|
|
|
Best Poems From
PETER S. QUINN
|
|
| |
|
|
805.
|
Poems Are Like Memories
Poems are like memories
They get lost one by one
Like falling autumn leaves
Sometimes seem almost done
Yellow brown red scent
Into the footsteps going
What was suggested or meant
When life its pace is slowing
The music for no instrument
Only the colors bleaching
In garden's rainy days relent
When to the end its reaching
In the flower seeds of tomorrow
That cautiously life prolongs
A hope of a dream to borrow
With next year's springtime songs
Poems that now have begun
With shadings falling silence
Within the autumn shadowed sun
In nearness hue light blench
A light from a curving rainbow
Coming on with its pearly string
Afternoons ending glow
Soon to the winter shall sing
Peter S. Quinn
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
806.
|
Poems from the North (From, Poems of Papa Due)
Poems from the north,
Are frozen on the ground;
Winter's songs going forth,
Like wild wolves hound.
Dewdrops grain of light,
Instant moments blackbird;
Ravens on their flight,
Thoughts in snow anchored.
Poems of my deep heart,
Flying in a winter's frost;
Blooming roses impart,
Some are now there lost.
Murmurs of the wild sky,
Dreams I had for a winking;
And the words will calcify,
If some will there bethinking.
Poems unraveled rivers,
Falling in enormous neem;
Songs that with cold shivers,
A frost roses night dream.
All is within me there alive,
And giving the wind a gust;
Longings into my archive,
All what I need and trust.
Peter S. Quinn
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
807.
|
pretending beat
pretending beat
words sense all
flattening wide-open
whimsical feel
unfinished together
creating incomplete words
upon ivory and ebonies
it sang
Peter S. Quinn
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
808.
|
Purple Flowers (from New Waves to the Shore)
Dreams are sometimes like sea waves
Coming forward and gazing the time through
To each new longing their footsteps paves
With every wishing that's up to you
Pure and working each their fortune are drawn
From old melancholy approach of heart
Purple flowers and afternoons dark eyed swans
In every frail minute dream shall start
Thoughts that are drifting will come to the hour
And give of their poems some happiness born
Old to new like crystals constellations
Every tincture and hidden flower
With thoughts of many ways always fresh worn
In each their adornment new formations
Peter S. Quinn
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|