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
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.
ReplyDeletecheers, 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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