reguiny2006 Poetry (108)

Yon lofty hills, dear lingering youth
when we climbed life"s sisphean slope,
amid tumbling rocks, yet, struggled on in hope,
now backward glance on labours oft uncouth,
each blind day, we green faith applied
upon the anvil of life's harsh forged sway,
each and every aching limb, relentlessly applied
the burning coals, to fire destinies unspoken play,
to climb the summits unattainable spoils,
such salad days, inspired by trackless spheres aloft,
passion filled, like as when, both lover and artist toils,
flew on wings, when life was green and soft,

yet despite the woes and destiny our present foe,
we sallied forth to Autumn's coloured glow.

Inclement climes set early in today
lacking mercy at dawn's soft hour,
the lake now ruffled torn and dour,
as sad the world was hard at play,

Thus to counter my abysmal gloom
and annihilate natures harsh brooding storm,
sojourned I to my favour'd cosy room,
lit the lifeless fire, then my inglenook was warm,

Thus contented I, relaxing with the blazing air,
thought I of thee soft faced and fair,
tho' dull outside, indulged I in vision's care
whilst inclined upon my rocking chair,

There, dare but I, my eager love set free
and behind the curtained wall discover
hallowed time where fond thoughts prevail,
and life's emotional knot ne'er be severed;

Oh! Those political schemes of tyrannical things,
by sleight of voice most magical powers,
whence by guile, turn weeds into scented flowers,
to charm the ear of unsuspecting Spring;
How in comparison, the Poet his notion lays
to embrace humanity with equality of praise,
tell, in metre's joyous rhyme, like as a dream
to common man, who in humble cottage dwell
and know other, than life's simple spell;
So,you with smooth oration's vast rhetoric's store,
relate in simple terms, the virtue that is war,
your articulated art, promote war mongering schemes,
tell me, what brightness from tunnels end e'er gleams,
and after the mightiest bombardment, what remains
of your valiant victory, save shaclkes, death and chains;
Oh! ye heroic trespassers, pray what, an empty reign
o'er war contaminated lands, sightless, see not waste
by man's political crimes, save foul power, to taste
and re-write the ethics of genocide by convenient pen
that mocks the code of peaceful law abiding men;
How populous enclaves burnt blackened in the sun,
by new found technology in secret shadows spun,
rifled Palaces torn down to rubbled pens,
reduce the warrior, to wicked obsolescent men,
unaware of wrong, fueled by conceited pride,
such arrogance abound with war strutting stride,
empty and vacant hearts hear not the young maidens cry
who mourn their dear brothers and Fathers slain,
tight clasped their hands ask the reason why,
the rivers of blood from our loved family ta'en,
Alas! Savage rites of war, its unabashed ear,
leaves, but widows, awash with endless tears.

Life's precious hours, its fleeting foot denounce,
like as flowing rivers run, touched but only once,
leaves us wondering, those haste filled days of yore,
when in soft repose, bloomed Springtimes scented store,
perchance, could fate again ignite those moments rare,
or we with sullen impotence, at futures dark regions stare,
thus we dream, whence earth its flowered fragrance sprung
and languish long, when we, our love songs sung;
Alas! The pen alone dare challenge with poetic guise,
to chronicle time's passage, scribe what's considered wise;
Ah! wisdom, 'tis not self conceits that we in abundance find,
more oft, in quietude and peaceful realms of mind,
a kaleidoscope of tranquility within one's being found,
when, stand we firm, on Autumn's leaf coloured ground,
new salad days, no differing from that of Spring,
as thoughts of love, like matin bells softly ring,
author of our days relate with profanities charged quill,
to find this doyen heart lives in Springtime still.

