Poems from philippanhorst
Let my works speak for themselves for they are a reflection of that which I am: the Piedmont, the old maritime coast, and then the ocean.
A red paper crane
Blown by the wind
Beats its wings lustfully
In the night.
Erratic, it skips
Over torn scraps
Of filthy newspaper
On...
Awake as an owl
a desert bird
the orange eyes
the streetlamps cast
upon my wall
a shadow
like a longship
on the desolate
wasted oceans
or...
In the deeping twilight two children came
To a stream bank shaded in summer's shadow.
The clouds of leaves over them lay low
And that day...
One last page to write: blank.
Stayed up the whole night then
When morning's glaze on desk
Filled empty cup through blinds
Realized: forgot...
Here a wreck lies on the shore
Amongst the wrack.
Its timbers old, still some intact,
Heave In the waves for nevermore.
And soon sand...