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.
The children venture
Into still deeps of forest,
its edges ink black,
A wall of silence.
Their lantern held high
Aloft, a sole point of...
After the rain
The forest weeps,
So the frogs with the red eyes laugh.
Trees' mossy beards
Drip solemn, grey,
Still the frogs with the red...
The Sycamores sit high enthroned
Above a frozen stream,
Limbs bare as bone,
Like old skeletons from a dream.
But Beeches wear their...
In me there is a poem I cannot write.
Its very shape, its form, hide out of sight
Leaving only a shadow-a brief glimpse
That I try to catch...
Father remember.
Remember the shady fern-banks,
How we ran in childish awe
Of canopy’s cathedral
And the birch in its ranks,
Ran to see...