Night Walk in Beirut
21 Poems
By
Philip Michael Cooper
Published by Philip Michael Cooper at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Philip Michael Cooper
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contents
1821
Flower of Youth
A Nations Voice
A Shadow on the Pillow
The Violin Plays
Central Park
Memories
Does It Matter
Empty Labels
Fine Wine
If I Could Paint Your Picture
My Lady
Night Walk in Beirut
Tears of Time
Four Minute Warning
The Duel
The Visitor
The Watcher
The Island
When Your Heart is Sad
Young Girl of Sixteen
1821
This poem is about Greek lovers, one a soldier and the other a woman who was the daughter of a Greek hero. In the midst of the 1821 Greek war of Independence against the Turkish invaders who had enslaved the Greeks for over 300 years, they found the time to love and bear a child in the very mountains where they were fighting their foe.
Born behind the shield of a hero long ago,
and suckled in the shadow of a mountain slope of snow.
Bathed amongst the reeds of a running mountain stream,
Her golden hair reflecting her hero’s final dream.
I remember still that winter morning cold and grey.
With the war but a memory a thousand miles away.
When I first touched that hand of softened dew,
And saw behind twin emerald lights the thoughts that meant she knew.
In a cabin on a mountain higher than the clouds.
She trembled at my touch,
On her I gazed so proud.
She gave herself in love as a hero does in war.
Until the morning came, and she could give no more.
The cabin became a haven for two, who dared defy Gods law.
Until the day her womb could stand the growing weight no more.
The morning birds' sang in tune to a life’s first mournful cry,
As her final breath, left a smile on the face, that now must die.
Flower of Youth
This poem refers to the Greek freedom fighters that fought the Italians and then the Germans when Greece was occupied during the 2nd World War. A hero and leader managed to find time to marry his sweetheart but didn’t have time to live.
I remember still when I first saw,
Some years before that dreadful war.
A beautiful flower, in the bloom of youth,
Dancing between wild roses sways,
To a gentle breeze, in spring’s first days.
I saw her often throughout that year,
But life then drifted us apart I fear.
I came south, she stayed there.
Tended by her fathers hand,
Through the time before the Hotza band.
Life meandered on with a gentle grace,
Till some years later I returned to that place.
To visit friends, some passed away.
To see the place where laid to rest,
My childhood memories I’d treasured best.
Twas early spring but of this there’s no proof,
As through an archway of trees with protective roof.
I slowly walked, between the graves.
And there before me though I scarce believed,
Was my flower of youth so forlorn and bereaved.
In her eyes only sorrow, on her face only pain,
She stared at the ground where her tears had lain.
Could I speak? After so many years.
But my thoughts she knew and her words in my ears,
I will never forget to the end of my years.
How on her sixteenth birthday, just over a year before,
She’d met a young captain during a lull in the war.
Love grew stronger, day after day.
And as if driven forward by a fulfilment of fate,
They were joined together before the alter gate.
How often that year he was forced from her side,
And with his men in front he’d ride.
Great battles were won, his name became known.
To the enemy a devil, to his country a hero,
In my flower’s heart, a blazing inferno.
At the turn of the year she delivered a girl,
Who to the lovers became a priceless pearl.
Born out of love, amongst great misfortune.
She was the bud of the flower, her mothers light,
With her father’s pride and courage to fight.
But then before the child had scarce even cried,
Came the news from the mountain that he had died.
Singled handed in the early dawn,
He’d saved a threatened village.
But fate decrees that hero’s must die,
And his soul was claimed for those on high.
So her love story finally rests in peace,
A tragedy remembered by the people of Greece.
The years will erase the pain and the grief.
And my wilting flower will survive the gloom,
Until the spring once more bursts forth in bloom.
A Nations Voice
Eyes search for the slightest shadow.
Ears strain for the smallest sound.
Mouth drawn tight over yellowed teeth.
Feet slowly searching for safer ground.
Jacket soiled with blood and grime.
Trousers stained because you had no choice,
And in your hand you cradle there,
Your child, unborn, a nation’s voice.
A sudden movement.
More felt than seen, sends you crashing to hug the dirt.
Your hands tighten on your unborn child,
While your tongue licks away the stomachs hurt.
A shadow rises before your face,
And through your teeth a scream is heard.
Your child gives birth and a nation’s voice,
Sends on its messengers with their deadly word.
As night returns to peace once more,
You're found staring yet, at the form at your feet.
The rings on her finger tainted red with death.
Are your future dreams that will keep you from sleep.
Without a thought for sound or sight.
You walk on, towards another endless day.
A bayonet strikes; and a nation’s voice is left lying,
A thousand miles away.
A Shadow on the pillow
Have you ever walked alone on a mountain slope of green?
Or sat down by a lazy meandering stream,
Closed your eyes and listened to its gentle laughter,
As it ripples and echoes on all that you dream.
Have you ever gone out in the still of the night?
Reaching out your hands to the falling rain,
To let it caress and soothe your brow,
Until once more you can think again.
Or perhaps by the sea on a moonlit night,
You've spoken to your favourite star,
Breathing gently, afraid its whisper you'll miss,
As it relates those endearments you heard from afar.
Your mind then drifts back on the gentle breeze,
Unfurling the sails of desire,
Guiding you onwards to where you harbour,
The memories that have set you on fire.