Long years ago, I with joy remember,
when I met a man in his late December,
tho' his gait was slow,yet eyes shone bright
that conveyed an air of sheer delight,
defied the later chapter of his age,
intuitive his heart burnt bright ablaze,
I then, to this world quite new,
he by age, a sprightly ninety two,
with thoughtful prose, he in wisdom talked
whilst we awhile together walked,
Said he,"Listen well to this vast world,
then, the music of its spheres Heaven unfurl,
treat this planet and all therein that dwell
with honour, a magic cadence, then reveals its spell,
stay ever close to nature's abundant spirit,
for the jewels of live revolve within it,
respect your fellow beings unique individuality,
'tis the building blocks of Man's integrity,
relish shared toils, it's labour you'll find
will benefit the brotherhood of mankind,
culture honest, no false idols there implant,
well being of the mind, forever sacrosanct",
So know ye well,
the web of life, has not been woven by mankind,
we are but a single thread within you'll find,
what error we do to this fragile structure
is self-destructing and by tatters will rupture,
we're part of a garment, knitted tightly together,
united bound, the storms of life to weather.

I remember all, although now quite alone,
how verdant was our green spun earth,
though now alas! smiling Spring has flown,
thus sit I now in solitude by the cold cold hearth,
wrapt in quietude, then dreams of yore intrude,
when days were filled with laughter'd mirth,
highlight grey the days now spent in solitude,
tell of empty hours, sad, souless, without worth,
Oh! how sweet t'were those carefree days of youth,
tho' long since flown, now in a foreign place,
Oh! such was love, awashed in gayiety's truth,
Alas! pangs of fleeting time its joy re-trace,
no wishful thinking can its sun-lit hours re-trace,
yet, hold dear, love soaked images that still art mine,
fadeless love have I, deemed by fates good grace,
makes this dark abyss, forever bright, divine,


No, not truly alone, for I can hold
remembrance sweet, the heart engage,
gathers a casket of gems whose wealth unfold
love scribed lines, on each daily page,
Heaven penned by God's poetic sage,
for in each soft line, the inner being own
the theatre, that was love's exclusive stage,
therefor methinks, how can I be alone,

Alone! no not whilst the song birds note
rise heavenward, as they in unison sing,
a thousand soulful sounds, echoing float
to fill the air on crisp the morning wing,
like as oft, coloured twilight constant bring
a kaleidoscope of wondrous nature's glee,
poignant as the jubliant memories held of thee,

Alone! no, for once our hand held company
ignite the fires, the homespun inglenook
that silent served love's river, still sanctify
the bonds that fleeting time has ne'er forsook,
I remember, each breath, each joyous sigh
wrapt in beauty like a poetic tone,
elevates thoughts of thee and the bye and bye,
thus,in love's remembrance, scarce can I be alone.

When ye from infant toys have flown,
far from boyhood realms, to manly status grown,
shalt thou seek with ever pursuant flair
ambitious wealth, employing uncouth prayer
and thy mortal ear, inert to Doyen's sway,
whose prize, is measured in the gift of every day,
whose, once treasured threads of youth, alleviate
the woven pain, embroidered in the tapestry of fate,
though now the coloured rainbow, is sun clothed spun,
the waiting moon, has yet its course to run,
so, speak a virtuous charter that vice may overhear
and thoughts, that would to all goodness steer,
make proud the path, and with companions share
thy cherished creation, whose seconds are so rare.

It is of course, the origins of to whom we belong,
and not the moral conjecture of right or wrong,
the issue, clear as day's fierce light,
that nullifies the argument of Black or White,
and scorns the moralistic finger on how we behave,
from the purity of our birth to our noble grave;
know we well the nurtured scheme of God, drew
a picture, conceived, drawn in whiteness true.
ni**ger with humour said, a pleasant colour brown.
Nay! tis a being lower than the lowest grown,
how they, in cursive modern times show ingratitude,
course their savage tongues, chant vicissitude,
in massed blackened throngs, their chorus ring
words of lesser understanding, pray, Who is Luther King?
alas! 'tis not easy to converse, with those who lack
intellect,the the sanctuary of our pious ways attack,
from the syndrome of our inner eye, we must Police,
whilst the seething, venomous black mass increase,
but with gas to cast a tear and rifling very sure,
we will the right of superior man restore
in glorious truth, God's visual image, doth invite
visions of the soul, a furnaced image White,
in contrast, blindness deep and sombre darkness rank
of surly deathly Black, with no grey to thank,
that which counterfeits the unchartered gloom,
White"s virginity, of stars and softly glowing moon,
'tis, in the simplicity of all earthly wise men,
that White is right and Black no more than Phlegm,
so, you ni**ger all, you have no right,
for God, through White men, invented Apartheid,
OH! How very sad, yet so beautiful is South Africa,
OH! HOW SINISTER, EUROPEAN TRAMPS, MADE SUCH A MONUMENTAL SCAR.

