation
As God's intended test
And, in everyone that follows,
I shall serve him at my best."
Young Maewyn Succet obtained his fare
And boarded the vessel,
But he was fraught with conflict,
With which long he would wrestle,
But, not many hours effervesced
After the ship embarked
When the wind blew in, waters grew rough
And the sky bloomed dark.
All hands were called upon the deck
To prepare for the storm;
The pagan fishermen and merchants
Saw, from the deep, arise a wicked form.
Each of them tried to appease its wrath
With devil witchery
Only to be swept away
In the seething surgings of the sea
'Til Maewyn stood upon the deck
Where others cast a curse
And, in his heart, recited
A simple line of verse,
Then he spoke a loud
A heartfelt, humble prayer.
Before he finished giving thanks,
Warm-winged breezes filled the air.
The ship was saved, the storm dissolved
As quickly as it came,
The survivors cast off their idols
Calling Maewyn by the name,
Father of the People (Patricus),
Through whose faith unshaken
Kept the people of the ship
From being overtaken.
The passengers had a pleasant voyage
And made it back to home,
But Patrick had hundreds of miles,
He still would have to roam
Before he reached his homeland,
With his family to reunite-
He still had many dangers
He yet would have to fight.
Copyright © Ian Thomas Phillips | Year Posted 2013
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