Wednesday, July 1, 2015

PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS


PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS

ODE NO. 11: REVERENCE FOR THE MORNING

Listen to birds at black predawn
when the last constellations fade
into soft pale blue--these meditative
hours when long ago I trained
as an athlete; my pulse ascending
with the same ceaseless rhythm
heard now as my penned fist
disappears into this white purity.

My avian friends flown from heaven
trill throated songs joyously pleasant
--their natural ease borders on parody
compared to my cautious phrases
balanced at the hilt of my will
honed into an unapologetic weapon.

Concealed behind draped windows
I patiently observe the sun
wander its seasons as if one
returning to a burnished throne.
These soft and quiet hours alone
with the words--my wildly entangled,
unkempt hair thicker than plumage.

Hidden in my secret small corridor
buttressed within my cloistered nest
against man's undesirable realm
I write minuet passages; queer
songs cradled in a silence
untouched by human noise…

My tiny voice precariously
astir upon a window sill
where return my solemn echoes
--peacock, hawk or eagle
(only in wishes unfulfilled)--
I remain undeniably
flightless though I soar
beyond all I've mourned.

PHILLIP 

2 comments :

  1. Congratulations my poetic friend. You deserve this honor. Having not read this poem before I was delighted to read it. I love the last two stanzas. Especially, "....I write minuet passages" and ....My tiny voice precariously/astir upon a window sill...." Beautiful and hesitant.

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    1. cheers, Barbara and thank you for taking the time to read. i'm touched by your kindness and warm responses. it means the world to me that someone actually takes the time to read my stuff. be well and may your own writing flourish today and all this warm season into autumn. be well, phillip

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