If I Could Paint Your Picture by Philip Cooper
If I Could Paint Your Picture
Poems for Lovers
By Philip Cooper
About the Author:
Philip was born and educated in the United Kingdom. He joined Citibank in London before moving to Athens where he worked as a foreign exchange trader for both Citibank and Chase Manhattan Bank. Philip was then posted to Citibank's Middle East North African Training Centre in Athens/Beirut as the operations manager and a foreign exchange trainer. After returning to the United Kingdom Philip joined Union Bank of Switzerland as the Head of Learning and Development and introduced trading simulations as a safe way for new traders to trade. In 1993 he was appointed Head of Learning and Education for UBS in North America. He later left the bank and went into partnership with two colleagues and set up a successful financial training company (New Learning Developments) in New York City. At New Learning Developments he developed relationships with all the major investment banks such as Goldman, Lehman, JP Morgan, and other major financial institutions such as The Federal Reserve Bank, Chase, Citibank, ABN-AMRO and the World Bank. In 1999 he returned to London where he worked as a training consultant to financial services institutions and the Ministry of Defence. In 2001 he went to Greece where he wrote books to teach English as a second language as well as developing knowledge databases for on-line brokerage houses. He returned to London in 2012 where he works with autistic children and conducts webinars on foreign exchange and on-line retail trading. He has also written a childrens book, two fictional short stories, several books on currency trading and now writing his first novel, a political thriller set in Greece titled Operation Gladio.
Copyright 2010 Philip Michael Cooper
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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
Epitaph for Dorian Gray
Aftermath
All Things Must Pass
Another Way
Eulogy for Paraskavoula
Funny
1974
Night Vision
1821
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
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 father’s 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,
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,
To the lovers she became a priceless pearl.
Born out of love, amongst great misfortune.
She was the bud of the flower, her mother’s 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 Nation’s 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.
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