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Best Poems Written by Peter Lewis Holmes

Below are the all-time best Peter Lewis Holmes poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

I Once Was a Soldier

1.
Why do we persecute this Jesus?
this Palestinian Jew, with claim
to one almighty God?
Ahh! let me home, it’s all too
much, and no avail.

so I Longinus, leader of Pilate’s guard,
which nailed him up, (he never complained)
gave him up, his broken body to his 
mother and the crowd; Oh! pitiful
crying and moaning, gnashing of teeth
in their pious, bloody grief

yet….he spoke to me, this Arab, this Jew,
with his eyes, he looked resolute and calm:
and a smile (aghast!) he had for me.

and the earth trembled and shook;

afraid;

they loved him the many, I could see,
and I spoke out loud the words that I
believed, that he was real, and one with
he above!

and they looked at me, my men, and scowled,
ahh!...who are they to know?

and time and days passed. And I deserted:

2.
and I took on the garb of wanderer, so as to 
be free, and sensed a great commotion;
“he’s back!. He’s never dead!”
and I was led by disciples’ horny hands, for they
knew me now, to a tomb, gaping hole and door-stone 
rolled aside.

and they shouted “where is he? where’s the master?”

and a passing storm became a torrent and the rivers 
swelled and the winds blew their strong wind,
and took away the grave’s harsh stink: then as 
quickly as it had begun, a sound like the rumble 
of a quake, split the sky and sunlight, warmed 
and dried the earth around.


and there the master in shining white, 
fresh with neat trimmed beard, as if out 
for a walk with kith and kin, came.

and up on a mountain we followed to the 
top, and he spoke; but because of the great 
clamor all about him, I could only catch a 
few words,
“make new disciples,” “ teach” and something
about him always being with us.

and then (I tell no lie)…his body took up to the 
warm sky, with flowing robes and a choir of heavenly
verse, the likes of which I had never heard.

and he was gone.

3.
and I taught his words, for some time after; and each
time I spoke I felt grown;  and so, I lived my life:

but not for long; and soon I took his place and bid 
the sorry world, this place, a painful goodbye.

and when next I saw his smile, his tearful foreign
eye; I swelled; and went to his side:

and he placed his hand in mine.

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

Skin Deep

Indigo, not black, nor brown
not one or tother, coffee ground

It’s plain and simple, the eye to see
like winter’s bark on maple tree

I’m indigo, in mood and skin,
to be this colour is no sin

So to my friends of red and yellow, 
just chill out, it’s cool to mellow

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

The Bleeding Sky

There’s a line of flapping, red-starred flags,
they wag their rags, as dogs wag their tails,
when the master’s home;

and the summer wind  taunts their linen
crease;  then takes them on a merry jaunt,
a widow’s pooch, in heat.

And up above the red-devilled street, a
dipping, flipping, swift-filled, livid high;

counts flags, dogs and masters, sighing 
swifts and bleeding sky.

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

Sweet Paramour

I see the edge of your smile
and the tip of your varnished toe,
the waterfall of your flaxen hair
that makes your shadow grow:
Love!  I am the one, who loves 
you as the day.
To lose you makes me shudder
like a mast on a blustered  day;
Keel-haul and whip my hopeless love
Send my soul to hell
But let me call before I die,
Love! I am the one.

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

I Soar

The good earth!...ahh! its beauty
sloping down to golden river’s bank,
where trout and dreamy summit play
their game, a contest of who looks
longest, passers by or the tickled fish 
and cumly eagle in her fortress nest

Yet is there a winner, who feasts off such
delight?
The latter in leaps and bounds astounds the 
cornered eye: feathered lord of  all surveyed.

Then smell the scent of  bracken on the wind….
the eagle’s feather and crafty trout’s scale 
intertwine, for pleasure and delight…no contest
to amend.

All’s well on the good earth!

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

Windy Winding Wind

Wicked wind I hate you so,
I’d rather sit in ice cold snow,
Your breath is cold and touch 
So fraught, I think your soul from
Devil bought 

A paragraph from weather’s 
Tale, you’d think you were the 
Holy Grail; speeding, pushing,
Blowing crush
None escapes your windy whoosh!

Cutty Sark or clothes on bush,
Strutting, cutting, butting breeze
Lifts old maids’ dress past their knees,

Blows the lash from pretty eyes,
Takes the thrush and clouds from
Skies; no escape from this cruel jape
Windy, weather, mistral‘s shape

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

Close Enough To Hear Men's Screams

the fifty cal pierced the tank
flash and bang, it quickly shrank

shrill high screams,so briefly heard,
then comes the death's, savage bird

thus pecked clean; blue eyes and spleen,
not more terrible, death, seen,

and so the night's moon I'd thank
died, I  not, in fiery tank

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

Let Rip the Farts of Love and War

I love to fart, it stands me tall,
the raucous rumbling, belly bell,
all look around with eyes aghast,
to witness such a mighty  blast.

when before the beak for slander foul,
I gave him one that made him scowl,
“does Sir require a time alone?”
I farted down his crony’s phone.

and if I’m lauded, like Le Potomane,
I light one to produce a tongue of blue
incandescent flame; thus lit, the room
and shadows prance, about the room
the dragons  dance

and when in battle we cower from gun,
and want to encourage my comrades on,
I crouch below hell’s muddy trench, and 
thus release the devil’s stench

then running forward death all around, I 
fart the bugle’s curdling sound, and to
the enemy’s quick dumbfound, so
soon we seize triumphant ground 

you see for me it is no shame, to unleash 
the belly’s dogs of war, and oft when
travelling by first class, I give them a blast 
from boiling ass

when love speaks strong and passion cries,
beneath the sheets there are no lies, so ahhs!!
or Oohs!!  I never start, but let rip a lover’s
orgasmic fart

look:  tis not the wallet, watch or jewel, that 
creates the jinx, and mocks the fool, a prettier 
penny lies beneath;
tis the fart; and jealous mule, the thief.

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

A Little Touch of Rubaiyat

Our black, firm, waists, so taut and thin,
the preferred drink was Saphire gin,
and in the dreamy cool black night,
beating hearts, living skin!

Details | Peter Lewis Holmes Poem

I, Icon

They spied me in the sky, dropping bombs of love
on Ferguson, and bitchy women's  rooms; and rednecks' 
shooting range was next, the blooded boxing glove.

They spotted me in Tel-aviv and also in Tehran, collecting
Jewish kisses for the Iranian Imam.

They toasted me in the family courts, breaking hearts
I quickly soothed, and at their breakfast;Klu Klux Klan, 
I spread their toast with jam.

They gifted me with patted back in Auschwitz and 
Guantanamo, compassion was my hand; while Isis 
and Seal Team 6, provided me a marching band.

They lauded me with accolades, the bankers and the poor,
while serial killers and the FBI, shot my name  into the sky,
like Gotham on the screen.

And now I rest my head this night, beneath the troubled moon,
for tomorrow I go partying, with venerable, Ban-Ki-moon