For a span of time you re-live again,
Perhaps a word, a touch, a glance,
But before your thirst is fully quenched,
The current pulls back and you lose your chance.
So you slip quietly away into a sleep full of dreams,
And the only reminder of the hours that you cried,
Is when you awake from the confusion of sleep?
There's a shadow on the pillow where your tears have dried.
The Violin plays
Soft strings play to kindle emotion,
A wave is born out in the ocean,
And the violin plays.
A nightingale sings to an evening breeze.
And autumn undresses the trees of their leaves.
And the violin plays.
Two lovers meet and fill a womb,
While friends are laid in an earthen tomb.
And the violin plays.
Guns speak out in a land far away,
As a politician smiles, he's had his say.
And the violin plays.
A child cries in the early dawn.
As the statistics note, another orphan born,
And the violin plays.
A seed gives way to a slender stem,
Two hands reach out, eyes meet, and then,
The violin plays.
All things must pass and begin to fade,
The violin plays until the strings are frayed,
Then the violin its 1ast note has played.
Central Park
Feeling down, feeling gray,
Feeling up, and feeling gay.
Because your ship is passing you by.
Want to laugh, want to cry,
Want to live, and want to fly.
Feeling nothing is there when you sigh.
Find a place, find a song,
Find a way, find a wrong,
Find a dream that keeps you alive.
Search your heart, search your mind,
Search your soul, search mankind,
For a meaning that isn't maligned.
Feel the sun, smell the rain,
Feel the joy feel the pain,
Sense the seasons, linking hands through each dawn.
Hear the birds, hear the leaves,
Hear the crickets and bees,
Touch the mist in the magic it weaves.
Through winter, through spring,
Through summer, through fall,
The seasons turn round and around.
Through melting snows, through greening grass,
Through meadows of blooms that abound,
Until the leaves start to fall to the ground.
Another year follows another year past,
And the buildings stand tall all around.
Damping the bustle and hum of the city sound,
Which fulfills the dreams of a few,
Except for those who enter this place,
And experience a self cleansing pain,
After a walk in the park through the rain.
Share the people, share their lands,
Share their faces, and share their bands,
Share their music of hate or of love.
For whatever the reason, and whatever the cost,
However you find, whatever you've lost,
Your soul will find itself once again.
When you take a walk in the park through the rain.
Central Park New York City was written as a poem in the back of a cab traveling from Toronto airport to downtown Toronto. It is about the effect the New York’s Central Park has on people who either visit the park once in their lifetime or New Yorkers like I was once, who understand that the park is the life blood of New York City. Once in the park the sounds of the city fade into the distance and the sights and sounds of the park life fill you with passionate emotions and clarity of thought. There is no ducking here, no discount deal, no short cut, your flesh is opened to the winds and your thoughts are primed and sharpened, especially in the rain, for the rain cleanses you.
Memories
I have seen the shadows
Chasing moonbeams in the rain
White roses in a garden
Cry out from human pain.
Dreams dashed to pieces
In a storm of a sleepless night
And the eyes of a million people
Pray for the gift of sight.
Maybe I have seen too much
In a world that can’t forgive
I’ll pack my bags of memories
Then just forget to live.
There is somewhere so I’ve heard
A place where life is but a speed of light
Where the sun shines through the day and night
And nothings been tainted however slight.
But, in this place you’ll find no Moon
Or, stars to penetrate through the gloom
No birds to sing a morning tune
Or an Owl to hoot, it’s night time soon.
Maybe I have seen too much
In a world that can’t forgave
But I think I’ll keep my memories
And start again to live.
Does It Matter
Does it matter what the time is,
Does it matter what the year.
No it only matters that you exist,
And I know that you are near.
Does it matter if it’s cloudy?
Does it matter if it’s clear?
It only matters that I’ve touched you,
And that you will always be here.
Does it matter if a flower dies?
Does it matter if it grows?
It only matters that I’ve kissed you,
The softest lips are those.
Does it matter if the stars go out?
Does it matter if they shine?
It only matters that I’ve looked into your eyes,
And that they have looked into mine.
Does it matter if lovers live forever?
Does it matter if they die?
It only matters that I hear your voice,
With words that fill my heart by and by.
Does it matter if you’ve had another life?
Does it matter that once you were not with me?
It only matters that now you are my lover,
And that you now lay down beside me.
Empty Labels
I loath my lips and these hands,
With which I touched you.
I loath my words and these eyes,
With which I saw you.
And those arms which cradled your head,
Against this heart, of which you fed.
You took them all and left me nothing.
You wrung me dry and left me not one thing,
With which I could hope for,
With which I could live for.
And now I just pray.
For the time that is no more.
Now I have nothing to live or to die for,
And nothing to hope or to cry for.
Just a nightmare of memories and empty tables,
Where your words, unlike my words,
And your thoughts, unlike my thoughts,
We’re just a list of empty labels.
You took them all and left me nothing.
You wrung me dry and left me not one thing,
With which I could hope for,
With which I could live for.
And now I just pray.
For the time that is no more.
Fine Wine
In my life I’ve tasted many wines.
In many lands.
In many places.
Where language and creeds were barriers.
These were the bitter wines,
And my first impulse was to dash the bottle to the floor,
And run away and never show myself again.
My second reaction was to find out why.
But I never did.
Some wines were dry.
As dry as the deserts of North Africa.
And at night as cold as the desert night.