In awesome wonder, bemused with naive gaze,
glanced I, upon the garden's flowered sprays,
keen of eye, gathered therein nature's spree,
enhanced by filtered shades majestic nearby tree,
exhibiting splendour by earth's fond woven braid,
Zephyr kissed, where dancing breezes played,
from Dawn's soft light 'til eve's fired close,
weaves coloured sweet, a bouquet of repose,

Blessed quietude, abounds my garden here,
akin to infant innocence, happy smiles spun dear,
each flowered season, here I joyous spend,
ne'er to question, man made why's or when,
cloistered hours, its sacred aura breathing know
humble adoration amid plants that nature sow,
mocks human society, oft course, low and rude,
thus my sanctuary, found amid my garden's solitude;

Oft have I, bathed among its velvet carpet green,
honoured eyes, in silence, its blushing wonders seen,
oft methinks, how brazen lovers would the Oceans tame
with profanities pomp, carve their name
thoughtless, upon the bark of some proud tree,
ply conceited hope, the world their name to see,
like, loose lipped devotion, temporarily to be found,
proud trees longevity, alone the world astound,

With quiet pride, this passioned life I lead,
'tis life's long melody, music played upon each reed,
like as fruits of labour gathered at harvest time,
complimented, by rich the ruby of the vine
where song birds on nearby boughs sit and sing,
preen their plumage and whet there coloured wing,
and all around, where e'er I smiling pass,
ever bonnie, like my remembered Highland Lass,

how life has me allowed, bounteous hours accrue,
time's daily dial, seasoned flowers set anew
blossom thru', both mild and mid-days burning sun,
to pleasure court, the untamed Zodiac's run,
whilst e'er the toil of the industrious bee
computes its hours, guile-less, better far than we,
thus I, with labourous joy, those wholesome hours,
what better sway, than loiter amid my garden flowers.

To all you good folks who have read and made comments of the poetry that I have submitted over the past few years, I sincerely and humbly thank you.

I am committed to serve the needs of others until the middle days of next Spring, when recovered from an exhausting schedule, I hopefully shall re-join this wonderful corner.

Sincerely yours, Phil.

Life, more than, which breath and blood amalgamate,
it's richness akin, to what heart and mind create,
measured by its own applied intensity,
whose music, the soul's exclusive symphony,
seeking eloquence, rather, than pursuit of luxury,
perchance its notes then, are but timeless seas,
blended sweet by infinite memories,
whose refinement, better far than fashions short lived day,
for life's ill fashion is but nature in decay,
to know, that in shadows soft smiles belong,
echoing sweet, love's eternal song,
knowing Spring cannot flourish without winter's enmity,
so, live each moment, the present is eternity,
thru' passing years, this I know,
political promise, transient cold as winter's snow.

Of all the thoughts there may be,
The fairest far, is of coloured thee,
That paint the hours of fitful slumber,
To quell the heart's pulsating thunder,
That echo chaos through dark night,
But thoughts of thee, sweet dreams invite,
Soft as, candle lights low lit tapers,
Pure as vellums uninked papers,
Sweet moments devoid of pain,
When ensconced in aching arms again,
Sweet re-occurring endless dreams,
As an artist paints with coloured extremes,
Each air of breathing bliss,
Each sigh a whispered kiss,
That no tyrant may eclipse,
The issued voice from softest lips,
Is music that to dull silence bring,
As the nightingale is to Spring,
Fills my ears with fragrant scent,
That to spicy East perfumes lent,
Retrace the hours of potency,
Thy absence, as an untamed gale,
Such this living void, a mournful tale,
When emptiness pains me so,
Dreams the food of all my woe,
A darkened world without light,
And eyes deprived of vision's sight,
As if Winter's frost has fast begun,
To slay Summer's joyous sun,
Love's voice is but ever near,
Whose softer sounds I constant hear,
I need not far traversing sail,
To hear my own sweet nightingale.